Having been the first to reach it, Ray pushed open the door of ‘Renée’s’ and held it for Mustang. After striding inside without so much as glancing at him, however, Mustang just marched straight past Ray and carried on moving in the direction of the restroom at the rear of the diner, his face still contorted in the same thunderous scowl he’d been sporting since lunchtime.
“You want the usual?” Ray asked, calling after Mustang, who was already halfway across the diner, such was the speed at which he was walking.
“Yeah, whatever …” he replied, disinterestedly, before pushing open the door of the restroom with a little more force than necessary and disappearing inside.
With their frosty interaction hard to miss given the diner wasn’t exactly packed with people, a curious-looking Jeanie walked out from behind the counter and approached Ray to investigate. “So … unless he’s, all of a sudden, taken a severe disliking to washing his hands …” she said, attempting to lighten the mood as a tired-looking Ray let the door of the diner swing closed behind him. “I’m guessing something happened at work today?”
“You can say that again …” sighed Ray, before taking a quick second to kiss Jeanie hello – a welcome reprieve after a long day.
“So, c’mon, tell me what happened,” said Jeanie, leading Ray over to his and Mustang’s usual booth.
“Ugh, it’s a long story …” groaned Ray, plopping himself wearily down into the booth before peeling off his cap and tossing it onto the table.
“Ok, then give me the short version,” replied Jeanie, sliding into the booth on the opposite side of the table.
Ray let out another sigh, this one, though, soaked with a little more exasperation than the previous one had been. “Alright …” he began, realizing that the sooner he started, the sooner he’d be finished. “You know that Fletcher kid? The one Mustang’s been havin’ all the problems with?”
“Yeah, the guy he hit,” replied Jeanie, the shadow of an anxious look crossing her face at hearing Fletcher’s name being mentioned.
“Well, Mustang figured out that the reason he’s been havin’ all those problems,” continued Ray. “Is down to the fact that Fletcher didn’t want him ruinin’ his chances at winnin’ this ‘Amateur Grand Slam’ he’s goin’ for.”
“And how’d he figure that out?” said Jeanie, her inquisitive nature seeing her unable to resist asking the question.
“I dunno, somethin’ about Donny lyin’ to Layla,” answered Ray, sounding as though he wasn’t quite sure how the two incidents were linked, and, moreover, eager to not get bogged down in the exact details either. “What matters, though, is that as soon as the kid did figure it out, he came up with this plan for how he can get back at Fletcher by stoppin’ him from winnin’ the Grand Slam next week at the Open.”
“Ok …” replied Jeanie, her limited golf knowledge preventing her from seeing why that sounded as problematic as Ray was making it out to be. “And that’s an issue because …?”
“Well, for one, the Open is played in the UK – so, there’s the whole logistics and costs involved with takin’ a trip like that,” Ray answered, laying out his argument in the exact same manner in which he’d done so with Mustang earlier that day. “Mainly, though, this is the Open we’re talkin’ about. Ok, the last Major of the year. Oldest one of ‘em all. And to actually get a spot in the field for it? You can’t just decide you wanna play in it, and then roll up to the clubhouse. Ok, players spend entire seasons – sometimes even multiple seasons – tryna’ earn a shot at winnin’ the Claret Jug.”
“Well, if anyone’s gonna understand that, it’s Oscar, right?” replied Jeanie, still not entirely sure what was causing the obvious tension between Mustang and Ray.
“No, he understands it, alright,” said Ray, again with a sigh. “The problem is how he wants to get around it.”
“Which is?” asked Jeanie.
Feeling his answer would be best accompanied with a visual aid, from out of the chest pocket on his shirt, Ray fished the business card Mustang had presented him with in the workshop. “Desmond Finch …” he said, as he slid the slick-looking – if slightly wrinkled – business card across the table to Jeanie. “He was captain of the Great Britain & Ireland team at the Walker Cup, and given his connections in the R&A – who run the Open – Mustang wants to see if he can get him a last-minute spot.”
“And why would this Desmond guy do that?” asked Jeanie, reading the card as the gold foil used for the font caught the lighting overhead and shimmered accordingly.
“Cause, as it turns out …” said Ray, beginning to sound ever-so-slightly annoyed. “On the last day of the Walker Cup – just before he went out to play Finn – Desmond gave that card to the kid.”
