Having heard the required beep, Mustang yanked his keycard out of the lock, pulled down the handle, and opened back the door to his room.
“Holy cow!” he exclaimed, nearly tripping over his jaw as he walked hesitantly inside. “No way this is where I’m staying!”
But there was no mistake. A huge bed covered with pillows and crisp, white linens. A massive TV hung up on the wall. A private balcony with a view looking right out over the ocean, itself sparkling blue in the sunlight with white caps breaking intermittently across its surface. It was all for Mustang – except, in this instance, those things weren’t what he was focusing on.
Dotted all around the room, wherever his eyes seemed to fall, there was free stuff. In front of the door that connected Mustang’s room to Ray’s on the other side of the wall, there was a full-size staff bag emblazoned with a combination of the American Walker Cup crest and the stars and stripes, plus his name, ‘MUSTANG PEYTON’, embroidered on the very front of it in white thread. Covering nearly the entirety of the bedspread there were enough piles of neatly wrapped clothes to open a small store, not to mention the numerous new golf gloves, golf hats, and special Walker Cup headcovers littered in around them. And if all that wasn’t enough, placed on the comfortable-looking chaise longue just in front of the sliding doors that led out onto the balcony, there were four shoeboxes filled with, what could only be, four brand new pairs of golf shoes.
“No, this is definitely the right room, alright …” Ray confirmed, following Mustang in through the door and taking a quick mental inventory of the raft of extra stuff they were going to have to somehow fit into their luggage for the trip back home.
Having reached the bed, Mustang began taking a closer look at the piles of clothes, noting the various shades and combinations of red, white, and navy blue fabric the sweaters and golf shirts were made of. “I mean, look at all this,” he said, still struggling to believe that everything he was seeing could really be for him. “There must be five or six pairs of pants here!”
“Five or six?!” Ray replied, aghast, as he momentarily halted his examination of the brand new golf bag and looked over at Mustang. “Hell, I ain’t even got that many back home!”
Just as a smiling Mustang picked up one of the golf hats lying on the bed – a nice, deep navy blue one with the Walker Cup crest embroidered on the front – three sharp raps of knuckles on wood drew his attention towards the door.
“That better not be room service,” Ray warned, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he watched Mustang toss the hat back down onto the bed and make for the door.
“How could it possibly be room service?” replied Mustang, taking to walking backwards en route to the door in order to question Ray. “We’ve literally been together since we got off the plane.”
“Yeah, well … ok, that’s a fair point, I guess,” Ray answered begrudgingly, as he realized there was no arguing with Mustang’s response. “But, still, remember what I said about room service in the car?”
“No ordering any until we know we don’t have to pay for it,” said Mustang, exasperatedly rattling off the expected response.
“‘At a boy,” said Ray, happy to leave Mustang carry on with the job of answering the door now that he’d heard him parrot back the answer he’d been looking for.
With a rueful shake of his head and amused rolling of his eyes, Mustang took the final few steps needed across the luxuriously thick carpet covering the floor to reach the door and pulled it open. Where, normally, he’d have expected to see the face of whoever had knocked on the door standing outside, however, Mustang, instead, found himself staring straight into the barrel-like chest of Dallas Rugger.
“You can tell Ray to relax,” said Dallas, his deep baritone voice rolling smoothly out through the wry grin on his face as he looked down at Mustang from just below the lintel of the door. “Room service for the week is on me.”
“Mr. Rugg-…” said Mustang, before quickly catching himself. “I mean, uh … Dallas … hi, how are you?”
“Busy, but good,” replied Dallas. “How ‘bout you boys, though? How was the flight?”
“Oh, yeah, the flight was great!” Mustang answered, his tongue finally feeling as though it were catching up to his brain. “I mean, it was my first time on a plane, so, I don’t really have any bad flights to judge against it – but it seemed good to me!”
“And the room is alright?” Dallas asked, dipping his head down slightly and peeking inside. “No problems?”
“Problems?!” said Mustang, shocked that anyone could possibly find fault with a room like that which he was standing in. “God, no! It’s great!”
