Chapter 2

As the two leaders in the final tournament round, Dimas, his caddy, then Carl and Hunter walked to the seventeenth hole. The caddies stayed behind due to the small putting green area. Carl and Dimas both made their next shots on the seventeenth hole, walking off the island green as quickly as they both putted.

Unless Carl screwed up his shot on the eighteenth, Dimas would finish second. Not bad. Still good prize money, and points for the points’ cup, so he’d make some pretty dough this year. Not bad for an almost third year pro, right out of college. Still, winning the tournament would mean lots of Benjamins in endorsement, and then he could poach Hunter, and get him out of his indentured servitude to Carl.

The eighteenth hole was another interesting challenge. Water was almost immediately straight ahead, curving to the left, and the fairway curved to the left. It was a mixture of skill and power to land this. Carl made his shot. His ball traveled over two hundred yards to cut the distance to the hole almost in half.

Dimas practice pumped again and hit the ball. The hard thwack signaled a long shot. The ball landed further than Carl’s. Dimas’ heart raced. This could be it. If he could make a birdie on this hole, he would tie. If he made par, he would be in second place.

He eyed Hunter who stood talking to Carl. Hunter handed some notes on the eighteenth to Carl and Carl shook his head. Hunter turned away from his stepdad and pursed his lips.

Dimas took off his cap, and took a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his brow. He brushed his dark brown hair back under the baseball cap. Some spectators had signs for the golfers. He caught one fan’s poster board.

A tall striking redhead, who wasn’t afraid to show off her bountiful bosom, had a small but tasteful sign on a manila folder that said, “Brownie hair, and brownie eyes, what’s not to love about Dimey?” He shook his head. There were rules about fan conduct, but he suspected because she was pretty, some tour volunteers overlooked her small sign that easily folded up. He didn’t mind her sign carried his nickname, a name only a few close friends and family called him, but he didn’t want any distractions.

Dimas focused on the next play. He moved closer to Joe who reminded him about the slope and distance that he had to make. It had rained the other day and based on how the balls played today, the course was a little slow.

Hunter handed a club to Carl, who waved it off and chose a different club. After Carl swung, his ball sailed into a bunker on the right.

“Joe, what club did Hunter try to hand Carl?”

“A seven.”

Dimas nodded. “Hand me a seven.”

“Dimas, I also overheard Hunter tell Carl the wind is pushing off south to north so to try to slice to the left a little. Obviously, Carl thinks that was dumb because he tried to slice right on that shot.”

Dimas smiled. He glanced over at Hunter who caught him looking at him. Hunter placed his head down and tugged his left ear again. Hunter’s signal.

Their signal.

Their code.

Dimas wanted to rush over there and hug him, and then punch Carl.

How could you ignore the best caddy in the world?

He wanted to pull off that baseball cap that covered up Hunter’s long, overdue for a haircut, strawberry blond hair, and stare into Hunter’s piercing blue eyes, then laugh when Hunter’s freckles stretched out from smiling. But this definitely wasn’t the time or place to any of that. Hunter and Dimas had agreed three years ago when he turned pro: on the course, it was business. Besides, Hunter got easily embarrassed with any public displays. If he hugged or kissed Hunter in public, or in front of Carl, the shit would hit the fan. He chucked softly to himself as he thought of the idea of Carl losing it.

Carl had always been a homophobe, and that was one reason Dimas didn’t care for him. The other reason was how he treated Hunter.

Dimas teed up his shot and made a perfect swing. The ball sailed more than two hundred yards and landed in the green, just a few inches from the hole. Dimas walked toward the putting green, thankful for some of the shade from the oak trees, and then put his marker where his ball rested. He waited for Carl to resume his play.

Hunter handed the sand wedge to Carl who swung to get the ball out of the sand bunker. He over swung it. The ball landed several feet away, on the edge of the rough. When Carl took his next shot, it sailed past the hole, and several feet away but still on the green.