“Do you see that little nubbin of grass that pokes out?” She pointed at a slight upward variation on the overhanging rim.
“You think that’s my target?” he asked.
“Yes.” She looked up at him and something ran through his body. Out of the blue, and completely out of context, he had the strong sensation she was about to kiss him.
Instead, she said, “You want to scoop this one out and finish with a flourish. Don’t look up before you feel the shaft on your shoulder blades.”
“Shaft on my shoulder blades. That’s a new one,” Buck said.
“I’ll get your sand wedge.”
Buck moved closer to the ball and Carla came back. Ever so lightly, she put her fingers on the small of his back, signaling she was handing him the club.
“Take your time,” she whispered. “It’s all yours. Enjoy the moment.”
Her tone was loose and leisurely, like she was offering him a tall, cool drink with an invitation for more when he was ready.
He took the sand wedge from her, knowing what she meant, letting the club head come around full, not half stroked.
He took his stance, careful not to dig his feet in.
His eyes drilled down on a speck of sand two knuckles behind the ball. He loosened his grip, adjusting his fingers a smidgen lower.
Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and let out a slow exhale. Then he picked out the speck of sand again. Without thinking, he started his backswing.
He felt the ball pop up and then the club head complete the rotation.
After a moment, the gallery around the green went wild.
Buck had to climb out of the bunker to see what had happened.
A majestic fan-shaped splay of white sand covered the grass on the overhanging lip.
The ball had stopped a tap-in from the cup.
Halle-fuckin-lujah.
Everywhere spectators hovered at the ropes, cheering and clapping.
It felt like floating as he walked the short distance to the green.
Carla came from behind and removed the flagstick. Buck tapped the ball in while the other two golfers waited off the green.
He pulled his ball from the cup, took off his hat, and waved for the gallery. The applause was earnest and encouraging.
After that, the landscape changed. The edges seemed to blur, but the smallest details grew sharp and crisp. He was in the full sway of still waters running deep, part of a strong, silent force carrying him along.
Buck began to envision the club connected to his hands, his arms becoming one long extension when the stroke swung through his body. He felt the trigger at the pinnacle of his backswing, the downward thrust, the swoosh of the pendulum, the smack-kiss to the sweet spot, every stroke ended with the feeling he could touch the sky.
He was in the throes of a serious seduction now. It wasn’t just a round of golf. It was a slow-release orgasm pulsing through him.
The ball knew where to fly. No thinking, no telling, just knowing and doing.
The green read like road signs. He birdied three in a row on the front nine.
He found the minutest details—the dimple on the ball, the blade of grass grazing his finger when he set his tee, the weight shift in his left heel, all the atom-sized influencers that determined the fate of the ball, a fate forged in the mind, the body, and the elements.
At the turnaround, Buck gave Carla a small hug.
Now it seemed the gallery bled further down the fairway at each successive hole on the back nine. But they were just part of the map. In his head he could see how the ball needed to move, where it needed to be.
He wasn’t competing, he was simply living—his muscles in harmony with his brain, his world in sync, and the whole universe humming his tune.
Heading to the final hole, he was bogey free for the round.
He’d not glanced at any of the scoreboards, but the leaderboard behind the eighteenth green was impossible to ignore. Buck’s name was second from the top, two strokes behind the leader.
Dawson was in the lead.
It felt like destiny and at the same time it was just another round on a weekend afternoon, nine holes after school let out, a future, a past, a moment Buck wanted to keep from ending. A hole he wished he could play forever.
No. 18 was a long par-4, a dogleg right with a desert carry to an elevated green. On the fairway, between 275 and 300 yards, a pair of bunkers—one protecting the right, the other centered in the crook of that hind leg—squeezed the land zone into a narrow strip.
Buck studied Art’s map. Carla stood close by. He shifted the map lower to share it with her.
Play the hole, not the hole you’d like it to be.
The phase came to him. From where, he couldn’t remember, but it made him see the hole differently, without the ego of a player.
“That tall cactus out there. What do you call those?” Buck asked her.
“Saguaros.”
“See the one with the arms flopped over,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m going to aim for that cactus and cut the ball around the fairway bunker.”
The ball launched with a low trajectory, rising slightly left and then drifted right, falling into the fairway. A bounce and a roll towards the rough gained another ten yards.
Together, they walked side by side down the fairway. The sun and the mountains, the bright blue ceiling above; this was a holy place.
They waited behind his ball with a calmness he never would have expected.
“This is the green with the false front,” he said quietly.
She wiped the face of a club with the rag. “Yes, the funky one.”
That was the major gripe about the course—over-designed greens with an abundance of slippery slopes, steep fall-offs, and too many hazards lurking behind the pin placements.
When his turn came up, he lofted the ball into a high draw. It seemed to float in the air before dropping softly on the green.
The clapping and whooping told him it landed well. Carla swapped out the 9-iron for his 1-iron with a smooth, gentle gesture, reminding him she was there without intruding or disrupting the energy swirling around them.
The walk to the green was majestic. Carla followed a few steps behind him, and he slowed for her before he reached the apron around the green.
