If his first week at St. Nick’s had passed by without much in the way of excitement, Mustang’s second week roaming the halls of New Malo’s one and only Catholic junior high more than made up for it. After following up their ‘clear the air’ session on the range with, as promised, 18 balmy holes around the Creek, Mustang’s new life as a bona fide Pirate kicked off early Monday morning by catching the bus to New Malo with Donny and Indie, both of whom got on it a little ways outside Marais des Voleurs. Though he’d been worrying if things would be a little awkward between them – even after things had gone pretty decently the day before during their round at the Creek – Mustang’s concerns quickly vanished once he stepped on the bus as, before he’d even sat down on one of the chewing gum-encrusted seats near where they were sitting, Donny and Indie were excitedly quizzing on him if he’d seen the crazy end to the BMW Championship, what with Dustin Johnson and Jon Rahm putting on a clinic in how to make clutch putts when there’s a million-plus dollars up for grabs. And from the moment talking about that led to him telling them about the insanely long putt he’d made against Byron Ballas – and, of course, the ensuing frantic trawl through the internet to find the video of it on their phones – Mustang, Donny, and Indie became pretty much inseparable for the rest of the week.
Talking as they travelled between classes. Chatting at their lockers. Even risking life and limb by stealing a few whispered words during Mr Robbins’ history class. The three of them just clicked into place as if they’d been friends for years. Of course, a large portion of their initial conversations was taken up with Mustang recounting how exactly he came to be in Marais des Voleurs and everything that had happened to see him transform from ‘Oscar Peyton’ into ‘Mustang Peyton’. But once all that was out in the open – and after he confirmed for the thousandth time that, no, he didn’t get access to his share of the prize money from the Memorial Matchplay until he was older – Mustang, Indie, and Donny just settled into being like any other group of 15-year olds; meaning, they just hung out.
Where the three of them slightly differed from the other 15-year olds wandering around St. Nick’s, however, was how much they talked about golf – with their upcoming match against the Vermilion Bay Sharks being the main topic of conversation. In fact, such was their shared level of obsession with the Sharks impending visit to Jimmy’s Jungle the following Saturday, that the hour they had each day for lunch that week became solely dedicated to getting Mustang as up-to-speed as possible with everything he needed to know ahead of the weekend’s action. Where to aim off-the-tee on every hole. No-go areas on certain greens. What holes were prime birdie opportunities and which ones were the type where par was every bit as good as a birdie. Indie and Donny left no stone unturned in making sure there wasn’t a single blade of grass across the Jungle’s 18-holes that Mustang was going to be unfamiliar with when he eventually stepped beyond the 5th tee-box come Saturday. And once he got wind of what Donny and Indie had been trying to do, even Fr. Breen got in on the act of making sure Mustang was fully prepared to go toe-to-toe with the Sharks by pulling the three of them out of Homeroom on Friday morning to discuss tactics in his office.
“Now, the morning strokeplay session is always something of a lottery,” Fr. Breen explained from across his desk to Mustang as Indie and Donny took turns rolling putts along his practice mat. “I mean, with all six scores counting towards both teams’ total, it really just comes down to which side can keep blowout rounds off the cards.”
“That makes sense …” replied Mustang, popping open the collar of his shirt for a momentary reprieve from the strict St. Nick’s dress code. “But given we’re playing at the Jungle, ‘blowout rounds’ shouldn’t really be an issue, right?”
“Well, you’d think so …” Fr. Breen said, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, as he stole a glance in the direction of the practice mat. “But rounds can always get … ‘derailed’, shall we say.”
Knowing full well that he was referring to him, Donny paused in the middle of the stroke he was about to take and looked back across the office at Fr. Breen and Mustang. “Ok, do I have the odd blowout round in me?” he asked, dryly, as he set about defending his record in the strokeplay sessions. “Sure. But answer me this: of our five home games last season, how many blowout rounds did I have in the strokeplay?”
“Three,” answered Fr. Breen flatly, not seeing how that helped Donny as he recalled the exact number from the spreadsheet he religiously kept each season to track the performances of his Pirates.
“And what was it the season before that?” Donny asked, sounding as though he were on the cusp of revealing the entire crux of his point.