After continuing to look into the room for a second or two, mumbling approvingly but not actually saying any discernible words, Dallas finally looked down at Mustang. “So … do you mind if I come in?” he asked, sounding as though he’d grown tired of waiting for the invitation he’d been expecting to come.
“Oh! Yeah! I mean … no, of course not!” replied a stuttering Mustang, embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to invite his captain, of all people, inside sooner. “Come on in! Sorry!”
“Ha! Don’t worry ‘bout it, kid,” laughed Dallas, clapping Mustang reassuringly on the arm as he walked in through the door past him, ducking his head as he moved to avoid smacking it off the lintel.
After quickly closing the door behind him, Mustang – who was still quietly annoyed with himself – followed Dallas back into the room. As he and Ray engaged in the usual pleasantries and discussion about the various legs of their journey from Louisiana to Florida, however, Mustang couldn’t help but appreciate, once again, just how big Dallas really was. During their first encounter on the 18th fairway at the Creek, Mustang had, of course, wondered at Dallas’ height and just all-round ‘largeness’. But now that he was actually seeing him inside for the first time, it was as though Mustang was looking at him with fresh eyes all over again – because he looked even bigger than before. When he’d first walked into the room a few minutes previously, Mustang had marvelled at how much space there was, as it easily dwarfed his own bedroom back home in Marais des Voleurs. Yet, to now see Dallas standing inside the exact same room, arms folded and leaning against the polished wood desk facing the bed, he looked as though he’d stumbled into a child’s playhouse where everything was just a smidge too small for him.
“Ain’t that right, kid?” said Ray, suddenly throwing the conversational ball to Mustang from out of nowhere.
“Uh … sorry, what was that?” Mustang replied, taking said ball and firing it straight back to Ray for him to bail him out.
“I was just tellin’ Dallas how blown away you are with all this stuff?” Ray answered, prompting Mustang with a loose gesture in the direction of the clothes on the bed.
“Oh!” replied Mustang, grateful to be back on the same page as everybody. “Yeah, it’s crazy. Thank you so much.”
“No need to thank me,” said Dallas, nonchalantly waving off the idea. “As far as I’m concerned, halfway to playin’ good is lookin’ good; so, given there’s only so much I can do to try and make the former happen, I said I’d, at least, have the latter on lock for my boys.”
“Speakin’ of the boys,” said Ray, sliding the shoe boxes on the chaise longue out of the way so that he could sit down. “Is the rest of the team after arrivin’? Cause we saw Fletcher downstairs but didn’t spot anyone else.”
Before he answered, Dallas brought one of his shovel-sized hands up to his face and wearily rubbed his eyes. Having looked fine while standing outside in the hallway, now that he was seeing Dallas in the full light of day courtesy of the balcony doors, Mustang could tell that he was, indeed, bearing all the hallmarks of someone who, themselves, had admitted to being busy – because he looked exhausted. The bags under his faintly bloodshot eyes that, undoubtedly, were only going to get bigger as the week wore on. The dark circles under those same bags that betrayed the fact he, clearly, hadn’t gotten a solid night’s sleep in quite a few days. There even appeared to be one or two more wrinkles after carving their way into his once ageless-looking face since that first morning they’d met at the Creek.
As much as these signs showed how tired he was, though, the biggest takeaway Mustang was getting from them was just how much the upcoming week obviously meant to Dallas. He, of course, knew that he would be taking his role as being the U.S. Captain charged with stopping Desmond Finch seriously – how could he not? But for Mustang to see Dallas looking this tired and this stressed a full six days out from the opening tee-shot actually being struck down the 1st at Seminole, it just brought home for him how big a deal the Walker Cup really was; and reaffirmed for him how, if called upon, he would whatever he could to help win it back – both for the U.S. and for Dallas. Because he’d backed him to be his alternate, and, more than anything, Mustang wanted to repay that faith.
“We’re getting there,” Dallas answered, bringing his hand back down from his face and looking over at Ray. “I think of the nine other guys on the team, seven have arrived and are actually in the hotel. We’re just waiting on Conrad and Greyson to arrive in from California this afternoon, and then we’ll have a full deck – unlike our friends from across the pond who all arrived late last night on a plane chartered specially for the occasion by Desmond.”
