Following Layla’s departure, Fr. Breen, unsurprisingly, got the impression the last thing on anyone’s mind was playing more golf and so decided right there on the 5th hole that perhaps it would be best for everybody if they just ended their practice session early.
“Listen, kid, you don’t need to feel bad ‘bout anythin’,” Ray had said on the drive back from Copperhead Springs once he’d managed to get the details of what exactly had happened out of a quiet Mustang. “Alright, you said yourself that you tried to talk to Layla, get her to call off the whole ‘Walk the Plank’ thing, and she didn’t wanna listen. So, her walkin’ off like she did? That ain’t on you.”
Of course, Mustang had understood the logic of what Ray was saying; after all, he had tried to call a truce with Layla – that was true. Yet, when they finally got back to Marais des Voleurs and Ray went about fixing a late lunch for the pair of them, as Mustang sat in the living room looking at the BMW Championship on T.V. – though not actually watching it – he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his stomach. Was it one of guilt? He couldn’t quite tell. All he knew was that he’d hated how things had gone with Layla. Yes, he’d wanted to teach her and the other Pirates a lesson – more than anything. But if he’d known doing that would have brought about the ending that it had, he wouldn’t have bothered. And what made things worse was that, no matter what angle he came at it from, Mustang couldn’t figure out any way by which the situation could be rectified; as in, the prospect of Mr Denby and Ray becoming best friends seemed more accomplishable than he and Layla coexisting happily on the same team.
So, once he’d come to that conclusion – and despite Ray trying his best to talk him out of it – later that night, Mustang called Fr. Breen and told him he wouldn’t be joining the Pirates. Obviously, upon hearing this, Fr. Breen had tried everything he could to convince him to do otherwise, but there was no changing Mustang’s mind. As far as he was concerned, if him joining the Pirates was this problematic for Layla, then, given she’d been there for a few years, he felt it only right that he should be the one to step aside and then that way they’d be free to try one last-ditch effort to get Cody to rejoin the team.
Just because he thought it was the right thing to do, however, didn’t mean Mustang was happy with how things had worked out. Far from it. In the four holes he’d played with them, even though they’d been directly competing, Mustang had really enjoyed being out on the course with the Pirates. There was just something about seeing the way they interacted with one another that, for a brief moment, made him look forward to the idea of getting to know them all – even Layla. When that was no longer a possibility, though, it hit Mustang harder than he thought he would. So much so, in fact, that once he got off the phone with Fr. Breen, Mustang – after claiming he had some homework to finish for Monday – went down to his room and didn’t emerge from there for the rest of the night. Ray, of course, knew that the whole “homework excuse” had been nothing more than that, an excuse, but he knew Mustang just needed to do his usual thing of spending some time alone to process everything. After giving him the night to do things his way, though, early the next morning Ray decided to intervene and help Mustang the only way he knew how.
And step one of that involved barrelling into his room just after dawn.
“Alright, kid, up and at ‘em!” Ray announced as he dodged and weaved his way around the clothes littered around the floor of Mustang’s bedroom en route to the window.
“Wha-What?!” croaked Mustang, still so half-asleep that he wasn’t entirely sure if he was dreaming or not. “Is it Monday?!”
“Nope, it ain’t Monday,” Ray answered, sharply pulling back the curtains and letting what little morning light there was outside to filter in through the window. “It’s Sunday. I’m just down a caddie ‘til lunch, so I need you to cover the first part of the mornin’ rush for me. So let’s get goin’, alright? We leave in 15.”
Though still trying to figure out whether or not this was just some terrible nightmare – a common side-effect of Ray’s own particular brand of wake-up call – Mustang pushed himself up onto his elbow and looked groggily around the room through narrowed eyes. Having begun to make his way back across the bedroom after drawing back the curtains, Ray came to a stop about halfway towards the door and looked down at Mustang. “Oh, and there was one other thing I wanted to tell you, actually …” he said, suddenly sounding quite serious.
“Yeah?” said Mustang, now taking to rubbing his eyes in an effort to wake himself up.
In one fell swoop, Ray bent down, grabbed one of the t-shirts he’d dodged earlier, stood back up, and tossed it straight at Mustang, hitting him square in the face. “The floor’s for your feet …” Ray said with a grin. “Not your clothes.”
