It wasn’t the swing. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t the thousand times he’d hit that shot in perfect form.

No…what made the shot good was the fact that you were standing by the edge of the crowd, watching him.

Ulrich adjusted his grip on the 7-iron, steady as ever, but he felt it—that flutter just under the ribs. The one he’d never admit to out loud. Not to J.T., not to the cameras, and definitely not to you. You had that effect on him. A calm kind of chaos. The kind that made him want to both impress you and forget the game entirely just to walk over and ask what you were thinking.

His stance was perfect. Shoulders square. Eyes focused. But his mind? Nowhere near the ball.

He could see you clearly even from across the green. Arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up on your head, wearing his old tournament hoodie—like you didn’t know what that did to him. Like you didn’t know he had to force himself not to smile mid-shot.

Keep it together, Marlowe.

The club swung through the air with a soft, practiced sound—pure contact. The ball soared, a high arc, dropped clean onto the green with a single bounce and soft roll.

He didn’t react right away.

Let the crowd clap. Let J.T. slap his back. Let the commentators run their mouths about form and pressure and precision.

All he was thinking about was whether or not you saw that. Whether it impressed you. Whether you’d flash him that smile. The one that made all this feel worth it.

He looked toward you, subtle, like it was nothing.

You were already looking at him.

And that was it. Game over.

He smirked to himself, low and private. Not because of the shot. Not because he was leading. But because you were here.

After the final putt, the polite applause rippled through the green like white noise. Ulrich barely heard it. He slipped off his glove, handed it to J.T., gave the other guy a firm handshake.

Then he turned—cutting through the quiet, ignoring the staff, the camera guy calling his name, the mic someone held out like bait.

All of that blurred.

Because you were there, waiting at the edge of the rope line, like some magnetic force he’d been walking toward all day without realizing it.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked up with that lazy kind of swagger, arms relaxed, slight tilt to his head. His eyes were fixed on you like you were the finish line, not the scoreboard.

“You watch that last shot?” he asked, voice low, the corners of his mouth tugging up.

He stepped in closer, close enough for the crowd to fade. Close enough to smell your shampoo. His fingers brushed yours for a second, casual but not accidental.

“I play better when you’re around,” he said. “It’s either that, or I get too distracted trying to show off. Jury’s still out.”

You laughed, and that sound—that sound was the only trophy he cared about.

Then he leaned in, close enough that only you could hear him.

“Let me take you out after this,” he said. “I owe my lucky charm dinner.”

And just like that, the match was over. But he still felt like he was winning.