“It was four, right?” said a smiling Indie, brushing Donny out of the way so that she could take a putt.
“That it was,” confirmed Donny proudly. “Which means, by the laws of math, I’ll only be racking up two, max, this season.”
“Well, bar making me wonder what exactly Ms Tankard is teaching you in her math class that makes you think what you just said counts as ‘a law of math’ …” replied an amused Fr. Breen despairingly. “I’m just glad to hear you sounding so positive ahead of the new season, Donny. And who knows? Maybe you’ll only have just the one blowout round this season, or perhaps even none at all.”
“Woah, well … let’s not get carried away, Coach,” said Donny, moving quickly to dampen down expectations. “My swing still isn’t quite where I want it to be, so … let’s just pray for two, alright? And, given you’re a priest and all, I’ll leave that up to you.”
Eager to get himself out of the limelight, Donny quickly turned away to get back to rolling some putts, leaving Fr. Breen to just light-heartedly roll his eyes and shake his head. He’d become used to Donny’s ‘cowboy contractor’ routine to explain away his woes on the course; blaming his golf swing that seemed forever in a constant state of reconstruction, with no end in sight for the finished product ever actually materializing.
“So, as you can see …” continued Fr. Breen, shifting his focus back across the desk onto Mustang. “If we can come out of the strokeplay session on Saturday with half a point, I’ll be more than happy.”
“Gotcha,” said Mustang, smiling at seeing the wry grin on Fr. Breen’s face. “So, what about the foursomes in the afternoon? Are there set pairs who always go out with one another or do they change based on who you’re playing?”
“Well, I did try to implement something of a ‘rotating strategy’ last season,” replied Fr. Breen, now taking to leaning back in his chair as the sound of Indie draining another putt sounded out from across the office. “Wherein, like you said, I’d match up certain pairings that I thought would compliment each other nicely against each team we’d play in our conference. But after getting some ‘negative feedback’ following quite a heavy defeat to the Saint Mary Mariners in the opening match of the season, that particular strategy was put on ice.”
“Though, just so we’re clear?” said Indie, interjecting, as she flicked the ball she’d been using up into her hand with the putter she’d borrowed from Fr. Breen’s vast collection. “Cody was the only one complaining about the rotation after that match against the Mariners. He said it was because he thought it was a better idea for us to play with the same partner all the time because it would help build on-course chemistry …”
“Which was a fair point,” said Fr. Breen, jumping in quickly to defend Cody’s thought process.
“Yeah, if he’d actually meant it,” replied Indie, firing down Fr. Breen’s attempt at a rebuttal. “But we all know it was just because he was cranky you’d made him play with me instead of Layla.”
That was something Mustang had noticed throughout the week in talking to Indie. Whenever anything to do with Cody would come up in conversation, she was never shy in firing off some shots. It wasn’t in a malicious way – or, at least, that’s how Mustang saw it – but she clearly wasn’t as enamoured with the former leader of the Pirates as, say, Layla was.
“Yes, well, regardless of all that …” said Fr. Breen, his attempt to defuse the situation making Mustang call a halt to wondering whether or not something had gone down between Cody and Indie before he left the team. “For the rest of the season then, I just went back to our usual pairings of Logan and Ryan to lead us out; Donny and Indie here in the second slot; and then Cody and Layla as the anchors.”
“So, does this mean you’re thinking of putting me out with Layla against the Sharks?” Mustang asked, the prospect alone making his stomach clench into a knot.
“Well, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it,” Fr. Breen replied, sensing Mustang’s hesitation about the idea. “But, after a little more consideration, I think it’s best if we don’t push Layla too far too soon. So, because of that, I was thinking of putting you out in the first match with Ryan and having Logan partner with Layla? Though, if you’d be more comfortable heading out with one of these two …” He pointed loosely at Donny and Indie. “Then I’m sure one of them would happily head out with Ryan – though, for his sake, I’d recommend Indie … no offence, Donny.”
“None taken,” said Donny, throwing the words back behind him without taking his eyes off the putt he was in the process of hitting. He knew from past experience that while he and Ryan got along just fine, their on-course demeanours didn’t quite mesh all that well, with Donny preferring to joke around and talk quite a lot, while Ryan was … well, Ryan.
