About (Harry Styles)

4.

The London sun is hot across my exposed skin as I'm watching one of Marco's opponents up on the tee. The young, English man is standing in position as he glances from his golf ball to his ultimate goal - the hole. There's not a whistle in the wind. The audience is completely silent as the young man turns his body and smashes the ball into the air, digging a chunk of grass and dirt with it.

The quiet audience starts applauding the shot and I join in unenthusiastically.

He is, after all, Marco's toughest competitor.

Marco is up next and he walks up to the tee, completely confident. His composure is totally unaffected as he wears his serious, golfing poker face. The one he usually displays when he is one hundred percent committed. I try my best and successfully hold in a cheer for my best friend.

He warned me earlier not to say or yell anything when his turn was up. Not even a whisper nor a silent prayer. He claimed it would only sidetrack him, break his focus, and fluster his mindset.

He exaggerates.

Luckily, I decided to bring my camera with me. It does a very nice job of distracting my mouth from shouting out a word.

Once he knocks the ball into the air, I yell out a hurrah, causing a few people to turn their heads.

Okay, maybe more than a few, but I don't see what the huge problem is. What's so wrong with being a little encouraging towards your best friend?

...

When we're at the final hole, I am sweating, exhausted, and am full of pee. The bathrooms here are those disgusting portable stalls, and I hate using them so I refuse to go to the bathroom.

They smell like shit. They are unsanitary. And did I mention they stink like shit?

The golfing advocates in the bleachers watch with scrutiny as the usual man before Marco puts the ball. Out of nowhere, a wind gusts through and as if some super power is at work, the ball misses the hole by two inches and I'm the only one cheering amongst the disappointed crowd.

Again, unwarranted stares from everyone.

The seconds seem to drag as Marco approaches his ball. He bends his knees, carefully observing the distance from his ball to the hole. When he finally gets back on his feet and fixes his stance, it feels like a year has passed.

He swiftly yet slowly swings his stick and like a scene from a movie, the ball stays near the end of the hole, and at the last, devastating second, it disappears into the green. The crowd applauds while I scream in excitement. I'm running towards my best friend as he shakes his opponent's hand and I throw my arms around him, almost making him fall back.

"Congratulations, Marco!" I yell as I pull away from him. He looks even more sweaty than I am as his smile widens. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you," he says modestly before he looks past me.

"Great job, mate!"

I turn around and see the blonde boy we met a few days ago, extending an arm out to Marco. My best friend takes it.

"That was amazing to watch," he continues. "You're quite the competitor."

"Thanks," Marco replies. Niall Horan turns his attention to me after they shake hands.

"Elaine, not Ellie, right?" He points a finger at me, and we both chuckle. I usually mind when someone teases me but somehow with Niall Horan, it feels okay and normal.

"How come you didn't join the competition?"

Really, Elaine. That is the dumbest question you could ever ask.