by Travis Casey
Chapter 10
The limo pulled up dead center in front of the four pillars of the Silver Hill Country Club. A man in a red and gold jacket opened the back door. With a sweeping gesture, he invited Oscar and Stacey to step out.
Two teens wearing white polo shirts sporting the Silver Hill logo rummaged in the trunk and hauled out the golf equipment.
On the way to the practice ground to warm up, Oscar checked to make sure Stacey understood how it worked. "You understand the format, right? It's foursomes, or alternate shots."
Stacey nodded. "Yep. One ball between us and we take every other shot, right?"
Oscar smiled. "Right." At least she understood what they were trying to accomplish.
After warming up on the practice range, where Oscar came to the conclusion that Stacey did have a half-decent swing, they went to the first tee. The air whooshed as a guy in his early twenties stood near the tee box taking practice swings with his Callaway driver. His equally young partner stood next to a golf bag, tying her hair in a ponytail.
Oscar walked toward the girl with his right hand extended. "Hi, I'm Oscar." He gestured toward Stacey. "And this is my partner, Stacey Davenport."
The brunette grasped his hand. "Hi, I'm Linda, and that's Todd," she said, nodding in the lanky lad's direction. "Beautiful day for golf."
"It certainly is," Oscar confirmed. "Good luck, Linda."
"Likewise."
Stacey grabbed Oscar by the arm and led him away. "Good luck?" she hissed. "They're the enemy, you know?"
Oscar stared at her. She was serious. He remained quiet.
At eight minutes past ten, they assembled at the teeing off area. Some spectators were gathered around to watch. The announcer introduced the teams then invited Oscar to tee off.
The tension built, and he fought to control his nerves. Focus, he internally commanded, then added a little Please, God, let this be a good drive. He drew a deep breath, took the club back, and let it rip. The ball rocketed out of the tee box with lightning speed. Oscar stood in a traditional after-shot pose, admiring the ball's flight as it sailed 270, maybe 280 yards straight down the middle of the fairway. Every ounce of tension left his body with the shot. He wanted to punch the air, but that would have looked childish—him being a professional and all. Yet, the satisfaction was enormous, even without any show of emotion.
"Great shot," Todd said, walking past him onto the tee. "Not sure I'll be able to match it."
Oscar smiled back. "Thanks." At least Todd was impressed, and that shot would prove to Stacey that he did, in fact, bring his A-game, whether he was drunk or not.
Oscar walked over and stood beside Stacey.
She patted his arm. "Wow. I'm impressed."
She was impressed. He decided to leave it at that.
Todd placed his ball on the tee, and without a practice swing, fired away, crushing a drive down the middle, rolling a good thirty yards past Oscar's.
And that's why he's a real professional, Oscar cited.
Stacey and Oscar walked down the fairway and stopped when they got to their ball lying on the grass, perfectly positioned.
Without hesitation, Stacey grabbed a club out of her bag. She licked her finger and held it up in the air. "Hmm …" She plucked some grass from the fairway and threw it in the air, watching it float in the mild breeze. "The wind's blowing across, isn't it?"
He liked that she asked his professional advice. "Yeah." Oscar pointed to a large oak in the distance. "Aim for that tree, and the wind should push the ball over a little, and bam! We're on the green."
She stared into the distance. "Okay, which branch of the tree should I aim for?"
Standing behind her, out of her sight, Oscar rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Just aim for the tree."
She shook her head. "No, Jett told me you should pick the smallest target possible to be accurate."
The girl had ideas above her station, and Jett Johnson should stick to baseball, but he figured he'd humor her. He rested his chin on her shoulder and pointed at the tree in general. "Aim for that acorn, three branches down from the top."
Stacey smiled. "Thank you. That's more like it."
He couldn't even see an acorn, but she seemed satisfied that the target was there and was small enough. He stepped back. Stacey planted and replanted her feet, her butt wiggling in the process, which Oscar quite enjoyed. Her skirt hugged her hips firmly and stopped at her upper thigh. He found himself wondering what kind of panties she wore. He imagined they were frilly. Although she had a sporty look, he couldn't imagine her being practical.
