PAR FOR CINDERELLA

by MCCARTY, PETIE

  “His drive landed even with the right-side fairway trap, which would be close to 275 yards,” Ian whispered, checking Frank’s yardage book.

  “Thank you,” Aidan said dryly. “Glad to know since I can’t see that far myself.”

  Ian winced. “Sorry.”

  Aidan teed up his own ball and took a few practice swings, then pulled his driver back low and slow.

  Thwack!

  His ball shot high in the air and landed around 300 yards away. The reason he knew that was because Frank had said the cluster of four slash pines along the fairway—into which his ball had just landed—was that distance from the tee. In the trees with his first shot.

  Damn.

  He glanced up to wide-eyed stares from Casey and Frank.

  Double damn.

  He turned and suffered Ian’s big-eyed stare as well.

  “I should have said hit the shite out of it . . . and make it straight,” the big Scot muttered under his breath, and Aidan tossed the driver at him.

  Luckily, Aidan had a clear shot at the pin from the cluster of trees in the rough. PJ’s second shot landed fifteen feet from the pin, and he fist-bumped his asshat caddy, Jimmy.

  Aidan ignored them, hit his second shot, and put a little spin on the sucker. That wonderfully talented ball struck twelve feet behind the hole and zipped backward nine feet to a perfect spot near the pin.

  The crowd roared.

  The mayor glared.

  The crowd quieted.

  PJ’s putt was away. He eyed the line and stroked his putt. The ball edged the hole and rolled another foot and a half past.

  Okay. This birdie putt will send me up by one stroke.

  He glanced at Ian.

  “Looks straight in,” the big Scot said.

  Aidan nodded, lined up his putt, and stroked straight through.

  And watched his ball come to a stop two inches to the left of the hole, pin high.

  A collective gasp erupted around the green. One man laughed delightedly—probably Bartow.

  Aidan could only stare. That was a bread-and-butter putt for him.

  “Sorry, Aidan,” Ian whispered.

  He met his friend’s gaze. “No, you were right. It was straight, and I pulled it,” he whispered back, amazed that he could miss a three-foot putt.

  “We’ll get them on next hole,” Ian encouraged.

  Aidan had to suffer watching PJ and Jimmy bump fists over PJ’s matching par and prance to the next tee box. He didn’t look for Frank or Casey. Didn’t want to witness their disappointment.

  The two players halved the hole—a tie in golf—so PJ kept the honors and drove first on the par four 480-yard second hole. Aidan gazed down the fairway, knowing he had to forget the bad putt and PJ’s smirks—after his second drive at close to 300 yards—and play his game.

  Aidan teed his ball, set up his driver, and took a deep breath. He swung the big club back, and the ball screamed off the tee, landing ten yards in front of his opponent’s ball. PJ’s big grin shrank noticeably.

  PJ was away, so he hit next, and his second shot landed two feet from the hole. This time he and Jimmy chest-bumped their joy while the crowd cheered appreciatively.

  Ian handed Aidan his five-iron. “Wind’s from the east, lad. Left to right on the green.”

  Aidan had a good lie in the center of the fairway. He swung the iron, and at the top of his downswing, someone coughed—hard—within a couple feet of him. He pulled the swing just a hair, enough to land his ball in the sand trap on the left side of the green.

  Aidan stared at the trap and then at PJ who was making a big deal of clearing his throat.

  “So sorry. I got a gnat in the back of my throat. Made me cough. I couldn’t help it.” He turned wide, innocent eyes on the crowd.

  “You big fat cheater!” someone hissed close by. Someone who sounded a lot like Casey.

  Up at the green, PJ leaned on his putter and made no attempt to hide his smug grin, as Aidan climbed down into the trap with his sand wedge. The trap was deep at his lie—thanks a lot, Casey—and the cup ended up at eye level.

  Aidan set his feet in the sand—expecting another cough—and swung the wedge, digging into the sand two inches behind the ball, which sailed up in a slow, perfect arc and landed a foot from the hole to roll in for a birdie three.