“Naw, there’s no need for that,” assured Mustang, watching as Donny’s putt just slipped by the target at the end of the mat. “Me and Ryan will be fine. To be honest, even if I were heading out with Layla, I’m just glad to be getting some real foursomes practice at all before heading to Seminole.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right! The Walker Cup!” said Fr. Breen excitedly, suddenly remembering Mustang’s other golf commitments. “I’ve been so preoccupied with getting everything ready for tomorrow, I completely forgot! When are you and Ray leaving?”
“We’re flying out Sunday afternoon,” Mustang answered, the mere act of talking about it enough to get him feeling the same mix of excitement and all-consuming nerves he’d been getting whenever he’d allow himself a brief second to think about what it was going to be like in Florida when Ray would get an email from Dallas or one of his vice-captains.
“I still can’t believe you get an entire week off school just to go playing golf,” said Indie, not trying, even in the slightest, to mask her jealousy.
“And at Seminole of all places too?!” added Donny, he, too, not attempting to hide the tinge of green he was feeling as he jumped on the back of Indie’s point. “You’re so lucky, man!”
“You two do remember that you missed the entire first week of school because you were both still on vacation, yes?” Fr. Breen pointed out dryly.
“Yeah, but I was visiting my grandparents in Korea,” explained Indie. “So, instead of playing golf every day, I was up at dawn milking cows on their farm – it’s hardly the same.”
“Yeah, exactly!” agreed Donny, enthusiastically supporting Indie. “I mean, I was visiting my grandparents too; so, it’s totally different to what Mustang is going to be doing.”
“Donny, I think you’re forgetting the fact that I know your grandparents live in Tampa,” said Fr. Breen, matter-of-factly. “And that their condo is on a golf course. So, you would have spent the entirety of last week playing golf … in Florida.”
Donny fell silent for a second as he contemplated how exactly to get himself out of the corner he’d, inadvertently, painted himself into.
“Yeah, well …” he began, desperately plucking at whatever straws he could get his hands on. “It wasn’t for America, though, now was it?!”
*
After making it through the rest of the school day as best he could – a day that was made to feel extra long on account of all the ‘clock watching’ he was doing – Mustang’s Friday afternoon, just like how every other afternoon that week had been, became all about preparing for Saturday’s match; meaning, once he’d got dropped off at the Creek by the school bus – leaving Indie and Donny to sit out another twenty minutes before their stop came around – he made his way up to the workshop, quickly changed into his golf gear, and headed out to the course. Given the afternoon wasn’t as hot as he’d expected it to be, Mustang had been tempted to try and squeeze in a full 18-holes, but after doing that on both Monday and Tuesday, Ray had stepped in and limited him to only 9-holes per day for the rest of the week; and with their trip to Seminole less than 48-hours away at that stage, Mustang wasn’t about to even possibly jeopardize it by going against Ray’s rep limit.
So, after playing the Creek’s back 9 – as he felt it gave him the nicest mix of holes that were faintly similar to what he’d be facing at Jimmy’s Jungle the following morning – Mustang, content with the -3 he’d clocked up for his efforts, ambled back up to the workshop where Ray was waiting for him and the pair of them headed home. Once he’d then given his clubs and shoes a clean after dinner – which, luckily, wound up being a lasagna Jeanie had dropped off and not one of Ray’s usual ‘Fridge Friday’ monstrosities where he cleaned out the refrigerator of everything that was about to go off and combined them into one Frankenstein of a dish – there was nothing left for Mustang to do but force himself into doing the homework he’d gotten that day, give the notes Indie and Donny had given him on the Jungle another quick once-over, and then grab an early night – after all, as Ray liked to say, ‘the most dangerous soldier is a well-rested one’.