“Yeah, I was just gonna ask how the card fits into all this …” said Jeanie, now turning the card over in her hand and seeing the telephone number printed neatly on the back.
“Well, goin’ on what he told the kid, and what I then found myself online,” began Ray, popping his elbows up onto the table and beginning to idly pick at the calluses on the palm of his right hand – a sure sign that he was stressed. “This ‘Guild 79’ is some kind of fancy sports management agency in London that Desmond is involved with. And, apparently, he made the hard sell to Mustang about gettin’ him to sign with ‘em; sayin’ all this stuff ‘bout how he thought he was good enough to turn pro within the year.”
“Like … play golf for a living?” said Jeanie, the idea feeling ridiculous to even say out loud. “But he’s only just about to turn 16 – is that even allowed?!”
“Not over here …” answered Ray, appreciating that Jeanie seemed to be adopting the same outraged stance as he had when Mustang first told him all this at lunchtime. “Which is why Desmond was thinkin’ that the kid could play on the European Tour instead – can you believe that?! I mean, like I’m supposed to just uproot the kid and take him away for weeks at a time to go playin’ golf on the other side of the world? Away from his school? His friends? His grandfather?!”
“And I’m guessing you’re thinking that if you actually call this guy and ask him to help Mustang, he’s gonna want that in return,” said Jeanie, finally putting two and two together at what was troubling Ray.
“Pretty much, yeah – or somethin’ like it, at least …” sighed Ray, now taking to gently bending the already heavily curved bill of his cap in order to keep his itchy hands busy. “Cause I know dudes like Desmond Finch. And people like him? They never do anythin’ for nothin’. There’s always strings attached. Always. And I tried explainin’ that to the kid, but there was just no talkin’ to him.”
“Well, did you ever stop to think that the reason he acted like that is because he is a kid?” said Jeanie, smiling gently as if to soften the blow of telling Ray that this was on him to fix, not Mustang. “Like, don’t get me wrong, I completely understand where you’re coming from – you’re just trying to look out for Oscar.”
“Exactly! So, wh-…”
“But …” said Jeanie, cutting back across Ray as he had done to her – clearly, she hadn’t finished making her point yet. “When you’re about to turn 16? You don’t look at things like this the same way we do. You don’t see the potential pitfalls or spend your time worrying about what might happen.”
“Yeah, which is why he needs me to do that for him,” countered Ray. “And, anyway, weren’t you the one who told me that my main priority with the kid should be tryna’ give him as normal a life as possible, and not golf? I mean, that’s exactly what I’m tryna’ do here, Jeanie.”
“I know you are, and I know that’s what I said …” replied Jeanie, looking momentarily stumped at Ray using her own words against her so skilfully. “But …”
“But …?” said Ray, his impatience seeing him trying to prompt the end of Jeanie’s sentence out of her.
She let out a small sigh. “But maybe I was wrong …” she said, almost as if finally admitting a long-held belief that, up until now, she’d been reluctant to say out loud.
“What do you mean ‘wrong’?” asked Ray, his brow furrowing with worry. “Wrong about what?”
“About what constitutes as normal for Oscar,” replied Jeanie, lowering her voice on the off chance Mustang might somehow hear her from the restroom he’d still yet to emerge from. “Ok, ‘cause we can tell ourselves that he’s just another kid, and that he should do what every other kid is supposed to do. But what if ‘normal’ for Oscar is doing the extraordinary? For jumping headlong into situations that other people might see as a risk, but for someone like him they’re exactly where he’s supposed to be?”
Ray didn’t know what to say. From the very first moment he came across Mustang and saw what he could do with a golf club, he’d known that he was special – frankly, that was true for anyone who watched him play. And whilst he had done his very best to provide him with a ‘normal’ life – and, in fairness, seen him benefit from the stability of it over the past twelve and a bit months – there’d always been a niggling thought in the back of Ray’s mind where, with each passing tournament Mustang played in, he wondered just how long he could hold back the outside world from infiltrating the little bubble they’d created in Marais des Voleurs and making that same ‘normal life’ anything but. And to hear that someone like Desmond Finch had already put that very idea into Mustang’s head with all this talk of playing on the European Tour? Truthfully, it had spooked Ray. More than he’d like to admit.
“Look, ultimately, whatever decision you come to? I’ll support you – you know that,” said Jeanie, taking it upon herself to speak as it was obvious that Ray was feeling quite conflicted as to what he should do. “All I will say, though? Is that sometimes the best thing we can do for someone we care about is to push them to take a chance … no matter how much doing that might scare us.”
