Page 44 of Fore-Ever Yours

Nick squats, reading the green. “It breaks left, so soft touch.”

I look down at the ball, my heart pounding like a drum. I’ve been here before, but the stakes feel higher now. Like this is my big moment, not just for Summit, but for her.

I can do this in my sleep, all the hours I’ve spent on the green, with coaches, in the gym, all that practice comes down to this.

One calming breath in, then out.

I line up and putt. The white speck rolls smoothly across the green and begins to drop into the hole when it swirls around the rim, back onto the grass.

Shake it off, it’s fine. Just a small putt in. Sometimes this happens. One more swing.

I watch the ball inching its way closer to the hole, but it does the same thing. It swirls around the rim back to where it started.

I look at Nick in disbelief.

“Breathe,” he mouths. “Trust it.”

I look at the audience to where Beth is standing, who gives me a reassuring nod.

Feeling her presence even from afar is oddly comforting. It centers me amidst the pressure of the tournament and reminds me what I’m playing for—what we’re pretending for.

I take a deep breath to let out the frustration and reexamine the green. Three crisp strides and I’m over the ball again. My heart beats steadily, focused on the task at hand.

I imagine the swing I want. The swing I’ve done a million times over. Just one connection between the club and the ball, one last journey across the smooth grass and into the hole.

I draw back and release, this time a little less forceful, even more calculated than before.

A collective gasp from the audience is followed by a moment of heavy silence as we watch the ball roll toward the same hole, for the third time.

Rolling…closer…touching the rim.

Then dropping in with a clink that sends a wave of relief through me. The crowd erupts into cheer, but it’s Beth’s smile, front row, that is infectious.

“Now, that’s your Summit swing.” Nick claps my shoulder.

I let my mental game slip a little with hole 10 and got a bogey. Yikes. But I focused on the mechanics—all those practice hours that have honed my technique—and got through it.

Holes 11-15, I grind. Nicks reads save me a few times and my putts are steady.

Hole 16, another birdie. Hole 17 was tougher, par. One left.

The 18thhole.

I can taste the victory. I’m so close.

I line up the putt, and the ball drops in clean. Straight into the 18thhole. The crowd roars. Beth’s right at the front, waiting for me as I step away from the green. She jumps forward, wrapping her arms around my neck and pulling me into a hug.

“You did it,” she whispers in my ear.

Her arms around me, her sweet voice—they fill me with a level of satisfaction that no trophy, sponsorship, or tour could surpass.

I wrap my arms around her waist, lift her, and spin. Her laugh echoes in my ear as I set her down. Our eyes meet, and everything else blurs around us. All I can see is her bright green gaze brimming with pride.

“You were amazing, Matthew,” she says in awe.

I want to tell her right here and now. Tell her just how much she means to me.

“Thank you,” I say instead, knowing now isn’t the right time.

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