THUD!!!
With the stiff breeze that had been whipping steadily around the course all afternoon still gusting, Mustang – having driven his lob wedge hard into the base of the bunker – turned his face sharply away in order to avoid the cloud of powdery sand he’d just dug up from blowing straight into his eyes. Once he’d felt the majority of sand gust past him, however – save for the odd few grains here and there that nestled, annoyingly, in his hair – Mustang reopened his eyes and looked back towards the green just in time to see his ball coming slowly to a stop 6-feet out from the hole.
A decent result given the slightly buried lie he’d had.
With the large crowd surrounding the 12th green now politely applauding his effort, Mustang stepped wearily out of the steep-faced, greenside bunker, and began using his wedge to knock off what little sand had clung to his spikes.
“Nice shot, kid,” said Ray, encouragingly, as he stood waiting with the rake for the bunker and Mustang’s putter in hand. “Just make sure you mark that, though, alright?”
“Yeah …” replied Mustang indifferently, as he exchanged his lob wedge for his putter. “I will …”
In reality, though, as he trudged up the small slope standing between him and the putting surface – leaving Ray to begin the quick job of tidying up the bunker for the next unfortunate soul to find themselves marooned inside there – the last thing Mustang wanted to do was to mark his ball. Because after the afternoon he’d had thus far? He just wanted this round to be over as quickly as possible. And marking his ball? That just seemed like an unnecessary means through which to extend his suffering.
Still, despite wanting to do anything but, Mustang walked dutifully across the undulating green and, just as he’d been told, threw his coin down behind his ball. After then plucking it up off the dry, sand-speckled putting surface, Mustang tossed his ball disinterestedly off to Ray – who’d reemerged from the bunker in the interim – before promptly clearing the stage for Fletcher; after all, his was the only putt those spectators surrounding the green really cared about anyway.
And, admittedly, that was deservedly so.
Because with scoring conditions having proven to be, easily, the most difficult of the tournament so far – regardless of how he felt about him as a person – even Mustang had to admit that the round he’d been watching Fletcher put together had been seriously impressive.
In breezy, firm conditions – in short, a true test of links golf – Fletcher’s performance across the first twelve holes at Royal St. George’s had been something more akin to what you’d expect to see from a seasoned top-10 player in the world, as opposed to that of a 19-year-old who’d yet to officially turn professional. The way he’d navigated his way so assuredly around the course. How he’d known when to attack and when to back off – which, given how tough the course had been playing, was pretty much most of the time. The way that, on those rare occasions where he had made an error, he didn’t compound those mistakes by going for some low percentage, miracle shot; opting, instead, to just play it safe and take his medicine accordingly.
It was an exhibition of golf that, though not littered with the birdies and eagles your casual golf fan would be excited or impressed by, it was most certainly one appreciated by both Mustang and those purists in the heaving galleries outside the ropes that had descended on the course with the freedom of the weekend.
Or, to put it another way, it was a showing that had been the exact opposite to the one Mustang had put together.
Because right from the off? His had been an utter disaster.
After opening with a double-bogey following his calamitous tee-shot off the 1st, things only proceeded to further unravel for Mustang as he followed that up with two more bogeys at 2 and 3 to leave himself a hefty +4 after the first three holes, and a whole four shots back of Fletcher, who’d opened with a steady trio of pars to remain -6. Though managing, by some miracle, to then stem the bleeding in the holes thereafter by notching up pars on holes 4 thru 8, Mustang’s play had been ‘scrappy’ at best. Missed fairways. Missed greens. Relying massively on his short game and putter to bail himself out of situations where, had the ‘Golfing Gods’ got their way, he should have been marking down yet more bogeys on his card. Put simply, it was the kind of play that wouldn’t be making it into any of the networks’ highlights packages come the end of the day, that was for certain.
And when Mustang finally did find his first fairway of the day? At the short par-4 9th after switching out his driver for his 3-wood? Those same ‘Golfing Gods’ would be denied no longer as an attempted fade with a pitching wedge that never actually faded, and, instead, wound up in one of the devilishly tricky greenside bunkers, saw Mustang round out his front-9 with another bogey to head to the turn +5 for his round, -1 overall, and now an eye-watering six shots back of Fletcher, who’d, incidentally, birdied the 9th to move to -7.
Naturally, Ray had attempted to rouse Mustang’s spirits on the walk from the 9th green to the 10th tee-box; telling him to treat the back-9 as a ‘fresh start’ and to pretend they were starting from level-par again. And whilst that was, indeed, good advice to take into the second half of the course, another bogey at 10 – one that saw him slip all the way back to where he’d started the week on even par – quickly put paid to its chances of working for Mustang.