Deciding it best to leave him to his thoughts, Jeanie slid out of the booth and began to make a move towards returning to her post at the counter. Just as she approached where he was sitting, however, Ray spoke up. “So, does this mean you think I should talk to Desmond then?” he asked, sounding quietly desperate to just be told what to do.
Jeanie took Desmond’s business card and placed it down on the table in front of Ray. “I’m afraid only you can make that call, sweetie …” she said, before cupping her hand gently to the side of Ray’s face and turning it so that he was looking up at her. “But I’m sure you’ll make the right one.”
With that, Jeanie walked away from Ray, leaving him to mull over the unenviable decision he now had to make.
Call Desmond and see if he could get Mustang a spot in the Open to stop Fletcher; a decision that would, undoubtedly, see the Englishman wanting some form of commitment regarding Mustang’s future as a professional, even if Ray, at his core, still felt that he was still far too young for such a step.
Or, the alternative, to not call him and know that he’d be disappointing Mustang by taking away a gilt-edged opportunity to possibly hit Fletcher where he’d really feel it by stopping him from completing the Amateur Grand Slam on one of the biggest stages in golf.
It felt like an impossible choice.
Because no matter which way he went, Ray knew that, in the end, he’d be the one left holding the short end of the stick.
Damned if he did.
And damned if he didn’t.
Hearing Jeanie, suddenly, drawing Mustang into a conversation off behind where he was sitting – a move that seemed deliberate on her part to give him a chance to get himself together – Ray quickly snapped Desmond’s card up off the table and hid it, once again, back inside his chest pocket.
Choosing his poison could wait until later.
First, though, he was going to enjoy his dinner.
Or try to, at any rate.
*
Seeing that Mustang was now more than halfway back up the garden path, Donny’s dad gave a quick honk of the horn and slowly pulled their car away from the curb. After turning around and, very briefly, waving them off as their headlights disappeared into the night, Mustang returned to rooting his key out of his jeans.
Having initially turned down his offer of going to the movies with him and Indie when they’d been on the range that morning, after falling out with Ray over calling Desmond, Mustang had decided that getting out of the house for the evening would probably be for the best – and as he’d not only agreed to it, but given him twenty bucks as well to do just that, Ray had obviously felt similarly.
For the entirety of the drive back from New Malo, however, as Donny and his dad had somehow wound up lost in the throes of a heated debate over who would win in a fight between Batman and Ironman, Mustang had been sat in the backseat, lost entirely in his thoughts. He just couldn’t work out what Ray’s problem with calling Desmond was. He got that there was a chance he might want something in return for getting him a spot in the Open, perhaps something relating to what he’d said about wanting him to join ‘Guild 79’.
Mustang knew that. He wasn’t naive.
But even if Desmond did want something along those lines, as far as Mustang was concerned it seemed like a small price to pay for getting the chance to both play in the Open and stop Fletcher from claiming the ‘Amateur Grand Slam’ he was, clearly, so desperate to win.
As he stuck his key into the front door, though, Mustang really didn’t feel like sitting down and hashing things out with Ray, as he expected he’d want to. Not now. It was too late. And given he was feeling mentally exhausted as is, never mind physically tired after his day at the Creek, Mustang reckoned it wouldn’t do anybody any good to start talking about such an emotionally-charged subject at coming onto 11:30 at night. So, as he turned his key and heard the deadbolt slide out of the way, Mustang had every intention of just telling Ray he was back, but then immediately saying that he was going to go to bed. It would just be for the best.
As soon as he pushed the door open, however, Mustang’s plans were instantly hindered as he felt it clatter into something with a solid-sounding thud!
“Hang on!” said Ray, suddenly appearing in the hallway having heard the racket caused by the door.
After listening to him move what sounded like several items from just inside it, Mustang watched as Ray pulled the now unencumbered door fully open. “Sorry ‘bout that …” he said before quickly disappearing into the living room with the purposeful stride of someone who, obviously, had a lot on their plate.
Now on his own once again – and after closing the front door behind himself – Mustang could only look around in confusion as he took in the curious sight that lay before him. When he’d left the house earlier that evening after getting a text from Donny to say that he and his dad were outside, the hallway had looked as it always did, with a few jackets hanging on the coat stand, and some of his and Ray’s shoes neatly lined up underneath the console table. And whilst those jackets and shoes were, indeed, still there, they had now been joined by Ray’s large suitcase and two of his duffel bags in the interim.
