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Dignified

Mallory

G olf is a dignified sport. Precise. Contemplative. Restrained. Dignified .

I’m standing here on the eighteenth green, watching Holland Bradley line up his putt to win the Carolina Cup, and on the outside, I, too, am dignified.

My crisp black polo shirt is tucked primly into my white skort.

Not a wrinkle in sight. My copper hair is pulled into a spandex tight power ponytail.

My mouth is set in a neutral line, my eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.

One trickle of sweat makes a slow path down the back of my neck, but otherwise, I’m a verified vault.

Everything is locked down. I’m basically a statue, no shred of emotion to be found.

I learned years ago what happens when you let your emotions come into play, and let’s just say, there’s a good reason I keep my mask firmly in place.

On the inside, though? On the inside, my heart is hammering with the force of a drum line. My pulse is whirling with the velocity of a tornado. I am silently screaming into the void. My sunglasses hide the way my eyes dart from Holland to the hole and back to Holland again.

He’s got a nine-foot putt for the win. Nine measly feet. For most golfers, this distance would be in their comfort zone. Not a tap in, certainly, but a higher-percentage shot than most.

But Holland is not most golfers. He’s actually a better putter from ten-plus feet. The man seems to do well when the stakes are higher. Go figure.

But nine feet? Nine feet might be his Achilles heel .

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from actually letting out a scream.

Behavior like that from anyone standing in the gallery of the final hole on this idyllic course would be frowned upon, but especially from a professional like me.

I’m Holland’s golf coach. I know the rules of the sport I’ve made my life.

Even though I’ve got a crazed banshee jailed inside of me clamoring to be set free, I keep an even expression plastered on my face.

Holland takes a few practice putts, his club like an extra appendage, hinging in the center of his stance.

He steps up to the ball and adjusts his shoulders ever so slightly, lining them up with where he intends to hit the ball, not with the hole where he wants the ball to end up.

This is a skill we’ve worked on ad nauseum.

He’s read the green. He knows his putt needs to start to the left before hitting a downslope and curving back in the direction of the hole.

The angles and equations at play in our sport would make a mathematician dizzy.

I watch in slow motion as Holland blows out a breath, pauses to collect himself for a beat, and then takes his putt. Immediately after he makes contact, someone yells, “Get in the hole!” and the silence in the gallery is broken with a collective gasp and a smattering of cheers.

I go up onto my tiptoes and lean slightly to the side, my eyes locked on Holland’s ball as it catches a good line. It takes less than three seconds from the point of contact until the ball drops with the most satisfying plop into the hole.

The crowd erupts into a full-fledged celebration. Holland raises his hands over his head and heaves his putter into the air before he turns to his caddy, a guy named Steve who I adore, and embraces him in a firm hug.

Me? I keep the same dang neutral expression on my face. I show no emotion with victory, just like I would have shown no emotion if he would have missed and we would have had to go to a playoff hole with Andy Mason, the veteran playing alongside him in the final pairing all day .

Holland takes off his hat and shakes Andy’s hand and Andy’s caddy’s hand, and then he catches my eye.

A grin slashes over his face, and his tan skin glows in the late Sunday afternoon sun.

I offer him a single nod in acknowledgement.

I’m pretty sure I catch him roll his syrup-colored eyes at my lack of enthusiasm before he puts his hat back on.

He would love for me to show more excitement.

I know for a fact he’s made it his mission to try to get a rise out of me, one way or another.

But I am a woman coaching a man in a male-dominated world.

I don’t have the luxury of wearing my emotions on my sleeve.

He can get his fill of admiration from the fans.

And he does. He turns from me to the gallery and pumps his arms up and down, encouraging a chorus of cheers. Holland lives for this sort of attention, this sort of acclaim.

I duck away from the eighteenth green and the celebration, dodging animated fans on my way to the clubhouse.

I do a double-take when I nearly run into Anton Bates, reigning Super Bowl MVP and quarterback for the Green Bay River Foxes.

He’s got a brunette on his arm, and they’re waving in Holland’s direction—friends of his, I think.

Of course Holland has famous friends. He’s famous now too. Thanks, in no small part, to me.

