He didn't read the break. He knew this green. He'd lived on it in his dreams. He tapped the ball.
The air in the clubhouse usually smelled of stale coffee and expensive leather, but today, it tasted like copper.
The 18th at Blackwood was a spiteful design. A narrow fairway that hugged a lake like a nervous lover. To the right, deep bunkers sat like open mouths.
The contact was pure. A soft click . The ball arched high, dancing with the breeze, and bit into the green ten feet from the pin.