When a fortuitous chip-in from the back of the green saw him, mercifully, save par at 11, however, Mustang – who’d been feeling ever-so-slightly pumped after drawing his first real cheer of the day – had begun to think to himself that if he could just somehow snag a couple of birdies between there and 18; get into the clubhouse on -2 (possibly even -3 if he could swing it), then he’d still have a chance, however slim, of catching Fletcher on Sunday; provided, of course, Fletcher didn’t stretch his lead any further beyond that of the -7 he was still on at that point following a rather muted, two-par run through 10 and 11.
And after hitting his first real decent drive of the day down 12 – a fade he’d bent perfectly around the dogleg and into the very heart of the fairway – Mustang, who’d watched Fletcher find the first of cut rough with his tee-shot just a few short moments before him, had begun to feel as though he might just be able to pull off his plan after all.
One hooked wedge later into the bunker he’d just escaped from, however, and that had been the final nail in the coffin for what little resolve Mustang had left to try and turn his fortunes around; the tentative beginnings of any ‘would be’ comeback decidedly snuffed out. And it wasn’t a nice feeling. Because to be where he was now? Standing off to the side of the 12th green? +6 for his round? Staring down the barrel of yet another testing putt for par, and watching Fletcher just seconds away from pulling the trigger on a birdie putt to get to -8 following his dart of an approach shot that, rough or no rough, he’d fired straight at the pin? If it had been the ending to one of those nightmares you have just before jolting awake, Mustang would have thought his subconscious was laying on the misery just a little bit thick for it to be truly realistic.
Yet, it was real. This was actually happening. In just twelve holes, Mustang’s hopes of beating Fletcher to the Silver Medal had gone up in flames. And even though it would be far more preferable to be able to stand there and blame Fletcher for his woes, Mustang knew that as much it pained him to admit it, the buck stopped with him, and him alone.
This was his mess.
He hadn’t performed to the required level, and now there was nothing left to do but watch someone who was.
Rocking his shoulders back and through with his, as always, silky-looking putting stroke, Fletcher’s ball popped off the face of his putter and began to cover the 10-feet he’d left himself so deftly to the hole; causing a swell of excitement, right on cue, to begin coursing through the crowd gathered in the small grandstand off to the left-hand side of the hole. Because they’d seen the scores Fletcher and Mustang were on as they’d approached the green, the information flashing up on the large screen near the grandstand, so they knew well where they both stood in the overall context of the tournament. And whilst Mustang had slipped well out of contention – both in the race for the Silver Medal and, most definitely, that for the Claret Jug – the crowd knew that if Fletcher could, indeed, get to -8, then he’d be in a tie for 2nd-place alongside Jordan Spieth, and just three back of the leader in Louis Oosthuizen.
So, they waited with bated breath to see if he could do exactly that.
Shifting closer and closer to the edge of their seats as Fletcher’s ball did likewise to the hole.
Hoping that he’d give them the opportunity to send another roar carrying on the breeze across the sun-soaked links.
And ever the showman … Fletcher duly obliged.
Erupting in one of those quintessentially ‘British-sounding’ roars you only ever hear at the Open, Fletcher punctuated his own delight at seeing his ball drop deadweight into the hole with a firm fist-pump that saw the veins on his right arm strain against his perennially tanned skin.
His perfect round had gotten even better – which, in turn, meant Mustang’s had gotten just that little bit worse.
“Ok, kid, here we go …” said Ray, his normal speaking voice just about audible over the sound of the crowd as he moved towards Mustang after relieving Fletcher’s caddie of the pin. “Give me full concentration on this one, alright?”
Whilst able to appreciate that he was merely doing his job by attempting to get him to keep fighting, Mustang, at that moment, wasn’t sure if he and Ray were seeing the same scene that was currently playing out right in front of them. Because after confidently retrieving his ball from the hole, Fletcher was now brazenly acknowledging the crowd as he moved across the green, lapping up every second of their applause that had yet to show signs of petering out. For all intents and purposes, it was as though he had already won the Silver Medal, and this was merely his coronation ceremony – just a day earlier than expected.
But as Mustang watched all this happening, whilst he knew he should probably be feeling annoyed or angered by the presumptuous manner in which Fletcher and the crowd were behaving … he just didn’t. Because why shouldn’t Fletcher and those people surrounding the green – some of whom, in the grandstand, had actually taken to their feet in order to applaud him – think that the engraver may as well get a jump on his work the following day by just etching his name onto the Silver Medal right this second and be done with it?