Thanks to the research he’d done after the U.S. team had been announced, Mustang knew that the ‘Conrad’ and ‘Greyson’ Dallas had just mentioned were ones ‘Conrad Kennedy’ and ‘Greyson Ortega’, both of whom were pillars of the Stanford golf team; ironically, alongside Finn Hennessy and Maddox Breckon from ‘The Six’, their soon-to-be opponents for the week.
“So, that means Byron is here …” said Mustang, too busy thinking about the fact he was currently sharing the same recycled air as that of his oldest rival to find out more about the, admittedly, cool-sounding chartered plane that had ferried the Great Britain & Ireland team across the Atlantic to Florida.
Another wry grin lit up Dallas’ face. “Yeah, he and his old man arrived yesterday evening,” he confirmed. “And hey, look, I probably should have said this before now, but I know you and Byron have something of a … history, so, let me just make it clear that when you and I met at the Creek a few weeks back? The idea of me picking Byron for the team? Well, at that point, it was just that – an idea. Who got the final spot was down to between him and two other guys. So, I just don’t want you to think that I was deliberately keeping you in the dark or anything.”
“No, of course not,” said Mustang, eager to dispel any notion that his nose was somehow out of joint. “And, anyway, as far as I’m concerned, you’re the captain: whoever you choose to be on the team is your call to make and yours alone – you don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Mustang paused for a moment before saying what had just popped into his head, as he couldn’t quite believe that he was contemplating actually saying it out loud. “And for what it’s worth?” he continued, forcing himself to get the words out before the pause had a chance to become awkwardly long. “Whatever about how me and him get along … Byron is a great golfer – annoying, undoubtedly – but a killer nonetheless. So, if anyone has the stones to take on ‘The Six’ and come away with a point? It’s him.”
An impressed smile curled the corners of Dallas’ mouth. “Well, thank you, Mustang,” he said, his smile not losing any of its enthusiasm. “I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.”
Before he could say anything else, a message popped into Dallas’ phone, the sharply loud ringtone demanding his attention like a brattish child throwing a tantrum at a playground. “I was thinking it had been more than five minutes …” he sighed dryly, as he rooted his phone out of his pocket. After taking a second to read the message through heavily squinted eyes and by holding it a good arm’s length away from his face, an exasperated Dallas slid his phone back inside his pocket; clearly, yet another task had been added to his already busy schedule.
“Well, I’ve been summoned – again …” said Dallas, leaning tiredly away from the desk. “And here was me thinking laying out a ballroom was as straightforward a task as you could get – apparently, I was wrong.”
“You plannin’ a weddin’ reception on top of everythin’ else, Dallas?” Ray asked, cheekily. “I guess tryna’ win the Walker Cup just wasn’t enough work, huh?!”
Dallas let out a deep, bassy chuckle. “You know what? Going on what I’ve seen so far?” he said, a much-needed smile lighting up his face. “I think planning a wedding would actually be a walk in the park compared to being captain – and, bear in mind, that’s coming from a guy whose wife made him meet with not one, not two, but three different wedding planners when we were getting hitched!”
Ray and Mustang both laughed. From speaking with Beau, they’d learned that for as big a character as Dallas was, his wife, Simone Rugger, was every bit as larger-than-life as he was; so much so, in fact, that – according to Beau, at any rate – though Dallas towered over her diminutive 5-foot frame, Simone was, and always had been, the one in charge of their marriage. Whatever Simone said? That was the law. And for 40-plus years? Dallas had been happy to keep his nose clean.
“What’s happening in that ballroom is why I actually came up here in the first place, though …” said Dallas, returning to the business-at-hand as he expelled the final few chuckles from his system. “I’m throwing a special dinner tonight to celebrate the beginning of the week; you know, give all the players and caddies a chance to meet and just relax before we get down to work tomorrow. And the two of you are invited, obviously.”
“Yeah, cool!” said Mustang, feeling a heady mix of both nervous and excited at the prospect of his brand new evening plans. “That sounds great!”
