Page 52

Living Out Loud

Holland

I t’s Sunday at the PGO Championship, and I’ve got a case of déja vu. Steve is at my side as we stride down the fairway. My tee shot was long and straight, putting me in great position for the next ball I have to hit.

I nod, but I don’t respond with words.

I know what I have to do. If I par this hole, I win the tournament.

It’s been a great few days of golf. The competition has been fierce, but I’ve held my own. I’ve played well. I’m loose and relaxed. I haven’t thought too much about completely blowing it at the Grand Masters…until now.

The thought enters my brain: history could repeat itself .

I turn it over in my head as we walk toward my ball.

Yep, history could repeat itself. There’s nothing saying that I won’t hit this shot right into the water and open the door for my opponent, who happens to be Andy Mason, the same guy who wanted Mallory to coach for him, to walk through and steal this championship right out from under me.

It could happen.

Golf is a fickle sport. There’s a lot of luck involved.

For so long, I’ve aligned my self-worth with my performance, drawing confidence from playing well and the praise of fans and critics who noticed me and affirmed me. I was so anxious about losing their good opinion that I thought failing on the course would be the end of me .

But it’s not.

That’s the biggest takeaway of the past six weeks. If I become a washed-up golfer—a has-been who never wins another tournament in his life—I’ll still be able to go home to a family who loves me, a town that I love and that supports me, and Mallory.

I flip open the scorecard billfold I’m carrying. It has my notes on the course and distances, but that’s not what I’m looking at.

Nope. At the top of the billfold, I’ve taped a sticky note. It came in the mail to Cashmere Cove the day before I made the trek an hour south to Erin Hills Golf Course. It’s from Mallory.

Do your thing. I’m here for you no matter what.

No matter what.

She’s proven that to me, pretty much from the moment she started coaching me.

She put up with my petulance. My self-centeredness.

My teasing. My grasping for her attention.

My harebrained idea to join a reality TV dating show mid-season.

My secret unrequited love. She’s seen me at my lows, and she’s been unwavering. I’m so glad to have her on my team.

Whatever happens today, I’ve got a flight booked from the Milwaukee airport tonight. I’m flying down to see her. She doesn’t know it, but I can’t wait another day.

She made me promise not to mess with my practice schedule in the lead-up to this tournament, or I would have been down there already. But there’s nothing stopping me starting tonight. That thought centers me. Life is more than golf. And my life is better when Mallory is in it.

Steve and I pull up next to my ball, and I turn my attention to the shot at hand.

“It’s a good lie.” I walk in a half circle behind the ball, one way and then the other, before stepping in front of it and plucking a loose leaf off the green and tossing it aside.

“You thinking three wood?” Steve produces my club from the bag.

“Yep.” I take it and take a couple practice swings .

Andy is about two yards behind me and across the fairway, so he’ll take his turn first.

Off to my other side is the network broadcaster and camera crew.

Cameron, an Australian who was a great player in the early nineties, has been providing play-by-play coverage, walking with our final pairing all day.

He talks in hushed tones into his headset, communicating with the guys in the booth.

Usually, I can’t hear what he’s saying, but something about the way the wind is blowing right now sends his words wafting over to me.

“It’s almost an eerily similar situation to the Grand Masters, Jim. Holland Bradley, poised to win, with only himself in his way. Looks like he’s going with the three wood here…”

I block out his words, focusing on what I have to do and running through Mallory’s instructions in my head.

Because here’s the thing. Even though I’m in a good place mentally about all of this, I still want to win.

I’m a competitor. The difference between me at the Grand Masters and me now is that I know I’ll survive if I don’t win.

Out of respect, I stop my shot preparation when Andy settles in to take his swing.

Steve and I stand still and watch the arch of his ball.

It hits the front of the green, clearing the water hazard.

The crowd in the grandstand cheers as the ball trickles toward the hole, coming to rest about twelve feet from the cup.

It’s a great shot—one I’d be overjoyed to have hit myself.

Andy has put himself in a perfect position to make birdie on this par four eighteenth hole.

Since I’m currently one shot ahead of him, that means the pressure is on me to also make birdie.