He was 8 shots clear of Mustang, soon to be possibly 9, with six more holes to play before the final round even began.
It was done.
Over.
Yet, with all that going on, Ray wanted Mustang to try and put his utmost concentration into a 6-footer for par to stay +6? A putt that even the crowd themselves had forgotten he still needed to take? Truthfully, Mustang just didn’t know if he had it in him to care enough anymore to give Ray the effort he was looking for.
“Look, kid, I know we’re in a bad spot,” said Ray, able to tell from the expression on Mustang’s face that he was all but ready to throw in the towel – especially with Fletcher nigh-on doing a lap of honour around the green behind them. “Hell, even worse than what we were back at the 9th. But what I said back then? That still holds true – even now. We’re not outta this. Not yet. I know that might be hard to see right now, but we aren’t. And you wanna know how I know that? Look at the tower over there and tell me what number you see written on it.”
Knowing that Ray was referring, of course, to the sentry-like camera tower standing tall at the rear of the green – the same one he’d use as his target for his ill-fated second shot just a few minutes previously – Mustang, as instructed, turned his head and looked at it, taking in the sight of the fearless gentleman perched on top of it who was manning the camera there in the process.
“12 …” Mustang answered, reading aloud the number that had been printed on the navy-coloured tarp wrapped around the platform at the very top of the tower in large, white font.
“Exactly,” said Ray, now crouching slightly down so as to be better able to look Mustang in the eye. “Which means this ain’t the 18th. And if there was a calendar up there as well, it’d be saying that it sure as hell ain’t Sunday either. So, by my calculations, that means there’s twenty-four holes left to go before this race is run, kid – twenty-four. That’s two dozen chances at picking up, at minimum, twenty-four shots. So, yeah, right now? It’s a hard climb back to catch Fletcher – I ain’t gonna argue that. But it only becomes impossible if you quit.”
Despite knowing, deep down, that everything Ray had just said was completely true, and despite wanting to believe that he still had a chance at reeling Fletcher in, Mustang just couldn’t quite seem to make himself see past the sheer scale of actually trying to do that.
“Yeah, but he’s so far ahead, Ray …” said Mustang, unable to help himself from stealing a glance in Fletcher’s direction as his adoring public began to quieten back down. He was just coming to a stop alongside his caddie and still looked just as amped up following his successful birdie putt. Mustang missed that feeling. “I mean, how do I even start to claw back a lead that big?”
“Well, let me answer that with a question of my own,” replied Ray confidently. “You ever heard that sayin’ ‘bout how to eat an elephant?”
“Yeah …” answered Mustang, immediately catching on to where Ray was going with this. “One bite at a time.”
“That’s right,” said Ray. “So, you wanna know how to cut into a lead this big?”
With that, he reached into the pocket of his bib and pulled out Mustang’s ball. He then opened Mustang’s hand out in front of him, placed the ball right in the middle of his palm, before closing his fingers tightly around it.
“One shot at a time, kid …” said Ray, clapping his hand onto Mustang’s shoulder. “Simple as that.”
After taking a second or two to stare intently down at his hand, feeling the dimples of his ball pressing hard against his palm, Mustang lifted his head and looked up at Ray. “One shot at a time …” he said, repeating what Ray just had, word for word. “Ok … I’ll try.”
“At a boy,” replied Ray, a warm, encouraging smile now lighting up his face as he winked encouragingly at Mustang.
With a renewed – though, undoubtedly, fragile – sense of purpose, Mustang set off walking back across the green to where he’d left his coin on the putting surface. Having then gone through the process of carefully replacing his ball back down onto the green, a now fully concentrated Mustang picked up his coin, stood back up, and slipped it into his pocket before taking his customary few steps back to go about getting a read on what his putt was actually going to do.
Despite the fact he was clearly after beginning his pre-shot routine, however, Mustang could still hear sections of the crowd chattering amongst one another, as if oblivious – or just downright apathetic – to the fact that he still had to finish out. Noticing this as well, though, a disgruntled-sounding Ray took immediate action. “QUIET, PLEASE!” he bellowed, sending his voice echoing firmly around the confines of the 12th green.
Realizing that they’d fallen asleep at the wheel in light of hearing Ray trying to quieten the crowd himself, the stewards surrounding the green – having now been jarred awake into remembering what they were supposed to be doing – quickly raised their paddles high up over their heads to signal for silence from the crowd.