In the time it took him to undress and redress her mentally, she still hadn't hit the ball.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine. I want to get this right. This is an important shot."
Oscar silently groaned. The second shot out of a potential seventy or eighty was not an important shot, but he didn't want to put the girl off her stride.
Todd and Linda stood on the other side of the fairway, their faces growing sour. As cute as it was, Oscar became irritated as Stacey wiggled her ass and waggled her club instead of playing golf.
The players behind them were standing on the tee box, watching and waiting for their turn.
"We need to get a move on," he encouraged her.
"Shut up," Stacey snapped. "Don't you know you're not supposed to talk when someone's taking a shot?"
Everybody waited. Still nothing.
They were on their way to being laughing stocks, and it was only the second shot of the day.
Oscar grew embarrassed. He shuffled backward until he was twenty feet away from her, hoping nobody would realize he was her golfing partner. The golf tournament—no, the world—was on hold while Stacey "Ass Wiggler" Davenport prepared to make a golf shot.
Oscar's patience expired. "Just hit the fucking ball!"
Stacey swung and missed, digging her club into the ground behind the ball, only managing to nudge it forward about six inches.
She wheeled around with a face like an angry dragon. "You bastard!" She hurled the golf club at him, chopping through the air like a helicopter blade, the meaty part of the club connecting with his shin.
"Oww!" he hollered as he fell to the ground.
"You made me miss my shot!"
Oscar lay on the ground, rubbing his nearly amputated leg. "That fucking hurt."
"Oh, shut up, you big girl."
One of the course marshals sped over in his golf cart, skidding to a halt just as Oscar struggled to his feet, rubbing his throbbing shin.
"I don't know what the hell you two are doing," the marshal bellowed, "but you better leave your domestic arguments at home. And you, young lady," he leveled his finger at Stacey, "get a move on. If you keep holding up the game, I'll disqualify you for slow play and throw you off the course. Now get a move on."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Marshal." Stacey fluttered her eyelashes. "I can assure you we weren't having a domestic. I barely know the guy. He was just showing me what a jerk he can be." Stacey pointed at Oscar, her thin eyebrows knitted into one. "Next time that club is going up your ass."
The marshal glared at Oscar. "You behave yourself and keep this game moving. Now play golf." He sped away with his little green "Marshal" flag fluttering in the wind on the back of his cart.
Despite his injury, Oscar hobbled to the ball and managed to land it on the green with the next shot. Stacey putted, then him, and they recorded a score of five on the first hole. One over par. Not too bad. He was pleased with that, considering one shot went nowhere. But with her shenanigans, and with Todd and Linda playing like a well-oiled machine to record a birdie, any optimism Oscar had that they could stay within the margin they needed drained away.
Oscar was playing well, and the governor was there following them around. At least Davenport was a witness and could see it was Stacey blowing them out of contention, not Oscar. After the first nine holes, they were five shots behind the leaders, Todd and Linda.
Lea
ving the ninth green, Governor Davenport walked over and slung his arm over Oscar's shoulder on the way to the next tee.
Oscar hoped it was an act of compassion.
The governor's oak cologne hung over him like a pleasant fog. "You're letting it get away from you, son. You need to up your game if you're going to look like a contender."
"I'm doing my best, Governor, and I'm playing some decent golf, but you must have noticed—well, Stacey's not really on her game today."
"Oh, come on, Oscar." He tightened his grip on him. "She's doing fine. You're the professional, son. Surely you expected to have to carry the load a little bit more for the amateur."
Oscar stopped and turned to him. "Governor Davenport," he whispered. "I'm not actually a professional, remember? You created me like some fairytale character. I'm doing my best, but Todd Posey's playing out of his skin. And Linda's pretty good too. I don't know if we can pull it off."
Davenport stared at him. "I thought you would have been a little more grateful, seeing how I got you out of jail." He let his words resonate.