I slip my phone out of my back pocket. It’s on silent. Etiquette and all. But I know my family is watching.

A slew of recent messages light up my screen, all of them in the group text I have set up with my parents and my aunt Jo. I bite back a smile as I scroll through my dad’s play-by-play reactions of the last two holes, culminating with an effusive…

Dad

HE MADE IT. YESSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Mom

Quit shouting!!

Mom

Congrats on the win, Mal. Just saw you on TV!!

Aunt Jo

Looking fierce. arm muscle emoji peace sign emoji

I smile down at my phone.

Mallory

Thanks for watching! It was a good win.

Dad

Holland looked great out there. You should be proud.

Aunt Jo

You looked better.

Mallory

Very funny.

Aunt Jo

Where’s the lie?

My aunt is my biggest fan, right alongside my parents.

Aunt Jo is my dad’s little sister, and the significant age gap between the two of them makes her feel more like an older cousin or sister to me than an aunt.

We’re only eight years apart. She’s lived with my parents for the past few years, helping out since my mom’s diagnosis.

Aunt Jo has always been my best friend, and we’ve only grown closer since then.

What’s that they always say about relationships being forged by fire?

Mallory

Even if I don’t believe you, thank you.

Dad

You coming home before the Grand Masters?

Mallory

That’s the plan!

Mom

dancing woman emoji

I’m immediately sobered by that tiny little woman in the red dress.

Mom used to love dancing. She and Dad would go swing dancing every week.

They made the handsomest couple, Dad with his broad shoulders and tucked-in flannel shirts, and Mom with her slim build and long, graceful lines.

Thursday Night Swing was their favorite hobby.

But that all got snatched away when Mom’s limbs started tingling, and she began losing her balance out of nowhere.

We were all terrified, and after a plethora of invasive tests, a diagnosis came down: Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy, or CIDP. Those four letters look so innocuous written out, but they’ve brought with them lifestyle changes I couldn’t have fathomed for my parents two years ago.

Mallory

Good day or bad day, Mom?

Mom

Every day’s a good day, Mal.

Mallory

Be honest.

Mom

I’m okay. Quit worrying. Go enjoy your win! Tell Holland we say congratulations!

Aunt Jo

And make sure he thanks you!

I snort. That would be the day. Holland is so full of himself there’s no room in his brain for anyone else.

Dad

Let us know when you’ll get here.

Mallory

I’ll hurry! Love you!

My family responds with their love, and I’m about to click off my text screen when a separate message pops up from Jo.

Aunt Jo

She’s not going to tell you, but your mom is struggling this weekend.

My heart clenches.

Mallory

What’s going on?

Aunt Jo

Bad burning in her feet, radiating up her legs.

I pull up short and tap the call button on my phone. A moment later, Jo answers.

“Ew, are you even a millennial?”

“You know you love me.” I sober. “Are you alone?”

“Yeah, I’m outside.”

“When did the pain start for her? Has she gotten any relief?”

“It’s been pretty constant all weekend.”

I start pacing on the far side of the clubhouse, my mind spinning and my heart breaking for my mom. She’ll never complain, but I absolutely hate thinking of her miserable.

“And they got the bill for her hospital stay,” Jo adds in a hushed tone. “That, coupled with the therapy they’re paying for out of pocket is stressing them out. Your mom is insisting she can drop the number of her PT sessions.”

I flick my gaze to movement in my periphery.

Holland is prancing into the clubhouse. He’ll submit his scorecard and sit for interviews, and then apparently, we’re having some sort of meeting with his agent.

Who knows what that’s all about. He doesn’t see me, but I watch him as he walks inside with a self-satisfied grin on his face, basking in the glow of his victory.

Our victory.

Which landed me a nice bonus.

That’s what Holland means to me. He’s the vehicle for my growing income. The avenue by which I’m going to be able to help support my parents as they navigate my mom’s ongoing therapies and treatment.

“This weekend’s winnings will help,” I tell Jo. “I’ll talk to them about it when I get home.”

“They’re stubborn. They don’t want your money, Mal.”

“I can do what I want. That’s the thing about it being my money. I can be stubborn too.”

