Page 25 of The Sweet Spot

Silence.

JB brings his club down, and no one dares to speak. We all just stare at that stupid white ball sitting on the grass. Me, JB, Max, Jess... all of our caddies.

So close.

We were right there and all JB had to do was not grip his club like he wanted to suffocate it.

Without a word, I hold my head up high and walk to the cart because I need sixty seconds before I open my mouth. I am at least self-aware enough for that.

I get to the cart and start reorganizing my bag for something to do.

Deep breath. In. Out.

It's just a game.

It's just a game and I am fine. I have played out of worse positions than this. One bad shot is not a round and I am completely, entirely okay with it.

When I feel his presence behind me, I can’t help myself, I say, “Your rotation locked again.”

“I know.”

I don’t turn to look at him. I can’t. Instead, I tighten the strap on my bag and force myself to focus on anything except him. The clubs. The zipper pocket. The towel hanging from the side.

Anything.

“You’re overthinking it and trying to fix whatever’s going on mid-swing. That only makes things worse.”

“I know,” he repeats, making my eye twitch.

Why does it annoy me so much?

“Then stop trying to correct it before impact.”

“Whit,” the way he says my name makes me shiver. His voice is different now. The smiling, slightly goofy and flirty catcher from this morning is gone. In his place is a man who commands attention without raising his voice.

I should take the hint, but I can't.

I turn around and look him straight in the eyes. His jaw is tight, his chest is rising and falling to the point that I notice how big his pecs are, but I put that all aside and step into his personal space.

“Then fix it,” I say, my breath mingling with his as I challenge him. “And maybe then we'd have a chance to actually beat Max's ass.”

“Don't get my ass involved in your argument,” Max says from somewhere behind JB.

I don't care. The only thing I'm focused on is JB.

We're staring at each other now, both with pursed lips. Both waiting for the other to break.

“You done?” His voice is low and threatening.

Say yes. Say you're sorry.

Unfortunately, I don't turn down a fight.

“No,” I say, and point to his hand. “Your right hand is still the issue. Your finger placement—”

He laughs out loud. Hearty and bitter.

“You think I have issues with my finger placement?”