Page 18 of The Sweet Spot

“Stand here like you've assessed the hole.”

“Well, I've looked at it.”

I turn to look at him. “Looking and assessing are not the same thing.”

He tips his head, and he's holding back a smile. I can tell. “Okay then, Marlow. Talk me through what I'm missing.”

I point. “See that bunker on the left at two-fifty? If you try to cut the corner, you're in it. The safer play is to just aim a bit right of center off the tee. That'll leave you a clean second shot.”

“Sounds good.”

“How far do you usually hit your driver?”

He pushes his lips out and mulls it over. The fact he has to think about it tells me beating Max is going to be harder than I'd hoped.

“Two-sixty on a good day.”

“Then skip the driver. Use your three-wood and put it in the middle of the fairway. Keep it simple.”

“Okay,” he says.

That's it?

“Okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. You know the game better than I do. I'm not going to fight you on strategy.” He pulls his three-wood from the bag and studies it. “See? I'm coachable.”

Coachable? This man is coachable? I don't know what to do with that. in my experience, most men ignore my advice. JB hasn't done that at all. He just... agrees and adjusts.

I find it deeply unsettling.

I pull out my club and step up to the tee before settling in. I plant my feet, adjust my grip and line myself up.

Taking one last look, I swing.

Thwack!

The ball flies in the air, landing clean in the middle of the fairway. Exactly where I wanted it.

JB watches the ball land, and gives a low whistle. “That was seriously impressive.”

“I know.”

From the other side of the tee box, I hear Jess snort. She's standing next to Max, who has his arms folded and is watching my ball emotionlessly.

“That's the one to beat,” he says, almost to himself. Then he looks at me directly. “And I plan to.”

I hold his gaze, squaring up to him. “You're welcome to try,” I say in a sickly-sweet voice before crinkling my nose. “But I thought you were a pitcher?”

“What's wrong with that?”

I look at JB and then back to Max.

“Well, pitcher’s aren’t really considered athletes.”

Jess takes in a sharp breath.

JB groans. “You just had to go there, didn't you?”