Page 22 of The Sweet Spot

“Okay.”

“It's a mental thing. You're second guessing the shot at the last second and tightening up instead of committing and it's costing us—”

“Whit.”

She stops.

I keep my eyes on the path ahead because if I look at her right now I'm going to say something I'll need to walk back and I'm not interested in doing that on the eighth fairway in front of a crew of people. “I know what I did wrong. I was there.”

“Then why does it keep—”

“I said I know.”

Silence.

I grip the wheel and take a deep breath.

I will not get angry. This is supposed to be a fun day.

Still, she's not wrong. That's the most irritating part about all of this. I have spent my entire career taking feedback from coaches and managers, and I have never once wanted to pull the cart over and grumble about it.

Here, I do.

And that's new.

“We're still two under,” I say, trying to find my way back to something useful.

“We should be three.”

“But we're not. We're two, and two is workable.”

“Two is workable if you fix your grip.”

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, which is not lost on me. “I'll fix my grip.”

“And your rotation.”

“And my rotation.”

“And stop second guessing the—”

“Whit.” I say it quietly this time. She stops again. “I've got it.”

She doesn't respond. Instead she looks out at the fairway with her arms folded and her jaw set as I park up to the golf cart.

More silence.

Funny, an hour ago I was having the time of my life, hanging out with the Whit Marlow, but now I feel like Max after giving up back-to-back bombs.

I don't love that feeling.

I get out of the cart.

She turns and looks at me. “Three wood.”

“Driver.”

Her eyes narrow. “The bunker on the left is—”