With the bitter aroma emanating off his t-shirt letting him know that he was, indeed, very much awake – and how that particular shirt had clearly been on the floor for far too many days – Mustang pulled it down from his face and called jokingly out through the door after Ray, who was already halfway down the hall leading away from his bedroom. “You know, one of these mornings?! Just try a good old-fashioned knock on the door! Just to mix it up!”
“Duly noted!” called Ray, dryly, back over his shoulder. “Now, come on! Get a move on! I don’t wanna be late!”
*
After spending the morning lugging a golf bag around the Creek in the stifling late-August heat, the steady flow of cool air rushing in through the passenger side of the UTV was a welcome reprieve for Mustang.
Though he’d only had to caddie for just a single round, the fact he’d wound up on the bag of one, Terry Tokovic, made Mustang feel uncannily similar to how he had when walking off the 18th at Bandon Dunes after racking up 36-holes against Fletcher Rhodes. Because the thing with Terry Tokovic is that he had the rather unfortunate reputation as being the slowest player at the Creek – hence why whenever Ray would make the draw up in the workshop to see whose bag each caddie would be getting on a Sunday morning, nobody ever wanted to be the unlucky one to end up with Terry’s. And having now experienced for himself just what exactly it was like to man the towel for him, Mustang could see that Terry had most definitely earned his moniker of Terry ‘Tick’ Tokovic – or just ‘Tick-Tock’ to save time. A notion Terry, himself, clearly wasn’t a fan of.
Endless practice swings before every single shot. Taking an eternity to read putts, only to then blow them past the hole and then begin the whole reading process again. He would even have Mustang set a timer going if he lost his ball to make sure he’d squeeze every single second out of the allotted three minutes he’d have to search for it, even if he’d have more hope of finding BigFoot than he would his ball given some of the places he hooked them into. The man made caddying for him feel like some sort of unusual 5-hour long punishment where, come the end of it, Mustang wasn’t sure if it had been more cruel for him or Terry to have to endure it.
Just as he’d been thinking about heading into the clubhouse to get a well-earned lunch, however, upon bringing Tick-Tock’s bag up the steps next to the 18th, Mustang had been greeted by the sight of Ray waiting for him outside the pro-shop in Bill’s UTV. And a few seconds after that? Well, he found himself in the position he was currently in: sitting in the front passenger seat of said UTV, one foot up on the dust-covered dash, and letting the breeze wash gratefully over his clammy face as they sped up to the range.
Feeling Ray make the familiar turn off to the left and the terrain switch from asphalt to grass beneath the wheels of the UTV that signalled they’d arrived at the entrance to the range, Mustang wearily reopened his eyes. Straight away, though, he recognized that something was up. When Ray had picked him up outside the clubhouse, he’d told Mustang that he needed him to give the range a quick once over with the Picker because they were starting to run low on balls for the hitting bays. Yet, the very first thing Mustang saw as Ray drove the UTV in through the entrance was the Picker already in the process of weaving through the distance markers out on the range and sweeping up balls.
“I thought you said you needed me to do that?” Mustang asked, turning and looking at Ray as he gestured off at the Picker.
“I know I did,” Ray answered flatly, before glancing over at Mustang. “I lied.”
Having already been sporting a confused expression as is, hearing Ray say he’d lied to him only made that very same confused expression grow all the deeper on Mustang’s face. “You lied?” he said, hoping that repeating Ray’s words would somehow help them make sense. “Why?”
“Cause I wasn’t sure how you’d react if I said these guys were up here waitin’ for ya,” Ray replied, pointing at the windshield.
Shifting his gaze out through the clouded, scratched perspex that made up the windshield of the UTV, Mustang quickly saw who Ray was referring to. Taking up five hitting bays and intermittently striking balls out into the range for the Picker to gobble up, was none other than the New Malo Pirates, including Layla, with Fr. Breen standing off behind them, carefully monitoring their progress.
“What are they doing here?” asked Mustang, feeling unsure as to how exactly he should react to seeing Donny, Logan, Indie, Ryan, and especially Layla, within the confines of the Creek.
“Well, don’t be mad …” said Ray, broaching his answer rather cagily. “But after you called Fr. Breen to tell him you weren’t gonna be joinin’ the Pirates … I may have called ‘im myself after you went to your room …”
“You what?!” snapped Mustang, turning fully in his seat so that he was looking square at Ray.
“I know, I know!” replied Ray, already sounding appropriately apologetic as he’d been prepared for just such a reaction. “But, in my defence, I knew you really wanted to be a part of this team, kid – and don’t lie to me and say you don’t, cause I know you do.”
