Above Par - Olympic Edition

Chapter 25 - A Hole Lotta Distraction

Frederic:

The sun hung high in the Carolina sky, casting long shadows across the emerald fairways of the Fox Hollow Club golf course. I stood on the tee box, my hands wrapped tightly around the club as I surveyed the course ahead. The first round had been rough, but today felt different. There was a sense of determination coursing through me—a desire to reclaim my place on the leaderboard and prove to myself that I could rise above the chaos of the past months.

Tom stood beside me, his presence a steadying force as he offered a few last-minute pointers. "Keep your eye on the pin and don't overthink it," he advised, his voice calm and reassuring.

I nodded, appreciating Tom's guidance. We had settled back into a familiar rhythm, the kind that had once made us an unbeatable team. But there was something missing, a spark that had been there with Felix—his relentless optimism, the way he always seemed to lighten the mood with a quip or a smile. Tom wasn't the cheerleader Felix had been, and I hadn't realized how much I'd missed those quirks on the green.

My game continued, but my mind was elsewhere. As we reached the next hole, I tried to shake the distraction, focusing on lining up my putt. Despite my efforts, the ball veered just wide of the hole, a missed birdie that gnawed at my confidence. Tom's quiet encouragement felt hollow, and I found myself longing for certain someone's spirited presence.

For a moment, my breath caught in my throat. A figure stood there, compact and lean, with dark hair that caught the sunlight. The way he moved, the angle of his shoulders—it was all so achingly familiar. Felix.

I blinked, my heart skipping a beat as the image wavered and then disappeared into the crowd. I shook my head, trying to dispel the illusion, but the distraction lingered, throwing me off my focus.

"Fred, you okay?" Tom asked, glancing at me with concern as I hesitated on the tee box.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I replied, my voice sounding more certain than I felt. I forced myself to concentrate on the game, to push aside the thought that Felix might actually be here. It seemed impossible, a fantasy conjured by wishful thinking and a restless mind.

But as the round progressed, my concentration wavered. Each time I lined up a shot, I found myself scanning the crowd, searching for another glimpse of that elusive figure. The distraction proved costly—my drives veered off course, and my putts fell short. The frustration built with each misstep, tightening like a coil in my chest.

"What's going on, Fred?" Tom asked again as we walked between holes, his tone laced with concern. "You're not playing like yourself today."

I clenched my jaw, trying to shake off the feeling of disorientation. "It's nothing," I muttered, unwilling to voice the chaotic thoughts swirling in my mind. Admitting that I thought I saw Felix felt too vulnerable, too raw. I didn't want to confront the reality that maybe, just maybe, I'd been hoping to see him again.

But the thought lingered, refusing to be silenced. Was it really him? And if it was, what did it mean?

As we approached the back nine, the tension in my shoulders grew more pronounced. I took a deep breath, trying to center myself, to find the focus that had eluded me all day. The course stretched out before me, a familiar battleground where I'd fought so many times before. Yet today, it felt different, as if the stakes were higher, the challenges more daunting.

I glanced at Tom, his steady presence a reminder of what we were here to achieve. The PGA Tour was a chance to reclaim my place in the world of golf, to honor my mother's memory and prove to myself that I could overcome any obstacle. But now, with the specter of Felix haunting my thoughts, it felt as if the game had shifted, the rules rewritten.

"Let's finish strong," Tom urged, his voice cutting through my reverie. "You've got this, Fred."

I frowned, missing the witty banter and light-hearted encouragement Felix had always provided. Tom's words were meant to be supportive, but they fell flat, leaving me feeling more adrift than ever.

Distracted and frustrated, I lined up for my final shot of the round. My focus wavered, and I misjudged the angle, sending the ball careening off course. It landed far from the intended target, and my rank plummeted further. I could feel the disappointment settling in, knowing that my performance wasn't up to par, and the weight of it bore down heavily on my shoulders.

I walked off the course, my heart heavy with frustration and disappointment. I was headed straight for my hotel instead of the clubhouse to mingle with the other players. The thought of facing their knowing looks and whispered judgments was more than I could handle at the moment.

As I walked out of the clubhouse, a voice from behind caught my attention. "Looks like the golf king isn't on his best today," it teased, a familiar lilt that made my heart skip a beat. "Should've brought my pom-poms."

I turned, and there he was—Felix.