Oscar could see the politician shining through, taking the credit for someone else's work. Stacey would probably end up screwing some oaf because of him. But he needed that extra land, and the governor wouldn't sign away state treasures if Oscar cost him another ten grand. He bowed his head. "Yes, sir. I'll step it up a gear."
Davenport smiled and patted his shoulder. "That's my boy. Now go get 'em, tiger."
Oscar caught up with Stacey and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "I don't know if I thanked you properly. Thanks for getting me out of the slammer. I owe you one, and I'm going to up my focus. I know how much this means to you. I'm going to try harder. Are you ready to win this thing?"
She smiled. "Now that's what I like to hear. Thank you, Oscar. It means a lot knowing we're singing from the same hymn sheet at last." She pinched his cheek. "Let's go get 'em, tiger."
He bared his teeth and swiped his hand like a paw. "Grrr."
Chapter 11
Stacey lived up to her word and proved to be more competitive than he imagined. She also found her groove. Although even when she excelled, her game was still mediocre, but at least she was keeping the ball in play and not creating any costly disasters. More importantly, she was good for Oscar's golfing ego. When he hit a good shot or sank a long putt, she danced around, high-fived him, and provided some high-quality cheerleading. He liked impressing her.
After the governor's pep talk, and with Stacey's enthusiastic support, Oscar played some great golf—in fact, some of the best he'd ever played. They clawed their way up the leaderboard, pulling back shots, while Todd and Linda's game hit a few snags along the way. Nearing the end of the round, they found themselves neck and neck with Todd and Linda.
On the final hole, Team Posey had their own problems when Linda duffed a shot. Stacey and Oscar were in the driver's seat of the entire competition.
It was Oscar's turn to play with seventy yards left to the hole. The pin was at the front of the green, guarded by a lake. The lake was more psychologically menacing than actually menacing. He had the same shot four years ago in college to win the state championship. He had choked and dunked it in the water. After that, he spent countless hours practicing this exact shot. Now he could do it blindfolded, with one hand tied behind his back, or standing on his head.
Oscar visualized the shot. He wanted to show the world his golfing wizardry.
He cast a glance to the crowd. Governor Davenport was watching. He'd be furious.
Oscar looked in his golf bag at the selection of clubs.
"Don't dump it in the water," Stacey instructed.
"Good advice, tiger."
He set up and took a practice swing, brushing the top of the grass with the precision of a fine shave. It felt good. Great even. He could put that ball within six feet of the hole if he wanted to.
He didn't want to. With a fluid swing, he struck it perfectly. He watched with contentment as the ball sailed fifty feet past the flagstick, barely resting on the back of the green.
"Oh, great!" Stacey yelled. "Trust you to choke when there's a bit of pressure."
He looked at his club and hoped to sound convincing. "Oh, hell. I grabbed the wrong club."
She marched off toward the ball.
Posey hit his ball, landing it next to the hole and allowing Linda to tap it in for what took them six shots.
It all came down to Stacey. She would have to roll the ball somewhere in the vicinity of the hole for their fifth shot. With that, Oscar would have the putt to tie it. But if he somehow missed it …
The governor stood at the edge of the green with the other onlookers.
Stacey stood behind the ball, assessing the putt—her face in full frown. She motioned Oscar over.
"Oscar, I need some help. We need this putt to go in to win. How do you see it going?" She bit her lip, staring at the contour of the green, fully concentrating.
"Right." He had to appear helpful and stood behind her to give guidance. "It's going to break left, so you need to hit it out about ten feet to the right of the hole, and don't forget it's going downhill, so don't hit it too hard. Two putts, and we can tie. Just roll it close, and I'll sink the next one."
Her mouth dropped open. "You mean miss it? On purpose?"
"No, you're not missing it," he said. "You're never going to make this putt. It's too far and too tricky. Just lag it up and we can tie. That will force a playoff. Then we'll take 'em in sudden death." He wanted to give her some hope that they could still win. He'd let her be pissed after he missed the next putt.