  The crowd went wild, the roar deafening, but PJ’s putt was close enough that he easily sunk his own birdie putt and again the players halved the hole.

  PJ retained honors until Aidan could go up by one, so PJ drove first on the par-three third hole, which both men subsequently birdied and moved on.

  The fourth hole was a long par five with trees lining both sides of the fairway and a narrow creek intersecting the approach to the green at sixty yards out. PJ got off another good drive down the center of the fairway. Aidan calmly swung his driver back low and slow, and at the top of his backswing, another hard cough echoed just off his right shoulder.

  As before, the sound at that point in his swing caused him to pull the drive, and his ball rolled into the trees on the left side of the fairway. The cough had been perfectly timed, too perfectly. The big Scot, face red, wheeled on PJ, who wasn’t smart enough to hide his smirk.

  Aidan put an arm on Ian to stop him.

  Casey hissed, “Cheater!” and a chorus of mutterings agreed. Frank marched over in red-faced outrage.

  PJ knew his jig was up, and the smirk vanished like mist.

  “I’m rules marshal for this tournament,” Frank bellowed.

  “Says who?” Archer Bartow—who had dogged his son’s steps for the first three holes, dragging Evelyn along behind—shouted back and shouldered in alongside his son.

  “I’m the only man here who has played in the PGA and knows all the rules, plus this is my golf course,” Frank yelled.

  Immediate applause broke out in the gallery, and evidently all of Cypress Key agreed with Frank. Bartow shut up and settled for a crotchety glare.

  Frank rounded on PJ who threw up his hands in surrender. “I couldn’t help it! I breathed and swallowed at the same time.”

  A titter of laughter rolled through the near gallery.

  “Bollocks,” Ian muttered under his breath, and Aidan again put a quieting hand on him.

  “This is your only warning,” Frank growled at PJ. “If you cough one more time, I’ll call off this match, and no one wins. We go back the way it was before.” He pointed an angry finger. “With you both banned.”

  The threat sobered PJ and Jimmy.

  “Let’s go,” Frank ordered, and the golfers moved down the fairway.

  Aidan needed two shots to get out of the trees and down the fairway, but his third shot landed four feet from the pin. PJ’s third shot hit and rolled to a spot ten feet from the cup, so he putted first. He and Jimmy eyed the line of the putt, heads together like Bert and Ernie. Must have worked. PJ sunk his putt.

  “I hit this in, nice and easy, and half the hole,” Aidan murmured, and for the second time that day, his ball stopped two inches to the left of the hole.

  He had just missed another three-foot putt! PJ went up by one. Aiden could only stare and listen to the muttering of the crowd who wondered the same thing he did—how in the hell had that happened?

  Was he choking? Heck, he’d never choked in a golf tournament in his life. Of course, he’d never had so much at stake in a match in his life. Trophies meant nothing. This was Casey at stake here. It didn’t help that Ian was giving him incredulous sideways glances all the way to the fifth hole.

  Up by one, PJ kept honors and hit first on the second par three on the front nine. Both men landed their drives close to the pin, and Aidan missed a hole-in-one by six inches. Both men easily sunk their birdie putts and moved on to number six
.

  Aidan felt better after the last hole, but his two pulled putts still messed with his head, as did the jerkwad PJ who called out loudly as they climbed the four steps to the tee box, “I can’t believe I’m up by only one after five holes. I thought it would be more.”

  Frank’s bag hit the turf, and Ian stalked over to PJ before Aidan caught him. “Shut yer gob, or I’ll shut it for ye.”

  Jimmy had dropped his own bag, ready to protect his stupid friend, but not looking happy about it considering Ian’s size.

  “No, Ian,” Aidan said softly. “I need to win clean and not give him room to bitch later.”

  The Highlander’s eyes flashed a promise at Aidan’s opponent, but he backed off as his friend had asked and returned to his dropped bag.

  “Last warning,” Frank bellowed. “No taunting or the match ends!” He looked at PJ. “Verbal.” He turned to Ian. “Or physical. PGA rules of etiquette. If you don’t know ‘em, ask!”

