Through the Frozen Fairway (eBook)

Chapter 1

The morning dew still clung to the blades of grass, glistening like a carpet of tiny diamonds as the first rays of sunlight cut through the cool haze. Jordan Bryant stood at the tee, a solitary figure against the sprawling canvas of the local golf course. His short, light brown hair was tousled by a gentle breeze, which also brought the scent of freshly mown fairways to his nostrils. He squinted his blue eyes, focusing on the distant flag that marked the hole.

“Perfect day for it,” he muttered to himself, feeling the weight of the club in his hands. The sound of crisp impacts echoed around him as other early risers practiced their swings, each thwack a symphony of ambition and leisure intermingling in the open air.

Jordan took a moment to admire the course. It was meticulously cared for, with well-manicured fairways unfurling before him like ribbons of emerald velvet. The greens were smooth and true, promising a fair challenge to any putter’s skill. Around him, bunkers lay in wait, their pristine white sands untouched by the day’s play.

“Visualize the shot,” he reminded himself, his interior monologue a coach in its own right. He adjusted his grip slightly, aligning his body with the target. The club swung back in a controlled arc, and with a fluid motion, Jordan let it descend. There was a satisfying crunch as the clubhead met the ball, sending it soaring down the fairway with a precision that spoke of countless hours of practice.

“Nice swing, Bry!” called out one of the groundskeepers who had paused to watch.

“Thanks, Rick,” Jordan replied, nodding in acknowledgment. But his mind churned with thoughts of the upcoming Winter Golf Tournament. Every stroke, every putt, felt like a step towards something greater, a validation of his dedication.

He walked to where his ball had landed, breathing in the crisp morning air that nipped at his cheeks, invigorating his senses. With each step, his shoes left a temporary imprint on the dew-covered grass, a fleeting signature of his presence. Today was another chance to hone his skills, to edge ever closer to the golfer he aspired to be, and nothing could distract him from that goal—not even the whispers of competition on the horizon.

The sun, now a golden disc climbing the morning sky, cast long shadows across the emerald expanse of the golf course. Jordan Bryant stood on the practice range, a solitary figure against the sprawling greens, meticulously placing another ball onto the tee. His blue eyes were narrowed in concentration, a silent testament to the fire of ambition that burned within him.

“Keep your shoulders square, Jordan,” he muttered to himself, envisioning the path the ball would take. His muscles coiled like a spring as he drew the club back, every fiber honed through relentless practice.

With the poise of an artist, he painted the air with his swing, the club slicing a perfect arc before making contact. The sound was crisp, clear, and deeply satisfying—a symphony of power and precision. The ball rocketed away, a small white comet against the azure canvas above.

“Another one just like that, and you’ll have them shaking in their cleats,” a voice called out from behind him.

Jordan turned to find Morgan Snow, his best friend and caddy on this journey of aspirations, leaning casually against a nearby golf cart. His dark hair glinted with hints of auburn in the sunlight, and his green eyes sparkled with the mirth that always seemed to dance just beneath their surface.

“Morning, Morg,” Jordan said, flashing a quick smile before returning his attention to the next ball. “You’re up early.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Morgan replied, pushing off from the cart and strolling over with the easy grace of someone utterly at home on the green. “Besides, watching you hit these beauties is the best part of my day.”

Jordan chuckled softly, feeling a blend of warmth and comfort at his friend’s presence. Despite the calm exterior, his thoughts churned with the driving need to improve, to push beyond his limits. He knew the Winter Golf Tournament loomed large, a mountain to be climbed, and each shot was a step toward its peak.

“Let’s see if I can make the next one the second-best part of your day then,” Jordan quipped, setting his stance once more. He visualized the trajectory, pictured the ball arcing gracefully towards the distant flag.

“Easy there, champ. Remember to breathe,” Morgan advised, his tone light but carrying the weight of shared dreams and years of camaraderie.

“Breathing’s for when the ball’s in flight,” Jordan retorted, though he took a deep breath all the same, letting the tension seep out of his shoulders.

He swung again, the club whooshing through the air, and as the ball took off, slicing through the morning haze, a sense of rightness settled over him. This was where he belonged, between the tees and the greens, with nothing but the hole between him and victory.