"But we could lose in the playoff. I want to win."
Oscar sighed. "You'll wind up dumping it in the lake if you over-hit it. And that's what's going to happen if you try to sink this one. You'll get an adrenaline rush and whack it too hard, just like I did on the last shot. I've been putting good today. Get it within eight feet, and I got it."
She waved her hand around. "Oh, screw you."
A sizable crowd had gathered around the green.
"You're no freaking help." She readjusted her stance in line with the hole. "I'll do it myself." She gave the ball an almighty thump straight toward the hole.
The crowd watched as the white sphere took off like a Boeing jet shooting down the runway. Oscar's heart jumped. Him overcooking a shot around the green was within the realms of believability. But her putt was so horrendous that any bookie worth his salt would disallow the bet saying she intentionally missed the putt. Besides that, at the rate it was traveling, the ball was heading for the middle of the lake, and they'd never find it. That meant they'd incur penalty shots, knocking them out of the allotted buffer zone. Or, they'd get disqualified from the competition for having a knock-down, drag-out fight on the eighteenth green once he told her it was her fault they lost.
The ball barreled down the slope, in line with the hole. It hit the back of the cup so hard that it echoed around the course. The ball popped two feet in the air. The crowd gasped as it dropped and landed in the hole, rattling around in the bottom of the cup. Rapturous applause broke out.
Oscar stared at the cup in disbelief, then back at Stacey. She beamed victoriously. Then she bounced, and bounced, and bounced. She ran around the green like a kangaroo, her arms over her head, before she hopped over to Oscar.
He struggled to fathom the magnitude of the fluke but outstretched his arms to give her a victory hug. She jumped on him, her arms around his neck and her legs squeezing tight around his waist, bouncing up and down.
She pulled back and thrust her finger in his face. "See, I didn't need you after all. Loser." Then she kissed him, full on the lips. Her cherry taste was succulent, and her bouncing on his waist would have been arousing in any other setting.
She let herself down and turned to embrace her father, who stood next to them.
"Did you see that, Daddy? Oscar didn't think I could do it, but I showed him."
The governor gave him a harsh look.
"You didn't think she could do it, huh? I told you she was good. Your flop shot helped set it up. I thought you might have dumped it in the water, but you didn't. Imagine that."
They turned and walked away, Stacey's arm looped through her dad's.
The pit of Oscar's stomach burned. He carried a horrible golfer for seventeen holes to keep them in contention. She sinks one lucky putt—no, it wasn't lucky. It was a fucking miracle—and she was in line for all the glory, while he headed to the top of the governor's shit list.
And despite the victory, the governor wasn't happy. And if the governor wasn't happy, Louie Gomez wouldn't be happy. And if Louie Gomez wasn't happy—Oscar would be dead.
Chapter 12
Stacey bounced out of sight holding her father's arm, crowing about her victory.
Oscar went to the locker room to shower and change with a bittersweet range of emotions playing in his head. They won—because of him—and he had every right to feel damn proud of his accomplishment. But even that thought failed to comfort him as deep down he knew he was throwing the game—and he couldn't even get the satisfaction of getting that right.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror, tying his Christian Dior tie and getting his mind in gear for the merry-go-round of performances he would have to display. He had to be happy in front of Stacey for their amazing win, disappointed by the result for Governor Davenport's sake, and shocked for Granddad's benefit—maybe a little modesty on the side for the cute reporter he noticed eyeing him up on the eighteenth green.
He passed through the corridor and found the function room filled with the buzz of conversation and laughter. He got a beer then scouted around for Stacey.
She stood in the middle of the room next to her father. She looked classy in a red pantsuit and white blouse with an Elvis-style collar. Her flared pants touched the floor. She gasped when she saw Oscar. She set her drink on a nearby table and came over to him, flinging her arms around his neck and giving him a tight hug. As the clench lingered, Oscar noticed Governor Davenport staring at them from a distance, his eyes narrowing.
