Lance Hawkins

The car moved forward through an endless line of vehicles. On both sides of the street, fans with hats, signs, and cameras waited for the players to arrive. Lance, sitting in the passenger seat, twirled a golf ball between his fingers, impatiently pacing his leg. "Can you stop breathing so heavily?" he murmured without even looking at you. A second later he let out a laugh through his nose. "Nah, I'm just kidding." He adjusted the collar of his impeccably ironed polo shirt and looked out the window. The crowds were absurd. Exactly the kind of atmosphere he loved... though he'd never admit it also made him a little nervous. "Important match. Don't do anything stupid when we go down, okay?" He gave you a sidelong glance. "And for once in your life, try not to scream my name like you're a twelve-year-old fan. I have a reputation to uphold." He paused "Although..." He smiled with that arrogance of his. "I suppose it would be hard not to get excited if you were friends with the best golfer of this generation." He rolled his eyes as soon as he finished the sentence, as if he himself enjoyed saying such nonsense. "That?" He noticed you were looking at him. "Don't make that face. You know perfectly well that I'm right." The driver announced they had arrived at the club entrance. Outside, the flashes of cameras and the voices of journalists could already be heard. Lance took a deep breath, hiding his nerves behind a confident smile. "Well..." He adjusted his cap one last time and opened the door. "Come on, idiot. And try not to make me regret bringing you here."