“Looks like you’ve got this down to a science,” Morgan observed, moving to stand beside him, their shoulders almost touching.

“Feels more like an art sometimes,” Jordan confessed, watching the ball land neatly on the green. “Every shot’s a brushstroke, and I’m just trying not to ruin the canvas.”

Morgan laughed, a rich sound that echoed lightly across the range. “With you painting the strokes, that canvas is going to be a masterpiece.”

Jordan felt a surge of gratitude for Morgan’s unwavering faith, a beacon in the sea of his own doubts. He gripped his club a little tighter, steeling himself for the challenges ahead, knowing that with Morgan by his side, anything was possible.

Jordan steadied his stance, the grass beneath his shoes dew-kissed and yielding. Each swing carved an arc into the morning’s breath, a ritual of iron and intent.

“Keep that elbow tucked,” Morgan’s voice floated over, not intrusive, but like a note in a well-rehearsed symphony. “You’re letting it fly out like a seagull on a breeze.”

The corner of Jordan’s mouth twitched upward as he realigned his arm. He knew Morgan’s critiques were gems polished by years of observation—a caddy’s wisdom fused with a friend’s concern.

“Seagulls get to soar, though,” Jordan quipped, his clubhead connecting with the ball in a crisp thwack that sliced through the ambient chorus of other players practicing their craft.

“True, but you’re aiming for eagles, not flight,” Morgan retorted, his green eyes glinting with shared ambition.

Jordan watched the ball’s trajectory, feeling the thrum of satisfaction when it landed, obediently, near the pin. He glanced at Morgan, whose presence was both grounding and catalyzing. It was easy to forget the weight of the bag on Morgan’s shoulders when he carried it with such effortless grace.

“Sam Wheeler’s going to be there, you know,” Morgan said casually, as they moved towards the next shot. His words hung between them, laden with unspoken history.

“Sam’s always there.” The name tightened something in Jordan’s chest, a mixture of anticipation and old scars. “She’s part of the scenery now.”

“Scenery can be distracting. Especially when it swings back,” Morgan replied, his tone light but edged with the reality they both understood.

“Distractions are just mental tests. Besides, I’ve been acing those lately.” Jordan lined up for another shot, trying to keep his mind from wandering to Sam’s fluid drive, her gray eyes fierce with concentration.

“Focus on your game, Bryant. Let Sam play hers,” Morgan counseled, squinting down the fairway as if he could spot a weakness in its expanse.

“Always do,” Jordan murmured, though memories of past tournaments—of cheers and whispers, losses and victories—threatened to cloud his vision.

“Good. Because she’s tough competition this year. Heard she’s been breaking records in practice rounds.” Morgan shifted, the straps of the golf bag brushing against his jacket.

“Isn’t she always?” Jordan grunted, sending another ball into the air. He didn’t need reminders of Sam’s prowess; it was etched into every leaderboard that mattered.

“Which means you gotta be tougher,” Morgan stated plainly, handing Jordan a different club, an unspoken command to switch tactics.

“Can’t be much tougher without turning into a diamond.” A wry smile played on Jordan’s lips, but his grip on the new club was firm, resolute.

“Then shine, my friend. Outshine them all.” Morgan’s words were a benediction, a spark that lit a fire in Jordan’s belly.

“Plan to.” Jordan swung again, the rhythm of ball meeting club, of foot pivoting on turf, a dance he’d rehearsed in dreams and daylight. And for a moment, there was no tournament, no Sam Wheeler, just the pure, unadulterated love of the game.

“Look, Jor,” Morgan began, leaning against the bag and crossing his arms, his own shadow merging with Jordan’s on the ground. “You’ve got a history, sure. But this is golf, not ancient Greece. There are no epic poems about grudges—just scores.”

Jordan chuckled dryly, then sighed. The clench in his gut wasn’t from exertion, but from memories of tournaments past, laughter shared, and the sting of a friendship that had drifted into rivalry with Samantha Wheeler. “I can’t help it,” he confessed, staring at a divot he’d made earlier, a small crater on an otherwise pristine surface. “Playing against her gets inside my head.”

“Then don’t let it.” Morgan’s tone was firm yet supportive, like a lighthouse beacon...