  “I know ‘em,” Ian grumbled angrily.

  Aidan saw Frank wink at the Highlander when he strode over to stand next to him at the tee box. Ian didn’t smile, but the steam had dissipated.

  “Play your game, Aidan,” a soft voice said behind him.

  He glanced over his shoulder into the green eyes that never ceased to stop him in his tracks. Casey’s stared into his and willed calm, willed focus into him.

  Both men hit matching three-hundred-yard drives on the par five 535-yard hole. Both golfers chose three-metals as their club for the second shot. Aidan was away by a couple yards, so he hit his second shot first. The ball rocketed off the turf. Spectators gasped, PJ scowled, and the ball rolled up onto the green, resting about fifteen feet from the pin. He grinned at Ian—a makeable putt for an eagle three and a possible tie with PJ for the match thus far.

  PJ had watched Aidan’s shot with his face twisted in a grimace. He snatched his own three-metal from his bag without waiting for Jimmy to hand it over.

  “He’ll never make it,” Ian whispered to Aidan. “Too angry about yer shot and not enough skill.”

  Ian was right. PJ’s ball halted fifteen yards short of the green. Since he was away, he grabbed the wedge Jimmy handed him and chipped up to the green. PJ was lying three at five feet from the cup, and Aidan was lying two at fifteen feet away.

  Aidan hid his smile as he eyed the putt with Ian.

  “Straight?” he asked the cranky Scot who had pulled out the flagstick for Aidan’s putt.

  “Looks like.”

  Aidan aimed for the cup and watched in astonishment as the ball drifted to the left and stopped almost three feet away.

  “Bollocks!” Ian hissed again.

  “Did I misread that putt?”

  “Hell, no!” Ian crabbed. “I don’t get it.”

  Aidan glanced over at Frank who looked equally incredulous. He refused to look at Casey and see her disappointment.

  PJ grinned from ear to ear, stepped up and sank his birdie putt, then promptly dashed over to Jimmy to chest bump again. The gallery’s applause lacked fervor.

  Aidan took three deep breaths as he eyed his line for the short putt, taking no chances. This one was definitely straight.

  One more deep breath.

  He stroked the putt smoothly through.

  And watched it stop two inches to the left of the cup. The gasps were annoyingly loud, but PJ’s cackle of laughter could still be heard above it all.

  On wooden feet, Aidan walked up, tapped the errant ball into the hole, reached down to pull it free, then heaved it hard over the heads of the crowd and into the woods behind.

  Frank steamed toward him, Ian trailing in his wake. “Gimme that damn putter! No golfer with your talent pulls that many putts in a row. All to the left by two inches or more.”

  He snatched the putter out of Aidan’s hand and whisked his cell phone from his pocket to thumb through apps.

  “I choked,” Aidan said, loud enough only Frank and Ian, who had come up behind him, could hear. “Let it go! Let’s move on.”

  “No!” the two men barked in unison.

  “No bloody way,” Ian said, grabbing his shoulder.

  Frank found the phone app he wanted and pressed the side of his cell phone to the putter shaft near the grip and ever so slowly, slid it down the shaft toward the heel.

  “What are you doing?” Aidan hissed.

  Ian could see the display. “It’s a level app.” He looked at Aidan, his eyes wide. “He’s measuring the shaft.”

  When Frank’s cell phone neared the heel of the putter, the little bubble on the level shifted out of its two container lines.

  “Bent,” Frank growled and faced Aidan. “The damn putter shaft is bent. Not enough to see, just enough to screw with your putts.”

  Another collective gasp exploded from the gallery around the green. Whispers picked up and word sped down the line to the gallery packed along the edge of the fairway.

  Aidan gaped at Frank.

  “How in the bloody hell did that happen?” Ian wanted to know. “I certainly didn’t do it.”

  “Of course not,” Frank agreed. “The putter was off on the very first hole.”

  “But the putter was fine yesterday,” Aidan argued.

  “Right,” Frank said and turned his glare toward PJ who noticeably paled and moved over next to the mayor.