His ball was twelve feet from the hole with a downhill lie.
The leaderboard showed Dawson had dropped a stroke.
If Buck made birdie here, he’d be tied with Dawson for the lead.
He swallowed the thought whole, taking a lungful of air, trying not to choke on it.
He marked his ball, and then he and Carla waited from a respectful distance. His eyes walked the line of turf separating his marker from the cup, searching for the hidden breaks or subtle shifts.
When his turn came, he removed the marker, replaced his ball, and crouched down behind it. Carla leaned over his shoulder.
“About three inches to the left, don’t you think?” he asked her.
“That’s what I see,” she said.
He took a couple of practice swings, mentally calibrating how much stroke he needed to make the distance.
Carla removed the flagstick.
He took his stance and chose the L in the StraightLine logo as his target on the ball.
In his mind the L stood for leader. From now on, Buck would be the leader Art needed, the brother he should have been all those years. The L would never again stand for loser, for either him or Art.
His stroke was firm and dead center to his target.
The ball rushed straight at the hole and tipped in, as though it couldn’t wait any longer to be done with the round.
The crowd in the stands and around the green went into overdrive, like the marching band goes crazy when the football team scores a touchdown. Buck couldn’t resist lifting off his cap and taking a bow as though he was receiving a standing ovation for his performance.
Carla hugged him when
they walked off the green.
Now came the hardest part, waiting for Dawson to finish the round.
#
Neither Buck nor Carla breathed the word “playoff.” He would have been content to stay in the official’s tent and follow the action on the television, but she led him outside where a camera crew immediately began trailing them.
“Ignore it,” she said, picking up her pace in spite of carrying the bag.
They hurried to the safe haven of the practice green. An official opened the ropes and let them on. Carla dropped a ball by the flagstick furthest away from the cameras and the crowds. She pulled the stick.
There wasn’t a scoreboard in sight. The only clues were the distant sounds from the gallery.
Carla handed Buck his 1-iron.
He was about to address the ball when he saw Josh waving to him from behind the ropes. Buck nodded at the official.
Josh loped towards them, red in the face and reeking of cigarette smoke.
Josh gulped in air. “Oh man, we should have held out on the StraightLine deal.”
Just then a loud disappointing groan emanated from the eighteenth green. It sent a chill down Buck’s spine. Who was it? Dawson? Or another player?
Buck could have asked Josh to find out, but knowing would only jinx his chances. It was better to leave all the possibilities open, that way anything could happen.
There was a loud, sustained cheer. What was that for?
Would there be a playoff, or had another player knocked Buck out of contention for the trophy?
He looked at Carla. She had a hopeful grin on her face.
Buck was on high alert now, wondering which emotion would come bursting forth before it was over. Then, like a two-by-four to the head, he realized the only form of losing now was a top-ten finish. Anything better was icing on the cake. Sure, he wanted the best to happen—an outright win—except he would be happiest with a playoff against Dawson. He didn’t want the tournament to end; it felt too good. A playoff was his chance to taste justice. Seeing Carla on his bag would rattle Dawson, and Buck couldn’t wait for that experience.
Had the world really changed so much in one week?
A loud groan floated from the eighteenth green, followed by tepid applause.
He shifted closer to Carla, letting his arm brush against hers.
There was another flurry of clapping, higher, longer, and then slowly it dwindled into silence. The lack of rousing cheers could only mean one thing, right? Sudden death with Dawson.
Out of the corner of his eye, Buck saw LeeAnn weaseling her way onto the practice green with Mike hurrying behind her.
At the sight of LeeAnn, Buck lost his concentration. The wrongness of her clutching his putter weighed on him, ruining the moment. Right then, he decided he’d never play another StraightLine ball again. He’d find some way to get out of the endorsement contract, go back to playing Hickenlooper. If he could have yanked his putter from LeeAnn and run away with Carla, he would have.
LeeAnn’s heavy perfume arrived first. Mike sounded winded when he offered his hand to Buck, saying, “Great round.”
“Oh Buck,” LeeAnn said, “you are awesome.”
A flurry of activity on the far end of the practice green sent Buck’s heart thumping so hard he could feel it in his chest. He found Carla’s hand and squeezed it. His pulse beat even faster when he saw the tournament officials marching towards him. Another camera crew and reporter chased after them.
In that moment, before his destiny was revealed, a surge of excitement began to build and Buck was afraid his heart was going to burst out of his chest. He put his arm around Carla’s waist as he watched his fate coming for him.
Wait for it, wait, here it comes.
The lead official went straight to Buck and said, “The playoff round begins in fifteen minutes on the No. 18.”
The official did a quick pivot and walked away.
sudden death
Dawson, his caddie, and a flock of fans and media came to the practice green on the far side from where Buck stood with his small, but growing entourage.
The impulse to take the high road struck and Buck removed his arm from Carla’s waist. She gave him a questioning glance.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be nice.” He winked at her and then turned towards Dawson but LeeAnn stepped in front of him. “Wait,” she said, “I want to get a photo of you.” She held the phone high for a selfie with Buck.