And it worked.
As much as he appreciated everyone’s efforts in bringing those few isolated ‘chatters’ to heel, however, as Mustang stood back up from where he’d been down on his haunches and stepped in behind his ball – the read he’d been looking for now firmly locked into his mind – he couldn’t help but feel as though he were under a little bit more pressure to actually make the putt now that he knew the entire crowd was watching him do it.
Yet, right at that moment, even if it was only a par putt to see him stay at even par, that flame of competition deep inside Mustang – the very one that had been doused with water somewhere back around the 10th-hole, before then being partially rekindled by Ray – suddenly, made its voice heard. And it was saying that it couldn’t bear the idea of him missing this putt.
Because he’d already missed five par putts too many as is today.
And there was no way he could allow that to become an even half dozen.
Not in front of all these people.
And definitely not in front of Fletcher. Not again.
He refused to.
So, after taking one more glance at the hole to check that his read was still correct, Mustang dropped his eyes determinedly back down over his ball.
“One shot at a time …” he whispered.
With nothing left to do but pull the trigger, Mustang rocked his shoulders and hit the putt. Though not accompanied by the same swell of excitement from the crowd that had escorted Fletcher’s ball en route to the hole, Mustang could care less as he turned to see how his was looking as it attempted to navigate its way towards the bottom of the cup.
Any concerns he had were quickly allayed as soon as he saw the line his ball was rolling on, however, because it was evidently clear that it was destined for one place and one place alone, and that was four inches below the surface of the green.
Sure enough, little under a second later, Mustang’s ball – exactly as he’d foreseen – dove over the edge of the hole and disappeared into the cup below. Understandably, though not drawing the same excited roar from the crowd like that which Fletcher’s birdie had, that didn’t stop Mustang from affording himself the smallest of fist-pumps for securing his par. Because whilst it might not have seemed like much to the crowd – given the polite, if not slightly subdued, round of applause with which they’d saluted it – that par-save, even if it was just to stay +6 for his round, felt oddly ‘big’ for Mustang. Was it because of Ray’s pep talk? Maybe. He wasn’t sure. All he did know for certain is that he was feeling the best he had done since teeing-off a few hours previously, and he didn’t intend on letting that feeling go.
With Mustang having officially tidied up for par, some pockets of the crowd surrounding the green – given they were now free to ‘roam about the cabin’, as it were – took that as their window to disperse and begin moving off in the direction of another hole; whilst those sitting in the grandstand, seeing the next group were now just walking down the fairway off in the distance, simply took it as an opportunity to stand up and quickly stretch their legs. It was a tough gig being a golf fan.
“Way to go, kid,” smiled Ray, popping the flag back into the cup now that Mustang had retrieved his ball from the hole. “How ya feelin’?”
“Really good, actually,” replied Mustang, sounding a touch surprised as he handed his putter off to Ray. “I mean, I know that was just for par, but I dunno … it just felt like …”
“A fresh start?” suggested Ray, as the pair of them now took to walking towards the exit of the green.
“Maybe, yeah,” replied Mustang, agreeably, just as they reached the spot where Ray had left his bag lying in the rough. “Whatever it is, though, I need to start turning it into some birdies – and a lot of ‘em.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that, the birdies will come,” said Ray, sounding reassuringly convincing as he pulled Mustang’s bag back up into a standing position. “Plus, you’re forgettin’ one very important thing: however good Fletcher might be playin’ right now? And however ‘mentally tough’ he might appear? The deeper this thing goes, and the closer he gets to possibly gettin’ his hands on that Silver Medal, I guarantee you he’s gonna start feelin’ the pressure. And when he does? That’s when he’ll start makin’ mistakes. So, if we can just straight-up catch him by shootin’ the lights out? Great. But, realistically, we just need to get close enough to capitalize on those mistakes when they come – and they will come, kid.”
With that, Ray yanked the headcover off of Mustang’s driver, before then pulling the driver itself sharply out of his bag. “Though, speakin’ of mistakes …” he said, a wry smile now on his face as he briskly handed the driver off to Mustang. “You run ahead to the tee-box and make sure we don’t get put on the clock with all this yappin’ we’ve been doin’, alright?!”
“Why do I have to do the running?!” joked Mustang, now feeling good enough to have a little fun with Ray. “Shouldn’t that be something the caddie does?!”