Though still annoyed at the fact Ray had gone behind his back, Mustang could only let out an irritated sigh as he turned back around in his seat. Because Ray was right. He did want to be a Pirate. But not like this.
“So, if there was a way that I could possibly make that happen?” continued Ray, stating his case as he slowed the UTV to a standstill in order to give him and Mustang some extra time to talk things out. “Well … as your guardian, I felt it was my job to, at least, try.”
Not feeling like looking at Ray just yet, Mustang, instead, let his eyes wander down to where the Pirates were still hitting balls; all of them completely unaware of the audience of one watching them from halfway up the range. Indie was dialling-in her killer wedge game. Donny looked as though he was trying his hardest to reach the treeline at the opposite end of the range by throwing himself full-bore into every drive he was hitting. Ryan was sweeping away some long irons with his ever-composed, silky-smooth swing. Logan was … well, he was scrolling through his phone as he idly twirled a golf club in his hand. And Layla was in the middle of tuning up her Rolls Royce of a swing by brushing away a few full 7-irons – the tempo problem that had seen her block her tee-shot into the pond the previous morning now nowhere in sight.
“So, them being here …” said Mustang, trying his best to keep his voice as neutral as possible so as not to give any more fuel to the feeling of hope that had just begun to flicker deep in the pit of his stomach. “What does that mean?”
“Honestly, kid? I’m not really sure,” replied Ray, he, too, now taking to looking down towards the Pirates just as Donny nearly launched himself clean out of his shoes in hitting another drive. “When I called Fr. Breen last night, I just said if he could try whatever he could to make this happen, I’d really appreciate it. Then, just to help ‘sweeten the deal’, after yesterday’s practice got cut short, I said if he wanted to organize another one for today here at the Creek, I’d set it all up. But the fact they’re all actually here right now?” Ray turned and looked at Mustang. “I mean, that can only be a good thing, right?”
Mustang let out a contemplative sigh. He knew what Ray was saying made sense. If Layla and the rest of the Pirates had no interest in him joining the team, they wouldn’t be standing on the range right now swatting away balls – or, at least, that’s what he was hoping at any rate.
“Alright …” said Mustang, finally turning and looking at Ray once again. “Let’s see what they have to say.”
“At a boy,” smiled Ray encouragingly, before stepping on the gas once again and setting the UTV back into motion.
After speeding along the back of the range, Ray brought the UTV to a smooth stop a few feet away from where Fr. Breen was standing with his hands clasped casually behind his back.
“Ah, gentlemen, good morning!” said Fr. Breen, greeting the pair of them with his usual boundless enthusiasm as they stepped out of the UTV and down onto the neatly trimmed grass. “Or should I say good afternoon!”
“Let’s just split the difference and settle on ‘hello’, shall we?!” smiled Ray, returning Fr. Breen’s polite greeting with one of his own as he walked over to shake his hand.
“Sounds like a plan to me!” replied Fr. Breen, laughing heartily as he vigorously shook Ray’s outstretched hand.
As Fr. Breen and Ray settled into some idle small talk about how the drive over from New Malo had been and what he thought of the changes he’d noticed at the Creek since the last time he’d played there, Mustang was left in the rather uncomfortable situation of just standing off to the side and not really knowing what do with himself.
And he wasn’t the only one.
As soon as they’d arrived in the UTV and Ray had killed the engine, every Pirate, bar Layla, had stopped what they were doing and taken to intermittently glancing in Mustang’s direction. It was a standoff. And an awkward one at that. So, Mustang decided to take the first step.
“Hey …” he said sheepishly, burying his hands in the pockets of his caddie overalls as he walked closer to the hitting bays.
“Hey, man,” said Donny, taking it upon himself to answer Mustang after everyone else had failed to say anything. “Uh … Coach was saying you set all this up?”
After taking a second or two to put together that by ‘Coach’ he meant Fr. Breen and that by the way he gestured loosely around at the range he was referring to the practice session at the Creek, Mustang answered Donny. “Oh, yeah … well, uh … if I’m being honest, it was mainly Ray,” he said, the nerves he was feeling making the words stumble awkwardly out of his mouth. “And if I’m being even more honest, it was all Ray. In fact, the first I heard of it was on the drive over here.”