And, so, because Mustang knew he’d done all that the day before, plus everything else he’d done throughout the week to get ready, as he and Ray drove to Copperhead Springs early Saturday morning – the clear blue sky and bright sunshine harbingers for the good weather that had been forecast – he didn’t feel in the slightest bit nervous. He knew he probably should feel some tingling of nerves rumbling around his stomach; after all, not only was it his very first match for the Pirates, but it also just so happened to be against the three-time defending champions of ‘The 66’ who hadn’t lost a single conference match in any of those title-winning seasons. Yet, as Ray pulled Maisie into the parking lot of the Jungle, as far as Mustang was concerned … none of that mattered. The three championships. The undefeated record. The fact they’d clearly arrived at the course in a swanky-looking private bus. None of it. Because as confident as Mustang was feeling about his game and the preparation he’d put in during the week, though the Sharks may have found it to be a happy hunting ground in the past, in his eyes, the Jungle had a new king they needed to dethrone. And he wasn’t about to give it up without a fight.
As he and Ray walked across the range, however – itself still looking like a set from some low-budget zombie movie – Mustang couldn’t help but notice that there was something “off” with the scene lying before him. He could see five of the six Sharks were already in the process of warming up ahead of the morning strokeplay session; their matching uniforms of blood-red golf shirts, black bottoms, and black shoes coordinating perfectly with the half-dozen red and black golf bags emblazoned with their team logo sitting alongside each of them. Just off behind them, a quartet of two men and two women wearing the exact same uniforms as the players – which told Mustang they were probably coaches – were all carefully studying iPads and having an in-depth conversation about the data being fed to them by the line of individual TrackMan monitors scrutinizing each and every swing the Sharks took. And then further off behind them again, milling around near the treeline at the rear of the range, a large group of parents and other supporters – all of whom were wearing some combination of red and black somewhere on their person – were casually chatting amongst each other and enjoying the shade being provided by the dense canopies of the Sugar Maples that made up said treeline.
“Well, so much for Sharks being solitary, huh?” quipped Ray, just as another band of red and black-clad Vermilion Bay supporters filtered in behind where he and Mustang were standing on the range.
“I know, right …” said Mustang, still trying to comprehend the strangeness of what he was seeing laid out before him. “All I’m wondering, though, is where Fr. Breen is? Nevermind everyone el–…”
“Excuse me, did you say you’re looking for Fr. Breen?”
Having sounded out before he could finish his thought, Mustang and Ray both turned around to take in the sight of whatever kid had just spoken to them.
“Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything,” said the kid once he had Mustang’s and Ray’s attention, his blood-red golf shirt and blacked-out bottoms betraying the fact he was the sixth and final Shark missing from the lineup. “I was just walking by and couldn’t help but overhear. You are looking for him, though, right? Fr. Breen?”
Having been momentarily stunned at finding himself, suddenly, face-to-face with a Shark, Mustang eventually managed to voice a response. “Uh, yeah … yeah, we are …” he mumbled before nervously clearing his throat. “I take it you’ve seen him?”
“Yeah, I just came from talking to him,” replied the kid, he, too, now taking to nervously brushing back his crop of jet black hair from over his noticeably bright green eyes. “He’s down in the clubhouse. Now, whether or not he’s still there, I dunno, but … well, it should be a good place to start.”
“Uh, yeah, cool …” said Mustang, still somewhat scrambling to act as though he’d spoken to another human being before. “I’ll go look there now. Thanks.”
“No problem,” smiled the kid, himself also looking to bring their conversation to an end as he gestured off down the range in the direction of where his fellow Sharks were still warming up. “Anyway, uh … I better get back to it.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” said Mustang, smiling politely and rattling off the obligatory motions one has to go through when looking to walk away from a stranger you’ve been speaking somewhat awkwardly to. “And, hey … good luck today.”
“Oh, yeah … thanks,” replied the kid, before pointing subtly at the golf bag slung over Mustang’s shoulder. “Uh, you too.”
After nodding his head to acknowledge what he’d said, Mustang watched as the kid turned and carried on walking down the range to join back up with his teammates and get on with his warm-up. Once he was sufficiently out of earshot, though, a quietly stunned Ray, still carefully tracking the kid as he walked away, said to Mustang. “Now, please feel free to tell me I’m wrong …” he began, hopeful that would actually be the case. “But was that really who I think it was?”
“Yep …” sighed Mustang, the ramifications this was going to have already weighing heavy on his mind. “That was Cody.”
GET THE FULL DIGITAL COPY OF THIS BOOK BY FOLLOWING THE LINK BELOW – THANK YOU:
https://mustangpeyton.bigcartel.com/product/mustang-ii-stormbreaker