Page 155 of Well Played

“At least two hours for your first time, taking into account factors like wind speed and direction. We’re lucky you’re playing solo, the first to tee off, and the weather is clear.” Mac must have told him her playing partners did not show up when he spoke in the local dialect.

“Let’s get going then,” she said.

Mitch nodded just as the starter gave them the go-ahead to tee off. Pointing, he instructed, “Aim left to center. It’s two-twenty-eight to the edge of the Swilcan Burn, the snaking water hazard ahead. Wind is supposed to gust nineteen kilometers per hour, coming from left to right. Keep it low and you’ll find the fairway.”

Lana took her stance with the ball just inside her lead foot, processing how to implement Mitch’s instructions. Her drives with the three-wood averaged two hundred and thirty-four yards, one of the longest on tour. The cold would take away ten, the downwind would lose her six more with no carry. A wayward drive guaranteed a wet ball. A well-executed fade should leave her shorter than one-thirty to the green.

Standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, parallel to the target Mitch had pointed to, and interlocking the index finger of her left hand with the pinky of her right hand around the grip of her driver, Lana launched the golf ball into the air. She held her finish to watch the ball sail in a low arc and drop to the center of one of the widest fairways in golf. Perfect.

Applause broke out behind her. The fourball teeing off next. Lana acknowledged them with a nod and smiled at Mitch as she handed him her three-wood.

One stroke down, seventy-one to go. Hopefully fewer.

2

PULL/PUSH

Mitch

Mitch placedthe rake on the grass outside the bunker, quickly grabbed Lana’s golf bag and his backpack, and walked up to where his favorite golfer on the ladies’ professional tour was dropping the mat behind her ball some twenty yards away. Her dusky skin was flushed with anger and exertion. He’d played here since he was five years old and still hadn’t been able to master the course. He could sympathize.

It had taken her three strokes to get out of the ten-foot-deep Hell Bunker, the Old Course’s most notorious hazard on the long par-five 14thhole. He’d have done the same or worse.

He opened his mouth to console her, but she raised a hand to silence him.

“Give me a sec,” she snapped, then closed her eyes and counted under her breath, visibly calming herself down.

Mitch didn’t take offense to her sharp tone. Through thirteen holes, he’d been getting to know Iolana Aguilar, former number one female amateur golfer in the world, winner of her debut tournament as a professional in her native Hawaii. What he’dlearned so far only intensified his admiration and respect for her. Lana was quick to learn, listened to instructions intently, and executed them all with ease. But she was also a perfectionist and hated making mistakes, not giving herself grace for her lack of familiarity with the course, the unique vagaries of links golf, and the difficult playing conditions today.

The temperature had warmed since they started eighty minutes ago—if one considered going from three degrees to five degrees Celsius warmer like he did. But the winds whipped faster—up to thirty-two kilometers per hour according to his phone app—and changed directions from west to southwest. Where the wind had been hitting them from the left in the first hour, it now blew in their faces. The cloud cover further reflected Lana’s deteriorating spirit.

The front nine had been easy. She got off to a fast start and was two under par through ten. And then it went downhill from there. Literally. Her ball skidded into the Hill greenside bunker on the par-three 11thafter a mishit. A fried-egg lie led to a double-bogey. Even par for the day through twelve holes. Driving into the Coffins on the par-four 13thyielded another bogey. Her scorecard read one over par at that point. This descent into Hell would probably lead to a snowman—a triple bogey eight. Four over par. The treacherous 17thnamed the Road Hole was still ahead.

Mitch had to do something. He had to uplift her mood before the end of the round. Because if she ended on a high note, she might say yes when he asked her out on a date. His Valentine’s date.

He waited until she’d lobbed her seventh shot to the green and the ball rolled eighteen feet to the flag before he spoke. “Did you know that Jack Nicklaus took four to get out of Hell in ‘95?”

Lana’s lips twitched. “Yay. I beat the Golden Bear in something.” She handed him the mat and lifted the putter from the bag, this time without the jerkiness with which she’d pulled the wedge earlier. “You probably think I’m too intense,” she said after a few seconds.

He fell into step with her. Their conversation until now had been all about golf.

On the fairway for her approach, she’d asked, “How far to the green?”

“One-ten,” he’d replied after consulting his yardage book.

She’d reached for a fifty-degree wedge but he’d offered a fifty-four instead.

Then she’d asked, “How’s the wind blowing?”

He’d picked up clumps of grass and thrown them into the air. “Twenty kilometers … west.”

“So, around twelve miles, helping.”

This first personal remark from her needed a thoughtful response. “You’re passionate. Competitive by nature. Even with yourself. That’s why you’ve had so much success so young.” He hoped she didn’t think he was mansplaining and could hear the sincerity in his compliments. The list of her accomplishments as a junior and amateur golfer had taken him multiple scrolls down before he’d reached the end at her current age of twenty-two. Easily five times his wins in his twenty-four years of life.

“Yeah, well, success has eluded me lately. I haven’t won since two Novembers ago.” Her shoulders slumped. “I had to log off my social media because a golf writer called me a flash in the pan and hundreds of commenters agreed.”

Mitch heard the hurt in Lana’s voice. Having met her, he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. Shield her from all kinds of distress, defend her from those with ill intentions. He’d seen the offending post back when it was published, and he’d immediately blocked the insensitive knob who wrote it. Hisfirst instinct had been to comment, but he’d thought providing engagement would only bring more attention to the bawbag, so he hadn’t. Keyboard warriors had no shame or conscience. They’d do anything for traffic, even if what they posted was unfair or far from the truth.

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