Because if I only notch a par, we’ll be tied and heading to extra holes.

I shake my head. One thing at a time. “Do the next thing right,” I mutter to myself, Mallory’s voice echoing in my head.

Cameron’s voice reaches me again. “An excellent shot for Andy! The pressure is on Holland now. Let’s see what he can do. ”

“You good?” Steve asks me, holding out a towel. I wipe the sweat that’s built up on my hands and stuff it in my bag.

“I’m good.”

He steps back, leaving me and the ball and the anticipation of my next shot.

The crowd surrounding the eighteenth green and the fairway leading up to it has gone quiet. There are volunteers holding up paddles, signaling no noise, as I settle in to my position.

I exhale and steady my breathing, checking my form against how I know I should be standing. I’m pleased to see I still feel loose. My spine isn’t stiff, and my knees aren’t shaking. I can do this.

The club moves like an extension of my appendage, and I keep my eye on the ball as I bring it around. The contact is solid and swift, sending the little white ball screaming toward the hole.

I hold my club up and over my shoulder, alternatively watching the line of the ball and flicking my gaze down to the location of the hole. The crowd is murmuring, and when my ball lands with a pleasant plop on the green, they explode with cheers.

The cheers intensify as my ball doesn’t stop, but it rolls toward the hole.

Go, go, go , I chant to myself.

“Ice in his veins today, Jim!” Cameron is talking louder to be heard over the cheers. “Holland Bradley has landed his shot six feet from the hole. He makes that putt, and he’ll secure a major victory.”

“Nice ball.” Steve steps up beside me, and I hand my club over as we start walking across the footbridge to the eighteenth green.

“Felt good to stay dry.” I shoot him a grin.

“I bet.”

As we approach the green, the crowd is going wild, cheering for both Andy and me .

We take turns circling our balls, careful not to tread on the green in front of each other’s ball. Since his shot landed slightly farther out than mine, he’ll again putt first.

I can’t help but notice that, once again, I’m within ten feet of the hole. I smile to myself as I picture Mallory scowling at me about my form and making me putt over and over again from this distance.

I wish she was here right now. I flick my gaze to the crowd and over by the walkway to the clubhouse where I know the families of the players typically gather.

My whole crew is here, and my heart balloons.

My parents are clapping. Mack stands with his arms crossed next to Poppy, who has her hands cupped around her mouth and is screaming.

Rose is eyeing her sister with an equal mix of affection and exasperation.

Nearby, Anton, who’s wearing a baseball hat and trying very hard to blend in, is in conversation with Collin and Noli.

I do a double-take when I swear I spot Vivian, from MEM , behind them.

But before I can confirm it, the woman turns to the side.

I shake my head. There’s no reason Vivian would be here.

I talked to Ava, Mindy Sue, and Zelda after Mallory left to tend to her mom.

I told them the truth. That I had fallen in love with Mallory, and I didn’t want to waste their time.

Vivian and I agreed that when Mallory was ready—and if she was willing—we’d film a final scene with the two of us to give the show an appropriate conclusion to air for the network.

That’s another thing I have to figure out—after I’m done here.

Right now, I need to focus.

Andy steps up, and a hush falls over the crowd. He doesn’t hesitate as he putts, and his ball is on a rope. It lands with a plunk in the cup, and the grandstand erupts.

I block it all out. I don’t think about Andy’s putt. I don’t think about the score. I don’t register Cameron’s voice when he says, “We couldn’t have drawn this up better, Jim. We’re getting our money’s worth today, aren’t we? This is no gimme for Bradley. We know he’s struggled from this distance…”

I crouch down and eye the line my ball needs to take. I feel Steve hovering behind me. But the two of us know each other so well that he knows not to speak until I stand up. Even then, he knows I’ll ask him if I want his opinion.

I know what I have to do. I rise carefully out of my squat, keeping my eye on the hole for an extra second, tracing the line backward to my ball. It’s a little trick Mallory taught me: visualizing the ball’s path there and back, ensuring the accuracy of the line.

“I’m good,” I tell Steve.

“You’ve got this.” He steps back.