I’m doing some serious mental math, trying to figure out if what I’ve got saved, plus the winnings from this weekend, are enough to cover the physical therapy regimen I know my mom needs.

It’ll be tight, but if I have to live off of ramen for the next few months to make this happen for them, so be it.

Jo huffs out a laugh. “Look at you, sounding all tough…just like I taught you.”

“You know it. Tell Mom and Dad not to worry, and we’ll figure everything out when I get home. I want Mom in therapy. She needs it. It’s giving her more good days than bad.”

“I know. I wish they had better insurance.”

“You and me both. It’s ridiculous that it’s considered elective when it’s literally the thing keeping her functioning.

” I glance around. The fans are trickling away from the eighteenth green, and I’ve got to take some notes on Holland’s performance while they’re fresh in my mind.

“Hey, I’ve gotta go. Be in touch soon, though. Thanks for being there for them.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be. Family forever.”

“Family forever. Love you, Jo. ”

“You too.” She pauses. “You did look good on camera today, by the way. Big girl-boss energy.”

“Obviously that’s what I was going for.”

“Obviously.”

I laugh and tell her goodbye. I sneak into an open room and pull up my phone’s notebook app.

The TV on the wall is streaming Holland’s press conference.

I mostly tune it out but catch bits and pieces of it.

He earns a point when he says it was a “team win this weekend” and uses the plural pronoun “we” when talking about his preparation.

It’s a good reminder that Holland can tone down the self-centeredness when he wants to. I’ll give him credit for that.

I don’t know how long I’m sitting there typing out what I remember about his round and what I want to work on at our next practice before a throat clears.

I look up, and Andy Mason is standing in the doorway.

“Is this where all the magic happens?” he asks.

I glance around the empty room, not sure what he’s getting at…

not sure why he’s talking to me. Andy is a pro.

He’s been at or near the top of the golf world for the past five years.

He’s in the generation of golfers ahead of Holland, probably thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with movie star good looks. Basically, he’s Holland’s predecessor.

“Depends on what you consider magic.” I stand and cross the room to shake his hand, mentally banishing my nerves and the imposter syndrome troll that sits on my left shoulder and constantly tells me I don’t belong. “Good round out there today.”

“Not good enough.” He shakes my hand and offers me a wry grin. “You’ve got Holland playing well.”

I bob my head in acknowledgement, still not sure where this conversation is going. I didn’t know Andy Mason knew who I was, and now he’s giving me credit for Holland’s game? I’ll take it.

“If you’re ever looking to take on another client…” Andy lets the idea hang in the air, and I swear my heart drops through the floor. I must not do a very good job hiding my surprise, because Andy laughs. “Can you blame me for asking?”

“No.” I regain some semblance of my composure and channel my best girl-boss energy. “I’m honored, is all.”

Before I can say anything else, Holland appears behind Andy.

“You trying to poach my coach, Mason?” He’s smiling, looking for all the world like he’s carefree and relaxed. But there’s a tightness to his posture that’s usually only present when he’s annoyed or frustrated. Because I know all of Holland’s tells, I know that right now he’s…tense.

Andy steps to the side so the three of us can stand in a triangle. “Always looking for ways to stay at the top. You know how it is.”

“I do.” Holland grins and doesn’t take his gaze from Andy.

I’m not sure what to make of his intensity, but then he snaps his focus to me.

“Noah texted. He’s here, so we’ll be ready to meet anytime.

I’ll give you two a minute.” He chin checks Andy before his gaze flicks to me again.

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes before he turns on his heel and leaves the room.

What in the Arnold Palmer was that?

I shake my head. Whatever. It’s Holland’s problem, not mine.

“Let’s be in touch,” I say to Andy.

He smiles. “Sounds good to me.”

We exchange numbers and part ways. As I head off to see what Holland and his agent need from me, I replay the past five minutes, and I don’t know what to make of any of it.

I don’t have an exclusivity clause in my contract with Holland.

Sure, he’s been my only client for the past year and a half.

He pays me well, and he’s been winning, which means more bonuses for me.

It’s been a lucrative gig. Still, there’s nothing stopping me from taking on other golfers and working them into my coaching schedule.

So why was there a hint of betrayal in Holland’s gaze?