James adjusted his grip on the club again, feeling the leather bite into his palm.
The opening bell had long since faded into the breeze, replaced by the distant thwacks of golf balls being struck and the occasional ripple of polite applause from various parts of the course.
His name had been called and the tournament had officially begun.
He stood beside Connor Wells, who looked every bit the star even dressed in muted athletic wear — charcoal-gray slacks, a soft navy polo that hugged his form, and a visor that shaded a gaze sharp enough to slice through tension.
Their judge, a stone-faced older man named Mr. Reinfeld, stood a few feet back, flanked by two assistants holding tablets.
"Hole One. Par Four," Connor said, surveying the distance with an ease that came from confidence, experience and comfort.
James, meanwhile, stared at the pristine green stretching out before them like a trap lined with subtle humiliation.
Connor turned to him, tossing a light grin his way.