I get into my stance, feet shoulder width apart, knees loose and relaxed, ball in the center of my field of gravity. I eye my line one last time and then keep my eye on the ball as I ease into my backstroke and pull my club forward.

The contact is perfect, and the ball rolls toward the hole with exactly the right amount of speed. I don’t react, just stay frozen in place, putter still held in front of me until…

Plunk.

The world slows on its axis as the ball drops into the hole. I can’t believe it, and also, I can totally believe it. I’m thrilled, and at the same time—for the first time—this golf victory isn’t the be-all-end-all of my happiness.

The crowd goes wild, and I shake my head slightly, coming out of a daze.

I did it. I actually did it. A wide smile splashes across my face.

I throw my hands over my head, both out of excitement at winning and because it feels good to know I would have been okay had I not won. I spin around and hug Steve.

“Proud of you, Holland.” He slaps my back hard.

“Couldn’t have done it without you, man.” I pull back and grab his shoulders, giving him a shake.

He chuckles. “Enjoy it all. ”

I take my hat off and turn to shake hands with Andy and his caddie.

“Well played, Holland.”

“Likewise. It was fun.”

“Agreed. Congrats.”

I put my hat back on my head and turn toward the grandstand, lifting my hands to salute the crowd.

To my one side, Cameron is clucking into his headset. “Redemption tastes so, so sweet for Holland Bradley…”

I grin broadly at the sight of my parents. My mom is crying, and my dad is beaming next to her. Mack is even smiling. Someone write it down. The Kasper sisters are all jumping up and down. Anton stands like a giant statue, clapping next to Collin. And then the two of them step to the side, and—

I do a double-take.

Mallory .

She’s got her hair down in loose waves beneath a white ball cap. She’s ditched her usual sunglasses, so I can see the way her eyes are glittering in the late-afternoon, Wisconsin sunshine.

She’s also ditched her usual even expression. She’s smiling an open-mouthed, uninhibited smile. She’s not supposed to be here, and yet…

“Holland!” She sprints out onto the green, running at full speed and leaping at me.

I wrap my arms around her, and the momentum of her body colliding with mine sends me whirling around in a circle.

She wraps her legs around my waist, and I bury my nose in her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of peaches I’ve missed so much over the past few weeks.

I knock her hat off her head in the process, and her hair hangs in curtains around me, shrouding the two of us in our own personal canopy.

After a couple of seconds, she leans away from me, and I gaze into her sparkling green eyes. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

She grins. “Living out loud. ”

She closes the distance between us, pressing her lips against mine in a strong, sure kiss.

I didn’t think it was possible, but the fans go even crazier all around us. I see flashbulbs going off in my periphery, but Mallory is kissing me like we’re the only two people on this eighteenth green.

I’m more than happy to follow her lead. She takes control, demanding my full attention with the slant of her mouth. I drink her in, savoring the pressure of her lips against mine and the electric current running between us.

“I missed you,” she says when we break for air. She rests her head against my forehead. “I’m so dang proud of you, Holland. You did it.”

I shake my head. “ We did it. I still don’t understand. How are you here? What about your mom?”

“She told me she’d disown me if I didn’t leave her alone and come see you…especially after I told her there was some unfinished business between the two of us.”

I arch my brows. “What might that be?”

She kisses my lips again, hard and fast. “Well, you see. There’s this pretty incredible guy who told me he loved me in a tree house, and I never said it back. I’ve been wanting to,” she adds more quietly, gazing at me with clear, sure eyes.

“Have you now?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

Mallory cups my cheeks in her hands. “I love you, Holland Bradley. You are an incredible golfer and an even more incredible man. I want to be on your team. Professionally, personally, all of the above.”

I stare at her, and she laughs. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Trying to memorize this moment.” The sounds of screams and people yelling our names reach my ears, and I flick my gaze over Mallory’s shoulder to where the cameras are rolling. We’ve got to move off the green shortly, and I’ve got to get to the clubhouse to turn in my scorecard.

I set her on her feet but grab for her hands, dipping my head so it’s close to her ear. “What about your reputation? You sure you’re okay with all this?”

She shrugs. “I care more about you than I do what people think of me.”