“Yeah, should be good,” added Ray, sounding just as excited as Mustang had. “We’ll be there.”
“Glad to hear it,” smiled Dallas, taking a few small steps towards leaving. “Well, it’s in the Magnolia Room, drinks start at 7 for those of age …” He looked over at Mustang. “Sorry, kid …” he said, commiserating dryly, before continuing with the details. “And make sure you bring your appetites, ‘cause the food? Well, all I’ll say is, I handpicked the menu myself, and let me tell ya, man, it’s gonna blow your min-…”
Before he could finish his sentence appropriately praising the positively delectable food that was going to be served up later that evening, Dallas’ phone, much to his annoyance, began to ring. “And that’s my cue to leave …” he sighed, pulling his phone back out of his pocket once more and looking disinterestedly at the screen. “But I’ll see you, boys, later, alright?”
Sending him on his way with a matching pair of small waves, Mustang and Ray watched as Dallas marched purposefully towards the door of the room, answering his phone just as he pulled it open. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” he barked down the line, before the door closing in his wake muffled the rest of his conversation.
With the room now ‘Dallas free’ – and, once again, back to looking quite large – Mustang, feeling the need to take the weight off his feet, moved some of the clothes and hats out of the way, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Well, that settles it for me, anyway …” said Ray, his voice breaking the momentary void of silence that had followed Dallas’ abrupt departure.
“What does?” asked Mustang, confused as to what had drawn such a sudden and definitive-sounding statement out of Ray from, seemingly, thin air.
“If the USGA asks me to captain the Walker Cup team some day …” Ray explained, assuming a faux-contemplative tone as if he’d been sitting on the actual request for quite some time. “I think I’m gonna have to turn ‘em down – just too much work for my liking. What d’ya think?”
“Well, you know me, I’m not exactly one to make any rash decisions …” said Mustang, playing along with the joke before giving in to the sudden bout of tiredness he was feeling and flopping backwards onto the super comfortable bed. “So, I think I’m just gonna sleep on it for a while – like … a long while.”
Recognizing that Mustang was in dire need of some shut-eye, Ray stood up off the chaise longue and grabbed his bag. “Good idea, kid …” he smiled as he opened the door that led through to his adjoining room, hopes of finding an equally large and comfortable-looking bed there now to the forefront of his mind. “I think I’ll join ya.”
*
With his stomach still feeling as though it was about to burst in the best possible way courtesy of the, as advertised, ‘mind-blowing’ food that had been served at Dallas’ welcome dinner, a sluggish-feeling Mustang finished hanging up his dress shirt, tie, and slacks.
In one of the many emails Ray had received from Dallas’ team of vice-captains in the weeks leading up to them heading to Florida, one email, in particular, had stated the requirement for each player and caddie on the team to bring ‘formal clothing’ with them. When Jeanie had found out that the most ‘formal’ thing Mustang owned was his school uniform, however, she’d promptly gone shopping in New Malo and picked up the required clothes for him – as well as some for Ray. “Now, after you’ve worn these?” she’d said, her warning still as fresh in Mustang’s mind as that evening she’d rocked up to their house with an armful of bags. “Make sure you hang them, ok?” Of course, given Jeanie was currently all the way back in Marais des Voleurs, Mustang knew he could just as easily throw them over the back of the chaise longue and be done with it. But he liked Jeanie. And given she’d gone to the trouble of getting the stuff for him in the first place, the least he could do was take care of them.
Just as he hooked the hangar over the shiny, chrome bar running across the width of the wardrobe in his room, however, Mustang’s attention was drawn to the sound of his phone beginning to ring. Feeling a few flutters of panic in his stomach at the thought of who and why someone might be calling at this time of the night – what with it being just a few minutes past midnight – Mustang closed the doors of the wardrobe, walked briskly back over to his bed, and grabbed his phone. Upon seeing that it was just Donny looking to video call him, though, all feelings of panic quickly abated for Mustang and he answered the phone, silencing his ringtone that seemed obnoxiously loud at this late hour.