“If you were actually payin’ me, then, maybe, yeah,” quipped Ray, now picking up the bag and slinging it stiffly over his shoulder. “But you’re not – so, hop to it, kid.”
With a rueful shake of his head, a smiling Mustang turned heel and set off jogging down the roped-off, grass path that marked the route to the 13th tee-box.
After getting about halfway down the path, itself cutting a winding route through the dunes that separated the 12th green and 13th tee, Mustang reached one of the few ‘blindspots’ on the course that Rodney had pointed out during one of their practice rounds at the beginning of the week. These were those precious areas around Royal St. George’s where, one, no spectators were allowed to get near, but, most importantly, where no nosy cameras – not even those in any nearby towers – were able to see.
Whilst the layout of the course, generally, dictated where these blindspots wound up being – for instance, efforts on behalf of the course management team and the R&A to prevent any undue damage being done to certain sections of dunes – in the case of the one between the 12th green and 13th tee-box, however, the reason was primarily just down to the fact that there was nothing but a small block of port-a-johns housed there that had been designated, solely, for the use of the players and their caddies; which, naturally, wasn’t a view those people watching in person nor those watching at home would be necessarily clambering to see.
What this part of the path was also useful for, though, was that it afforded you the perfect vantage point of the beginning to the 13th fairway; and having caught a glimpse of the group in front of them only now just reaching that section of the fairway after coming to the end of the deceptively long grass path which ran on a direct course from the tee-box right the way through a large area of rough that separated the two, Mustang, now recognizing that he had plenty of time to actually reach the next tee, quickly – and gratefully – brought his impromptu afternoon jog to a stop.
Now blessed with the gift of time, and with the sight of the port-a-johns making him realize that it probably wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to make a quick pit stop before wrestling with the notoriously difficult trio of holes he had waiting for him from 13 thru 15, Mustang began to walk towards the one closest to him. Just as he reached out and grabbed the plastic handle on the door, however – the patches of hard, exposed earth beneath his feet denoting just how much traffic this section of the course had seen over the week – the sound of the toilet flushing in the john two down from his, quickly followed by the door opening abruptly back, made Mustang stop what he was doing and check to see who’d had the same idea as he did.
When he saw who it actually was, however, he immediately regretted his decision.
“Well, hey there, partner!” crowed Fletcher, using the anonymity of where they were to flash that irritating grin of his for the first time that day. It must have been the challenge of a lifetime to suppress his urge to gloat for this long – and, especially so, given how their respective rounds had transpired so differently. So, now? He felt he deserved a treat. “Fancy runnin’ into you here, huh?!”
“Yep, pretty crazy …” replied Mustang, deciding it best to swallow the sarcastic retort that had popped into his head for the sake of not engaging with Fletcher, which, as he could tell from the tone in his voice, was exactly what he was gunning for. “Anyway, better get to it …”
Pulling open the door of the port-a-john, Mustang was immediately greeted with the dizzying stink of industrial-level disinfectant billowing out and immediately launching a stinging attack on his nostrils. Just before he could step inside, however, that’s when Fletcher, of course, decided to pipe up – he wasn’t going to let Mustang away that easy.
“Hey, nice job with that putt back there,” he said, trying his utmost to sound only marginally patronizing. “That part of the green can be pretty tricky.”
At that exact moment, Mustang very quickly came to the conclusion that, after the day he’d had, he really wasn’t in the mood for dealing with Fletcher’s schtick. Not here. Not now. Because he knew he wanted to play their usual game of ‘cat & mouse’ to, undoubtedly, build towards making fun of the fact that he was so far ahead of him on the leaderboard – but, frankly, Mustang was over it.
So, he was going to tell him as much.
“Look, man, we both need to get to the 13th, so, can you just do us both a favour, spare the boring bull crap, and just say whatever it is you’re gonna say?” sighed Mustang disinterestedly. “Cause, look, there are no cameras here. No one around to ‘blow your cover’. Everything’s just the way you like it. So, either just get on with it? Or let me take a leak – one or the other.”
No sooner had the final word fallen from his mouth but Mustang could tell Fletcher had most certainly not appreciated being spoken to in such a manner – in fact, he’d despised it. The grin disappeared. His brow furrowed. And as quickly as a cloud blocking out the sun, his face darkened. Because nobody dared speak to Fletcher like that. Nobody. They either weren’t brave enough … or not dumb enough.
“Well, those are some … mighty big words, Oscar,” growled Fletcher, now prowling slowly towards Mustang as he wrenched the corners of his mouth up into that shark-like smile of his he only ever called into action when trying to mask just how angry he truly was. “What I’m eager to know, though … is whether or not you’re man enough to actually back ‘em up?”
