Page 48 of Sweet Spot
She laughs, but I’m serious. I don’t think I felt my body the entire time. But now that I am focusing on it, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I’m so screwed.
“Come on, let’s go back to the hotel, shower, and then watch QVC before dinner.”
“I don’t think I’m gonna go to dinner.”
“What? Why?”
“I think it’ll just make me more nervous.” The team dinner the night before a tournament is something that’s supposed to be relaxing and uplifting, but it has the opposite effect on me. Maybe it’s Coach Potter, maybe it’s just me. Either way, I need to get my head right before tomorrow.
One thing is certain, if I screw this up, Coach Potter will make sure I never get another shot.
In our hotel room, I let Abby shower first and collapse onto the bed. I close my eyes and visualize the course. I see myself moving through each hole in best-case and worst-case scenarios.
Once it’s my turn for the shower, I stand under the hot spray and let every negative thought or fear come to the surface, and then, one by one, I try to dismiss them. It’s easier to let go of some than others.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come? It might be good to get out and forget about tomorrow for a couple of hours,” Abby asks as she grabs her purse.
I run a brush through my wet hair and pull the towel tighter around my body. “I’m sure.”
“Do you want me to bring you back something?”
“Nah, I might order room service or walk downstairs to grab something from the market across the street.”
“All right. See ya later.”
I’m lounging on my bed in a T-shirt and jeans, watching the local weather channel, when my phone pings with a text.
Lincoln: How did your practice round go?
Me: Okay, I think. I shot one under.
Lincoln: Nice work. Eat a light dinner, drink lots of water, and get a good night’s sleep.
Me: Does ordering pizza count as light?
Lincoln: Definitely not. Don’t you have some sort of team dinner tonight?
Me: I didn’t go.
Lincoln: Why not? You need to eat.
I roll my eyes but find myself smiling as the phone rings and Lincoln’s name lights up the screen. “Hello?”
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you eating with the team? Did Potter do something?”
The protective note in his tone makes me want to hug him simply for implying he’d be pissed if my coach had stepped out of line. “No, Coach Potter didn’t do anything. Well, nothing out of the normal.”
“Are you nervous for tomorrow?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Terrified. What if I screw up?”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t know that. I could go out there and bogey every hole. Or double bogey.”
He laughs. “That’s pretty unlikely.”
“But I could!” I insist.