“No way …” whispered Mustang, fighting hard to stop himself from believing that these new additions to the hallway could actually mean what he thought they did.
Needing answers – though feeling almost reluctant to move for fear of jinxing anything – Mustang navigated his way around the luggage and approached the living room.
No sooner had he walked through the door, however, then it became blatantly apparent that some packing hadn’t been the only activity Ray had gotten up to in the four or so hours Mustang had been at the movies.
The clubs from his bag were all neatly lined up against the far wall having obviously been thoroughly cleaned – grips and everything. His bag and shoes, too, had, clearly, seen the right end of some soap and water as well as they were also in the process of drying out. And in the very middle of the room, just in front of the T.V. that was quietly playing highlights from the second day of the John Deere Classic, there was a basket of Mustang’s laundry – fresh from the drier – just waiting to be loaded into his duffel bag that was sitting right alongside it.
“I’m guessin’ all this stuff still fits you, right?” asked Ray, examining a green polo shirt he was holding straight out in front of himself as if mentally sizing it up to see if Mustang’s rapidly stretching frame had outgrown it since March.
“Is that one of the shirts I got for the Masters?” Mustang asked, thinking it looked familiar.
“Yeah …” replied Ray, before quickly folding the shirt back up and dropping it down into the suitcase sitting at his feet. “Eh, I’m sure it’s fine.”
With Ray grabbing another shirt from the pile of golf gear next to him – some of which was still actually wrapped in the plastic they’d come in first day – Mustang couldn’t take the suspense a second longer. He needed to find out if all this was in aid of what he hoped it was.
“So, uh …” he began, stepping a little further into the living room. “Does all this mean what I think it means?”
“Well, if you mean did I call Desmond?” Ray answered, his face not giving anything away as he focused on folding another one of Mustang’s shirts. “Yeah … I did.”
“And?” said Mustang, still not wanting to jump the gun. “What did he say? What happened?”
Having finished folding the shirt he’d been working on, Ray, as he had with the green one, dropped it down into the suitcase and looked over at Mustang.
“You’re in,” he smiled.
“Seriously?!” said Mustang, eyes widening in disbelief as he felt the excitement he’d been successfully fending off since walking in through the front door finally begin to breach his defences. “I’m in?! I’m playing in the Open?!”
“Yes, you’re playin’ in the Open!” confirmed Ray, laughing at the fact Mustang didn’t believe him the first time around.
This time there was no containing his excitement for Mustang. His defences had fallen. And he couldn’t care less.
“YEEEEEEEEEAAAAAHHHHH!!!” he roared, as a torrent of adrenaline flooded his veins and saw him leap so far up into the air that he almost whacked his head clean off the ceiling.
“Mind your hand!” laughed Ray, jokingly scolding Mustang as his heart warmed at seeing how happy he was. “Don’t want to miss another Major, now do we?!”
“I can’t believe it …” said Mustang, now feeling quite short of breath as he rested his hands, instinctively, on top of his head and tried to wrap it around what had just happened. “What made you change your mind?”
“Just somethin’ Jeanie said – as per usual,” Ray answered with a wry grin.
“Well, whatever it was …” said Mustang, he, too, now smiling as his rapidly beating heart, still, showed no signs of suspending its ongoing escape attempt from inside his chest. “It must have been pretty good to get you to trust Desmond. Even then, though, I bet you were worried for nothing, right?”
“I wouldn’t say that exactly …” mused Ray, quietly lamenting the fact they’d wandered into the territory he’d hoped the overall excitement of the situation would distract from.
“Oh?” said Mustang, eyes now narrowing suspiciously. “So, he did want something in return for getting me into the Open?”
“Well, he’s a businessman, kid – so … yeah,” said Ray, trying to walk that fine line between being upfront and honest with Mustang without burdening him with too much in the way of information. “It’s ok, though. We went back and forth. Talked everythin’ out. And we ended up comin’ to an agreement that we’re both happy with.”
“And that is?” replied Mustang, feeling vastly more comfortable with the situation now that he could tell Ray seemed fine about how things had gone with Desmond.