He’d already decided to ditch StraightLine; the last thing he wanted now was evidence he’d played their ball. It might make it harder to exit the contract, he guessed.
“Let me get in too.” Mike moved behind Buck. “Where’s the ball?”
Buck glanced at Carla, and she handed the StraightLine ball to him. He positioned it between his thumb and index finger and then raised it for the camera, keeping his face out of the photo.
“Hold it higher,” LeeAnn said. “And turn it so I can get the logo.”
Buck rotated the ball.
“Hang on.” Mike grabbed the ball. He lifted his glasses and squinted, holding the ball close to his face.
Buck’s eyes darted to Carla.
“This ball has the new logo.” Mike turned to LeeAnn. “Is this what we gave out at the Pro-Am?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” LeeAnn said. She’d placed Buck’s putter on the ground and he was tempted to take it, as though that would help to sever the tie with her. He couldn’t though; the extra club would have disqualified him immediately.
Mike put his glasses on and turned to look at Buck. “Do you have the sleeve this came in?”
Carla pulled the StraightLine carton from the golf bag without a word.
Mike took it from her. “Where did you get these?” He asked Buck the question but had his eyes focused hard on LeeAnn.
Josh asked, “What’s wrong?”
“They were in the box shipped by corporate.” LeeAnn reached down and picked up the putter. She clung to it, pressing the shaft close to her body.
Mike gripped the carton and held it up slightly. “These weren’t meant for the tournament.”
“I didn’t know there was a difference.” Her eyes said otherwise, flitting between Mike, Buck and Josh.
Mike lowered his voice, and moved closer to Buck. “This ball hasn’t been certified yet.”
It was as though the North and South poles switched places, and Buck was left hanging in midair with no firm ground beneath his feet.
“That’s a fucking problem.” Josh formed a huddle with Mike around Buck. “How’d the wrong ball find its way into his bag?” First he eyed Buck, then he turned and glared at LeeAnn.
“We had dinner together,” she said, her eyelids fluttering erratically.
Buck watched as Carla’s faced hardened to him.
“You couldn’t stay away from him.” Josh pointed his finger at LeeAnn.
LeeAnn had a smirk on her lips and Mike had sweat on his brow.
“Let’s keep it quiet. This ball will pass. It’s a formality.”
Josh glared at Mike. “I warned you about her.” He looked at Buck with the same anger in his eyes. “And I told you to keep away too.”
Buck’s brain was clogged. If the ball wasn’t certified, he was automatically out of the tournament. The blood pounded at his temples. He heard Mike whisper, “We can keep it between us.”
It sounded so simple, just don’t tell.
The temptation to let it go caught him off guard. It was enormous, something he’d never thought possible. He’d always believed he was above cheating, but Mike opened the door and a sneaky thought crawled in.
The clock was ticking and Buck licked his lips.
What if Buck threw the playoff? Could that make amends for keeping the error a secret?
Everyone’s eyes were on Buck. Mike was ready to roll the dice, Josh looked like he’d eaten a porcupine, and LeeAnn’s devilish eyes made Buck shiver.
Sharing a terrible secret with her would be the equivale
nt of putting a gun to his head. She’d use it whenever she wanted something. And it would tie him to StraightLine for good, maybe forever.
What was he thinking? If he didn’t do the right thing now, he’d never play in competition again.
“You have to report it.” Carla stood slightly away from the group.
“I know,” he said.
“You don’t need a caddie anymore.”
They’d played as a team in a damn near perfect round. Boom! All that magical energy and light was gone. Now her eyes were hard, cold lumps of coal, impenetrable.
A sportscaster with a mic tried to muscle in closer, but Mike blocked him. In the ruckus, Carla disappeared, leaving Buck’s bag standing alone.
The camera was on him as he picked up his bag and went to find the marshal.
The ruling was immediate. Buck’s round was disqualified.
Buck blocked out everything around him as best he could. He’d lost everything: the tournament, the money, and Carla.
There was nothing he could do about the tournament.
But Carla. He had to find Carla.
He tried to leave but Dawson approached him. Buck froze. It took all the strength he could muster to shake Dawson’s hand.
“Well done, for a sharecropper.” Dawson smiled.
It was pointless to respond and Dawson didn’t stick around anyway.
Buck shouldered his bag and hunkered down. Josh tried to follow, but Buck lengthened his stride.
By the time he reached the van he’d shunned everyone and was alone and unnoticed in the normal activity of players leaving.
He stowed his bag and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He left the door open, wondering if he should try to search the parking lot for Carla’s car, or drive straight to the condo?
He decided to wait at her condo. Before he could shut the door, LeeAnn rushed at him.
She held his putter, the shaft pressed between her breasts.
“You knew.” Buck grabbed the putter out of her hands and tossed it in the back.
“I’m so sorry,” Leeann said. “I tried to tell you this morning, but you wouldn’t take the right balls. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”
“Get out of way.” Buck reached to close the door.
The Perfectly Good Lie Page 18