“Hey, man,” said Mustang, the faintest hint of relief colouring his voice as Donny’s face filled the screen of his phone.
“Hey, I’m not waking you up, am I?” Donny asked, sounding genuinely concerned that he’d perhaps roused Mustang from his sleep. “I know you’re an hour ahead, so I wasn’t sure if I should call or not.”
“Naw, you’re good,” said Mustang, reassuringly, as he climbed onto his bed and sat with his back up against the cushioned headboard. “I’m not long back from that dinner I was telling you about, so I’m just getting ready for bed now.”
“Aw, ok, cool,” said Donny, sounding noticeably more relaxed. “Cause that’s why I was calling, actually, I wanted to hear how it went – so, how was it?!”
Mustang could only smile. At Donny’s behest, Mustang had been sending him updates throughout the day about what he’d been doing; so, the flight down to Florida, the car ride to the hotel, what his room was like – Donny had seen it all, and it had served to only further build his excitement about the week ahead.
“Yeah, it was really good,” Mustang began, thinking back on the evening just gone. “The ballroom was really cool. The food was great. Oh, and they had these really nice things called ‘mocktails’ for the players who aren’t 21 yet – I ended up having, like, four of them and-…”
“Yeah, sorry – maybe I should have been a little clearer,” said a smiling Donny, cutting across Mustang before he could begin diving into the specifics of each mocktail he’d guzzled down with all the gusto of a dog lapping up water on a hot day. “When I asked ‘how was it?’, I meant, how was it meeting the rest of the team – I wasn’t looking for a detailed rundown on fancy drinks with little umbrellas in ‘em!”
“Alright, alright, I hear ya …” laughed Mustang, saving said ‘rundown’ of the mocktails for the next time he was talking to Jeanie – at least she’d appreciate it. “It was fine. I mean, we were all divided up between different tables, so the only people I really spoke to were the guys at my table.”
“And they were?!” Donny asked, impatient to hear the names of Mustang’s dinner companions. “Austin Andrade?! Axel Brogan?! Mason Sedgwick?! Oh! Wait! Don’t tell me you were sitting with Conrad Kennedy and Greyson Ortega, were ya?!”
Though Mustang felt as though his ‘golf knowledge’ had improved by leaps and bounds over the course of the summer, he knew that he was still languishing far behind that of Donny’s encyclopedia-like knowledge of all things golf-related. Whether it be the professional game or, as the past few weeks had shown, even the amateur game, there was nothing, seemingly, that Donny didn’t know. And how had Mustang come to learn this? Because from the moment they had become friendly enough for them to be talking freely about the Walker Cup, Donny had been acting almost like the unofficial biographer of the match by telling Mustang not only about every single member of the U.S. team, but the guys on the Great Britain & Ireland team as well.
Where each guy played their college golf? What tournaments had they won? What guys had the best chance of turning pro? What tours were each of those then planning on plying their trade on? Donny knew it all. In fact, if Mustang had been so inclined, he was pretty sure that if he’d wanted to know what each of his teammates ate for breakfast, Donny would have somehow come up with the answer for him.
“No, I wasn’t with any of them,” Mustang answered, seeing Donny’s enthusiasm deflate ever-so-slightly as he knew how much he admired Conrad and Greyson, given he, himself, had aspirations of going to Stanford just like them. “Austin, Axel, and Mason were with … uh … what’s the name of the guy who won the Mid-Am?”
“Miles Radford,” sighed Donny, amazed that Mustang still couldn’t remember Miles’ name even after spending the evening in the exact same room as him.
“Yeah, Miles,” continued Mustang, making a quick mental note of his name to make sure he didn’t forget it again. “And as for Conrad and Greyson? They were holed up with Fletcher and, surprise-surprise, Byron.”
“Cause, of course, he found a way to end up at their table,” said Donny, having heard enough about the infamous Byron from Mustang to share the same sense of irritation at his blatant attempt to get ‘in’ with the most influential members on the team. “Did he say anything to you?”