“Well, I won’t bore ya with all the details,” said Ray, grabbing another shirt from the gear alongside him to set about folding it. “But the two main important ones are that, one, you’re now pre-signed, as Desmond put it, with ‘Guild 79’ – we’ll have to sign some other stuff once we get over there to make it official. And, two, should you make the cut at the Open, then come the fall, you’ll enter Q-School for the European Tour. Desmond had been pushin’ for you to try out regardless of where you finish, but I managed to talk him down to agreein’ that it only happens if you make the weekend. And the good thing about Q-School? As he told me? Is that it doesn’t affect your amateur status. So, let’s say you do end up tryna’ get through it and it doesn’t work out for whatever reason? Then you can go back to playin’ in amateur competitions, college golf, everythin’– no harm, no foul.”
“And if I end up going to Q-School and do actually qualify for the Tour?” asked Mustang, the prospect alone sending a jolt of excitement coursing through his body.
“Well, in that instance?” answered Ray, now standing up from the couch after dropping the shirt he’d been folding into the suitcase. “Desmond and I have agreed that should that happen, you would take up your card like anyone else would; I would accompany you as your caddie and legal guardian; but, most importantly, the Guild would cover the cost of hirin’ a private tutor to make sure you keep up with your schoolin’ – I called Fr. Breen beforehand and he said he’d help us square everythin’ away with the department to make sure your credits counted with the home-schoolin’. Oh, and in case you’re wonderin’: yes, I called your grandpa, ran all this by him, and he gave us his blessin’. I even got Desmond to agree that should Travis ever want to come across the pond and spend a few weeks out on the road with us? They’d cover the flights. Now, I tried to get him to pay for his hotels too, but that was pushin’ it a little too far. Still, though, it shouldn’t be too expen-…”
Before Ray could finish his point, Mustang quickly covered the ground between the two of them and hugged him. Though, admittedly, caught off guard by the fact he was now wrapped tightly around his midsection, a warm smile broke across Ray’s face as he squeezed Mustang back.
“Thank you …” said Mustang quietly, his voice slightly muffled on account of his head being pressed up against Ray’s chest.
“You’re welcome, kid,” Ray replied, any and all worries he might have had about calling Desmond – even those that, no doubt, would continue to linger long into the future – for one, blissful moment, melted away into nothingness.
Having had their moment, Mustang finally let go of Ray and took a step back. Before things could get too awkward in that always tricky ‘post-hug’ bubble where you haven’t said goodbye to someone, Ray quickly took the bull by the horns. “So, uh …” he said, coupling it with a loud clearing of his throat to further expel any remaining awkwardness. “Desmond’s arrangin’ for us to fly out tomorrow. He said he’ll get back to me tonight with the exact details, but chances are we’ll be havin’ a layover in New York tomorrow night, and then make for the UK first thing Sunday mornin’ – try to limit the jet lag as much as possible.”
“Ok, cool …” replied Mustang, appreciating Ray’s efforts to get things back to normal as he, too, cleared his throat. “So, what can I do to help?”
Unsure as to how best to answer that question, Ray looked around the living room and ran through the mental to-do list he’d been putting together throughout the course of what had turned out to be a pretty hectic evening.
“Uh … well, we’ll leave your clubs and everythin’ else dry out until the mornin’ …” he said, crossing that particular item off the list. “And I have your golf gear pretty much packed as is … but if you wanna maybe finish that off for me, and then make a start on packin’ some clothes to wear when you’re not at the course? That way I can get the rosters done for next week to make sure my shifts are covered while we’re away.”
“Yeah, sounds good to me,” replied Mustang, sounding eager to get started as he moved towards the couch and sat down next to the pile of remaining shirts and trousers that needed to be folded into the suitcase.
“Oh, and just to be clear …” added Ray, a thought suddenly occurring to him as he went about retrieving his laptop from where he’d left it on his armchair. “I know I kinda breezed through this whole ‘deal’ with Desmond and the Guild, but if you’ve any questions – and I mean any – just ask me, alright?”
“Well, I do have one question, actually …” said Mustang, his face, out of nowhere, setting in a very serious-looking expression.
“Yeah, sure,” replied Ray, instantly forgetting about his laptop and, instead, focusing all of his attention onto Mustang. “Fire away.”
“Ok, well, it is a pretty important one …” began Mustang, before the same serious expression yielded to a cheeky grin. “But who do you think wins in a fight: Batman or Ironman?”
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