“Back ‘em up?” sneered Mustang, fearlessly repeating Fletcher’s words back to him. “Why? You gonna fight me or something?”
Having come to a stop right in front of him – imposing his superior height over him, as usual – Fletcher suddenly snapped out his hand and grabbed Mustang roughly by the collar of his shirt. “Well, that depends solely on you …” he snarled. “You gonna apologize to me? Or am I gonna have to put you back in your place like the piece of no-good, white trash you are?”
Had he found himself in this exact position a couple of months ago, Mustang was sure that he may well have felt the intimidation Fletcher was, clearly, attempting to instill in him. But as he stared up at him now, looking deep into those ice-blue eyes of his that were glaring angrily down at him, Mustang didn’t feel anything close to that – not even remotely.
Instead, the only thing he felt was … relaxed.
Because he’d just realized something incredibly important – seismic, even.
“Wow …” he smiled, speaking as though he were caught right in the middle of an enlightening moment of pure clarity. “Ray was right …”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?!” snapped Fletcher, the expression on his face now flickering worryingly between anger and confusion. This wasn’t going how he’d envisioned. Not at all. “Right about what?!”
“The pressure …” answered Mustang, his smile only getting wider. “Of trying to win the Silver Medal. It’s already getting to you, isn’t it?”
“Are you kiddin’ me?!” spat Fletcher, his indignance at Mustang’s answer coming across as a little forced. “First of all, there’s the fact that Fletcher Rhodes does not feel pressure – that’s ironclad. And, secondly – hypothetically speakin’ – why the hell would I be feelin’ any pressure whatsoever ‘bout winnin’ when my only competition is eight shots behind me?!”
“You wouldn’t be …” replied Mustang, still appearing eerily calm despite the fact Fletcher’s grip on his shirt hadn’t shown any signs of waning. “Unless, of course … you were still afraid of that same competition.”
Fletcher’s jaw set firmly as he tried to conceal the faint look of concern that had ever so briefly flashed across his face – but it was too late. Mustang had seen it. The slightly widened eyes. The flare of his nostrils. It was a rare slip from Fletcher.
But sometimes that’s all it takes.
“I mean, I’d figured you were someway afraid of me when you did everything you possibly could to make sure I wouldn’t be a problem at Augusta and Torrey,” continued Mustang, now only getting braver as he jumped on Fletcher’s hesitancy like a lion on a wounded gazelle. “But seeing you now? It’s even worse than what I imagined. I mean, look at you: eight shots clear, and yet here you are still tryna’ intimidate me. Is eight shots not enough or something? Would nine make you feel better? Ten, maybe?”
Having heard enough, Fletcher quickly let go of Mustang’s shirt.
“Alright, well, uh … clearly, you’ve lost your damn mind if you actually think any of that is true …” he sniffed, trying to make out like he hadn’t just been completely rumbled by Mustang, but the fluster seeping through in his voice was severely undermining his efforts. “So, uh … I’m just gonna go right on ahead and get back to whoopin’ you up and down this course the ole’ fashioned way – so, just try to keep up, yeah?”
With that, Fletcher walked briskly past Mustang; this time around, though, bumping hard into his shoulder as he moved.
“Fletcher?”
After only managing to get but a handful of steps away from him, a disgruntled Fletcher turned reluctantly back around to see what it was that Mustang wanted. “What is it now, loser?” he hissed impatiently. “Like you said yourself: I got places to be.”
Having remained looking off in the opposite direction as he’d called him back, Mustang now slowly turned so that he was looking directly at Fletcher, locking eyes with him. “You’re right to be afraid …” he warned, his voice solid as a rock. “Cause I am comin’ for ya.”
Despite trying his best, yet again, to appear unfazed by slapping a look across his face that was equal parts contempt and disinterest, Mustang could tell as Fletcher turned back around and set off marching in the direction of the tee-box that he’d gotten to him.
And this made Mustang incredibly happy.
With the sound of irons clanging together suddenly signalling his arrival, Mustang glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Ray walking hurriedly towards him from further back down the path.
“You alright, kid?” he asked, concernedly, as he watched Fletcher just disappear out of sight around a slight bend in the path ahead. “What was that about?”
“Nothing much …” replied a smiling Mustang, now turning to look at Ray as he, too, had taken to watching Fletcher walk away as well. “Just him making his first mistake is all.”
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