“That he did …” said Mustang, sarcastically teeing up his response. “I went over and said, ‘Hey, Byron, how are you?”, when he was ordering a drink; to which he then replied, ‘Get out of my face, Applejack, I’m busy’, before taking his glass of Diet Mountain Dew and walking off. So, a pretty good chat, all things considered.”
“Well, at least, he’s going to the trouble of actually calling you individual names of the ‘My Little Pony’ characters as opposed to just ‘My Little Pony’ like he used to before,” laughed Donny, his eyes continuing to flick back and forth from the screen of his phone and that of the video game he’d been playing since their video call started. “I mean, that’s progress, right?!”
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” said Mustang, faux-enthusiastically, as he readjusted his position on the bed. “I’d say give it ‘til Wednesday and we’ll be braiding each other friendship bracelets.”
Again, the image of a laughing Donny filled the vaguely smudged screen of Mustang’s phone. “So, going by the process of elimination,” he said, still quietly chuckling as he attempted to get their conversation – and his game – back on track. “I take it you were sitting with Blake Landor and Samson Hamada, then?”
“Yep,” replied Mustang. “They were quite cool, actually. I mean, we didn’t have much in common – given the two of them are, like, 20 and in college – but they seemed like nice dudes. Everyone did, really. To be honest, though, I’m just looking forward to getting out to Seminole tomorrow and actually seeing the course, you know? Cause it’s one thing reading about it and watching videos on it, but, at this stage, I just really want to get my spikes on the ground out there and actually play some golf.”
“No, yeah, for sure,” said Donny, dryly. “I mean, I can only imagine that the whole ‘staying in a 5-star hotel’ and ‘banquet dinners’ gets old real quick!”
Now it was Mustang’s turn to have his laughing face fill Donny’s screen.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Hearing three sharp raps of someone’s knuckles against the door of his room, Mustang’s laughter was quickly replaced with a puzzled expression. If he’d thought it peculiar to be getting a phone call just after midnight, the idea of having a literal visitor to his room only a few minutes later was just downright strange.
“Did someone knock on your door?” asked Donny, he, too, sporting a similarly confused expression as that currently on Mustang’s face.
“Yeah …” answered Mustang, looking off in the direction of the door. “It’s probably just Dallas. Or one of the vice-captains. Either way, though, I better go.”
“Yeah, no, man, sure,” said Donny, understandingly. “Duty calls. Just make sure and send me some pictures of Seminole, though, alright? I mean, they’ll only make me more jealous than what I already am, but what can ya do?!”
“Alright, man, will do,” smiled Mustang, throwing his legs back down over the side of his bed and standing up. “Talk to you tomorrow.”
With Donny signing off with his standard mini salute, Mustang hung up his phone and tossed it back down onto his bed before making for the door of his room.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
With a noticeable hint of impatience in those three knocks, Mustang called out as he quickened his pace towards the door, his bare feet digging deep into the plush carpet with each hurried step. “Yeah, I’m coming …” he said. “Hold on …”
Finally reaching it, Mustang grabbed the handle and opened the door. As soon as he did this, however, and the heavy metallic click indicated the latch had been released, the door was thrust violently back, throwing it open to the dimly-lit hallway outside. Stunned into inaction by what had just happened, Mustang tried to regroup and regain control of his senses – but whoever was outside the door had other plans.
Feeling, what felt like, several arms grab him roughly by his pyjama top, Mustang was yanked out through the door of his room. He tried to get a glimpse at who was behind what was happening, but between the disorientation at having his door thrown back and his hair falling down into his eyes, Mustang couldn’t see a thing. And that was only about to get worse. After getting a piece of duct tape slapped across his mouth, Mustang felt a bag of some description getting pulled down over his head, casting him into complete and utter darkness.
Before he knew it, Mustang was then being picked up by two people – one grabbing him by his legs, the other taking his arms.
Whoever “they” were, they then began to move briskly down the hallway; carting Mustang away with them like a kill after a successful hunt.
He tried to fight. To struggle against their grasp. But it was no use. Their grips were just too tight.
What was happening now was simple.
Black and white.
Wherever Mustang was being taken? He was going there … like it or not.
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