Before Donny could reply, Layla – who still hadn’t turned to look at Mustang – jumped in before him. “See?! What I say?!” she bragged. “He didn’t even know about this. It’s just some attempt by his caddie to bribe hi-…”
“Oh, give it a rest, Laylz!” snapped Indie, finally losing her patience. “Like, seriously!”
“Yeah, Layla,” said Logan, sarcastically piling in on the back of what Indie had to say, his strong Louisiana accent making everything he was saying sound all the drier. “I mean, I’m as big a fan of ‘teenage angst’ as you’re gonna find – I really am – but might I suggest diallin’ it back a notch?”
“Agreed,” said Ryan, sternly.
As if they’d all just heard a statue come to life, every one of the Pirates – including Layla – stopped and looked at Ryan as if him speaking was one of life’s truly rare events; like seeing a total solar eclipse or Halley’s Comet.
“See, Layla?” said Donny dryly, still sounding a little stunned after hearing Ryan speak. “Not only did you force Ryan into speaking, but he did it to agree with Logan – so, if that’s not a wake-up call? I dunno what is.”
Though not happy with how everyone was ganging up on her, Layla – while she’d never openly admit it – did, indeed, find the fact Ryan had agreed with Logan, of all people, about how she was behaving to be more than a little jarring.
Because Ryan hardly ever spoke. Like, ever.
“Alright … fine …” said Layla, admitting defeat and sheathing her razor-sharp tongue long enough to throw an apology in Mustang’s direction. “Sorry.”
“That’s alright,” replied Mustang, happily accepting Layla’s reluctant apology as it had been the first remotely positive interaction they’d had since first meeting.
“And the other thing you wanted to say?” said Indie, blatantly prompting Layla like an over-involved stage mom.
After letting out a petulant sigh as if the moment she’d been dreading all morning had finally arrived, Layla, with a quick roll of her eyes, turned and looked at Mustang. “I want you to be on the team …” she said, running the words together as if she wanted them out of her mouth as quickly as possible.
“What?!” said Mustang, unwilling to believe that he’d actually heard Layla say what he thought she had.
“Look, I’m not gonna say it again,” Layla replied impatiently, just wanting the moment to be over. “You want in or not?”
“Uh … yeah! Definitely!” Mustang answered, quickly taking up her offer for fear it would be withdrawn. “Of course I want in! Though, as much as I’m thinking I’m an idiot to ask this … why the change of heart?”
“Well, there’s two reasons, really,” said Donny, thinking it wise that he step in and field that particular question as opposed to Layla. “The first is that we were all feeling kinda bad after the way everything went down yesterday … isn’t that right, Layla?”
Getting the impression that this particular point had been the subject of quite heated negotiations between her and the rest of the Pirates, Mustang watched as Layla – after yet another pointed eye roll – looked over at him and said, “Yes … very bad.”
Though delivered with all the cold stiltedness of a politician parroting off a line handed to them by a nervous-looking aide, if it meant keeping the fragile peace between he and Layla, Mustang was, again, happy to just take it for what it was and move on.
“So, when Coach called a Zoom meeting last night to talk about you joining the team again …” continued Donny, after shaking his head in exasperation upon hearing the deliberately terrible job Layla had made of saying her line. “We all agreed that, as hard as it is to come to terms with the fact that Cody only wants to play singles this year, you more than deserve to take his spot – and especially so after seeing the way you tore us apart yesterday.”
“Ok, cool …” replied Mustang, internally delighted that it wasn’t just out of pity or simply following orders from Fr. Breen that had seen the Pirates change their mind about him joining the team; that his ability as a golfer had been a deciding factor in itself. “And the second reason is?”
Donny glanced around at the other Pirates. It was like he wanted to get a silent consensus that he should, indeed, be the one to reveal the second reason to Mustang.
“Well, Coach told us last night that, after practice yesterday, he wound up getting emailed the schedule for the season,” said Donny, beginning his answer after seeing what he needed from Indie and the others. “So, obviously, he found out when we’re gonna be playing everyone in our conference.”
“Alright …” Mustang said, not seeing whatever issue was causing Donny to speak with such trepidation in his voice. “And that’s a problem because …?”
“Because …” Donny continued, taking Mustang’s prompt to get to the point. “As it turns out, our opening match of the season just so happens to be against the team who’s won the 66 the last three years in a row.”
“And they are?” asked Mustang.
“The Vermilion Bay Sharks,” sighed Donny. “And if we’re to have any chance of getting something from that match? Well, we’re gonna need all the help we can get … and that’s where you come in. ”
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