  “But how?” Aidan demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Frank groused. “I locked the cart barn last night when I left.”

  “You unlocked the storage closet for me to get your clubs this morning,” Aidan reminded him. “Did you unlock the storage closet at the same time you unlocked the barn?”

  Frank stared a hole through him. “I didn’t unlock the storage closet. I wondered how you got the clubs. I figured you asked Casey for her key.”

  Aidan shook his head slowly.

  “Shite,” Ian said under his breath. “Now we know how.”

  “Right,” Frank agreed, and all three glowered at PJ who ducked clean behind the mayor.

  Bartow stomped forward. “What’s going on? You’re holding up the match.”

  “Back off,” Frank barked. “Someone—” He leaned around Bartow to glare at PJ. “—sabotaged this putter. Bent the shaft just enough to screw up putts but not be visually noticeable.”

  “You better not be accusing my son,” Bartow snarled.

  “He’s the only one who stands to gain.”

  “You can’t prove anything,” Bartow retorted, “and you can’t delay the play. Even I know that. Crosse has to play with that putter.”

  The mayor looked ready to smirk, but Frank’s fulsome, dagger-shooting glare had Bartow thinking better of the idea.

  “Aidan has three choices,” Frank announced loud enough for the gallery around the green to hear, “according to PGA Rule 4-3a. One, he can continue to play with the damaged club. Two, he can repair it or have it repaired as long as he doesn’t delay play.”

  The mayor did smirk when Frank mentioned not delaying play.

  “Or three, he can replace it with another club, but he cannot borrow from PJ . . .”

  “As if,” PJ muttered.

  “. . . and he can’t fix it by carrying spare parts, which doesn’t work anyway in this situation, and he can’t delay play while making the switch.” Frank, still holding the sabotaged club, turned to Aidan. “What’ll it be?”

  “Switch the club,” Aidan told him. “Where’s Rory?”

  “Right here.” The kid stepped free of the gallery.

  “Haul ass to the cart barn,” Frank ordered, “and get Aidan another putter.”

  “Yessir.” He took a step then stopped. “Which one?”

  “I have a dozen bags of rental clubs. Pick one,”
Frank yelled. “And run.”

  “I know that jackass bent your putter,” Casey whispered harshly to her uncle.

  “So do I, but Bartow’s right. Unless someone saw PJ do it, we can’t prove a thing.” He turned to Aidan. “Sorry about having to use a rental putter. I quit selling new clubs in the pro shop two years ago. Couldn’t afford to maintain the expensive merchandise inventory.”

  “Forget it. The rental putter will be fine.”

  “You’re delaying the game, Crosse,” Bartow shouted across the green, careful to keep his distance from the glowering Highlander.

  Frank stormed over. “Until you’re sure we haven’t found proof of who bent that club, I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you.” To the golfers, he waved an arm. “On to the par three seventh hole.”

  “What will you do?” Casey asked softly, following in Ian’s and Aidan’s wake.

  “Get close enough with my drive and aim my putt two inches to the right,” Aidan said and winked.

  That was exactly what he did and sank his two-foot putt. Both golfers birdied the hole, and Rory showed up on the eighth fairway with one of the rental putters. The two golfers finished out the front nine and halved both hole eight and hole nine, leaving PJ still up by a cheating two.

  Down the back nine, the two opponents marched. Aidan played well, but PJ caught one lucky break after another. If Aidan picked up a birdie, so did PJ.

  Aidan knew the outcome of this match was weighing heavily on him and affecting his skill. He wasn’t playing his usual go-for-it, no-holds-barred style of play. He was playing careful, overthinking every single shot, and as a result, he hit good drives, and made his putts. He just wasn’t playing what Rhett used to call his hotshot golf.

  His heart ached a little more with each hole they finished. If he lost this match, it would be his fault Casey had to put up with PJ close by again. What if the little puke grabbed her and Aidan wasn’t around? Or worse yet, did it after Aidan went back to Palm Beach. He couldn’t stay here forever.