Page 1 of The Sweet Spot

Chapter 1

If there’s one thing the world knows about me, it’s that I can handle balls.

Under pressure... In front of crowds... Occasionally while being screamed at by middle-aged men in visors...

It’s my thing, and I’ve been lucky enough to build an entire career on it.

So why is this baseball—with its Frankenstein stitching and weird leathery texture—making me feel like I’m seconds away from making internet history à la 50 Cent?

Probably because I am, only I have a lot more to lose because I’m an actual athlete.

I look to the side and see my LPGA tour mates standing by first base smiling at me for encouragement. It’s easy for them to be happy. They aren’t the ones standing next to a mound about to throw a pitch in front of thirty thousand people while wearing a hat that smells a lot like Funyuns.

For the record, I hate Funyuns.

“Please give a Catfish welcome to Whit Marlow.”

Get it together, Marlow.

I tip on my toes and do a little spin for the crowd because I’m a professional and although I might be freaking out on the inside, I don’t show it.

“Two-time LPGA Championship winner, Charlotte native, and the number one ranked female golfer in the world.”

The crowd erupts into applause, and I soak it in, using every bit to hype me up for this throw.

Gripping the ball tightly, I glance toward the dugout and catch my dad wiping tears from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. He looks almost as proud as he did when I won my first professional tournament, which isn’t surprising. My dad loves the Fish.

When I was a kid, he turned our basement into a replica of The Tipsy Tackle, the bar beside the dugout, and the second he retired from his very corporate job, he decided to become the official maintenance man of the Carolina Catfish’s park—or as it’s affectionately known, The Tank.

So yeah, seeing his only child standing on the mound about to deliver a pitch to one of the best players in the league is probably one of the best moments of his life.

I catch his eye and wink.

This is for you, Dad.

Then, one at a time, I wipe my hands on my jeans before taking my first step onto the mound. The second my shoes hit the sand, I’m immediately aware of how different it feels from any bunker I’ve ever stepped into. It’s packed and gritty. Nothing like the soft texture I’m used to.

I twist my foot and then swipe it back, earning a collective gasp from the crowd.

Was I.... not supposed to do that?

I swear I've seen Grayson Hawk swipe the mound with his foot before.

“You’re throwing a ceremonial first pitch, not trying to strike out Holden Fox,” the batboy mutters beside me.

I roll my eyes before throwing a smile at him and then toss the ball in the air, attempting to play it off.

Shit.

I catch the ball. Just barely. It’s too big, and not the right texture. I might’ve practiced throwing this ball with my dad in the yard yesterday, but this is not the same.

I’m used to silence and pimento sandwiches, not the smell of hot dogs and a verbally reacting crowd.

Come on, Marlow. You’ve played the back nine at Pinehurst with a blister the size of a nickel on your pinky finger. Throwing a pitch to Tate Sorenson is nothing in comparison.

There’s another cheer as Tate walks out from the dugout...wearing catcher’s gear? Baseball might not be my sport of choice, but I know enough to know that Tate is a shortstop, ergo he doesn’t wear all that extra padding.

Does that mean he’s wearing it because of me?