Sudden Death

Chapter 1 Dimas Kanashiro eyed the fairway, blinking away the sweat that crept into a corner of his eyes. The blazing hot sun and few breezes in the Ponte Vedra golf course made the humidity more stifling. Dimas played this same hole last year and double bogied it. That mistake pushed him from second place to a fourth place tie. Decent winnings for someone on the pro tour who’d been playing a little more than two years, but still a far cry from winning and holding the trophy and money purse for the champion. He didn’t want that to happen again. Today, to get ahead and take the lead, he’d have to get a birdie. He’d have to hit to the ball to the left, not land in the water, and not have his ball fly too far. A par would maintain him in second place, behind Carl Dipshit Mullins. Ill-tempered, cigar-smoking, pot-bellied, boorish, rude, violent Carl f*****g Mullins. There wasn’t any margin for error for Dimas. If even screwed up a shot, Carl could catch up. Dimas didn’t want that, or to even up the strokes and then have to play a sudden death match play if they both tied. He was only one shot behind Carl. If he made par for the seventeenth hole, he’d still be one shot behind. He eyed his caddy. Joe filled in for his old caddy who retired two months ago. But Joe had never caddied in a PGA tour. Joe’s quiet demeanor was out of character for him when they arrived at Sawgrass. Normally Joe joked, sprinkled gossip he had heard at the clubhouse the night before, but so far on this tour, he was all business. He repeated facts: the slope, distances, and where other players were in standings. Joe was awed by Sawgrass and every day he seemed to be more awed by it. And Dimas couldn’t blame him. Joe’s quiet bearing allowed Dimas to steal furtive looks at Carl’s hot caddy, Hunter Mullins, every chance he got. Everyone assumed that Hunter got the job because he was Carl’s stepson, and that was it. But, Hunter had been an outstanding collegiate golfer at Florida State. Dimas and Hunter had played on the same golf team. And not only did they become roommates and shared an apartment together in Tallahassee by sophomore year; they’d become lovers as soon as they’d moved in together. Except many people didn’t know that. Even Hunter’s stepfather didn’t know. At least, Dimas had no confirmation on this point. And what most people also didn’t know was this: Hunter knew his s**t. The only thing that kept Hunter from the pros was his long game. He had the best short game in all of collegiate golf. This guy, his boyfriend, could read greens like a psychic could read tealeaves in the bottom of a small cup. The crowd clapped politely as Carl made the shot. The seventeenth hole was one hundred thirty seven yards from the tee, and yet it caused panic in every golf player since the small island green caused many players to overshoot and land the ball in water. It was more of a skill shot than a power swing. Sergio Garcia famously did a quadruple bogey a few years back, hitting his balls into the water, rather than landing them on the island green, resulting in the Tiger Woods win in the TPC Sawgrass tournament. Dimas mumbled under his breath. s**t. He toed up to the shot, practice-pumped his club until he was ready, and then swung. Thwack. The ball made a quick, but silent arc as it hurled overhead more than one hundred yards, and landed three feet from the seventeenth hole. The crowd grasped in unison. But the gasps were then followed by polite clapping again. Hunter lowered his head and tipped his baseball cap to Dimas. Hunter darted his eyes to the right and then scratched his left ear. Dimas breathed in the humid air and scanned the crowd. He was finally going to redeem his loss a few weeks ago to Carl at the Bayhill Invitational in Orlando. Dimas had coveted winning the trophy at his adopted new hometown. Many spectators were rapt in the moment. He ignored the whispers about this being a battle between the ages. Him—the barely out of college pro, thin, olive-skinned, against an aging veteran in his early fifties, trying to earn a place in history next to Davis Love III and Sam Snead as one of the oldest players to win a major golf tournament. Dimas wasn’t the favorite on this course. Carl was. Carl was definitely the local celebrity and Dimas was the foreign interloper who came to America to play golf. The hours of playing golf, playing and winning some smaller tournaments were now paying off. 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 s**t 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. If Carl made the shot, and Dimas made the shot they would be tied. The crowd held their breath as Carl prepared to make his next shot. Hunter stood and wobbled his shoes to the left. Carl shook his head, and tried to putt the ball straight, but the ball curved left and went past the hole. Dimas’ shiny marker on the green gleamed at him. Dimas wanted to yell but nerves forced him to remain still. The silent crowd unnerved him. Carl took the next shot. The ball lipped around the cup and moved off an inch from the hole. Dimas nodded to Carl who glared at him. If looks could kill, Dimas would be on the ground, gasping for breath. Dimas now stood, his putter in his hands and wished the rules allowed him to have Hunter come over and tell him what to do, or better, for Hunter to putt this final shot. Hunter made this shot over and over. Dimas eyed the crowd and scanned around. Hunter’s eyes were focused on the hole. No doubt Hunter had measured what it would take to land this shot, make a birdie, and win. “What do you think, Joe?” “I heard Hunter tell Carl that the ground’s going to be slower, to putt square but slightly facing right to make the ball straight.” Dimas nodded. He had hired a guy who never worked the majors, but understood that some caddies knew more about golf courses than some players, especially if there was a caddy who knew Sawgrass like Hunter Mullins. Hunter grew up in Ponte Vedra, worked this course as a kid, even helped cut the grass as part of the grounds keeping staff as a teenager. And if there was anything about Joe he really liked it was that Joe had street smarts. Joe gathered intel, soaking it up like a sponge. Joe easily picked up in the first round of play two days ago that Hunter knew his s**t without being told by anyone. Joe also knew that he would be getting a large bonus if Dimas won this event. Dimas breathed, rocked his feet to keep his balance, did a practice short swing with the putter. Then he breathed again. Much longer and deeper to help himself relax. He had to block out Hunter for the moment. He had to tune out the crowd. He had to block out all the rage he had towards Carl, and his wanting to take one of his clubs and beat Carl with it. He had to win for him. Dimas Kanashiro. If he won, he’d be the first Peruvian-Japanese player to win the event. If he won, he’d have a win over Carl. He wanted to win to make his secret lover, Hunter Mullins, proud. He had one hundred one reasons to win. And one of those was to wipe off that smug, shitty-faced grin that Carl Mullins perennially had when he eyeballed Dimas. But, f**k, he just wanted to win it.