Page 15 of Fore Better or Worse
I yank off my glove and stuff it into my back pocket, the leather still damp with sweat. Every muscle is wound tight, but I keep my chin up as we walk past the gallery, flashing a quick smile and a wave to the fans still lingering there.
“That lie on sixteen was bullshit.” Rory’s hustling to keep pace with me as I stride toward the scoring tent. He adjusts my bag on his shoulder, the clubs rattling. “Ball was sitting down in the rough like it had been buried by a fucking gopher. Nobody could’ve made that shot clean.”
“Shot was fine. I just pulled it left.”
“Okay, but what about fourteen? That putt broke way more than we read. Even the commentators were talking about guys three-putting from eight feet because the slopes were so deceptive.”
I bite my tongue. If I open my mouth right now, every curse word known to man will come spilling out. The gallery is already thinning as word spreads about who made the cut and who’s heading home early. I pause to sign a kid’s hat, ruffling his hair when I hand it back, and ignore the mom who’s blushing and fumbling with her phone camera.
Four months of grinding in the off-season. Four months of five a.m. workouts, protein shakes that taste like chalk, and swing changes that felt like learning to walk all over again. And for what? To flame out on Friday afternoon while the leaders, players who’ve been on tour longer than I’ve been shaving, cruise into the weekend.
I can already hear the whispers. The Golf Channel guys will have a field day with this.Can Hays Granger handle the pressure?orIs the hype around golf’s golden boy just hot air?
“The media’s going to crucify me,” I mutter.
“Fuck the media. Davidson tweeted about your ‘sophomore slump’ before you even teed off yesterday.”
The scoring tent looms ahead, and my stomach churns. Officials in their crisp white polos stand with clipboards and tablets, ready to make my loss official. Inside, I sign my scorecard and hand it to the woman behind the table. She cross-references it against Rory’s matching card then inputs the scores. “Seventy-three and seventy-five. That puts you at plus-four for the tournament and the cut line is—”
“Plus-two,” I finish for her.
“That’s right.” She makes a mark next to my name on a clipboard with the efficiency of someone who’s delivered this news a thousand times. “Thank you for playing. We’ll see you next week in Phoenix.”
At least, next week’s event is close to home. Not that it makes the sting of this missed cut any less painful. Especially after last week’s less than stellar thirty-sixth place finish.
Rory claps me on the shoulder as we slip out of the tent and head to the clubhouse. “I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear.”
My teeth grind, but I don’t bother trying to stop him. If nothing else, twenty years of friendship have taught me Rory will talk until he’s said his peace. Fighting him on it is nothing but a waste of time. And somewhere buried in his bullshit is usually a grain of truth I need to hear.
“You’re playing like a guy who’s got somewhere else to be. Like you’re in such a hurry to race to the finish line, you forgot how to enjoy the journey.”
I pull up and turn to face him. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with expectations breathing down your neck.”
“Bullshit. You’ve always thrived under pressure. Remember the NCAA Championship in Stillwater your junior year? You were three shots back going into Sunday, and you walked up to the first tee grinning like you’d already won.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
I lift my hat and run a hand through my hair. “Because I don’t have twelve years to stroke my way to the top, that’s how.”
“Well, rushing your game sure isn’t doing the trick these days, is it?”
“Taking a decade or more to win my first major isn’t an option,” I snap then lower my voice again. “Not for me. The leader out there? He’s in his twelfth year on tour, Rory. Twelve fucking years before he’s even sniffing a major championship. I can’t wait that long.”
“Why? Because of some arbitrary timeline you set for yourself because of your father? Or because of a certain brunette bookworm?”
It’s bad enough he brings up my dad, but throwing Leah into the mix hits like a punch to the gut. I wonder if either of them iswatching. If they’re following the scores and noticing my name is nowhere near the top. If they’re thinking I’m all talk and no substance, just like everyone else seems to.
“Don’t,” I warn, but Rory’s already nodding with that knowing expression he gets when he’s connecting dots I wish he’d leave scattered.
“If not me, then who?” he presses, his voice serious. “Look, I get that you want to win. Hell, you’ve been driven to come in first at everything from rock-paper-scissors to Mario Kart since we were six years old. But as your caddy and your friend, I have to tell you, this pressure you’re putting on yourself…it’s different now. Ever since that night on the boat.”
“You’re damn right it’s different.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “Everything changed that night.”
“I know it did. And honestly? Leah read you perfectly on that cruise. You’ve got something to prove. And you’ve always wanted to live up to the player your dad thought you could be. Until you get that win, you’d be a shit husband. She was smart enough to see that.”
I don’t bother to respond. We both know he’s spot on, as usual. Plus, I know he’s not done speaking his piece.
