That night, the other players and the club owners invited Chas to join them in the club bar for a few drinks after the round. Chas ordered non-alcoholic drinks, of course, but already the other golfers were treating him like 'one of the gang'. He was sitting at the bar with five of them, all participants in the tournament- Gregory, an accountant from Oceanside, Finley, a contractor from Orange County, Allen, a writer from Phoenix, Jim, who preferred to be called 'Jimbo', and Mike, a high school science teacher from San Diego.
"That eagle on eighteen…that was some great shit," Jimbo said, clasping a hand on Chas's shoulder. "Great shit, I'm tellin' ya."
"You're something else, kid," Finley, taking a swig of his beer. "You goin' pro?"
Chas shrugged sheepishly. "Don't know yet."
"You still in high school?"
"Graduated early. Last year."
"Somebody said you been livin' alone," a man said from behind Chas, and Chas immediately recognized him as one of the reporters that'd been tailing him the past few days.
"Uh…yeah. Yeah, I do."
"What about your family?"
Chas was spared having to answer that awkward question when the other guys at the bar started giving the reporter a hard time. The man retreated like a beaten puppy, and Chas returned his attention to the other guys.
Well, mostly. He was a bit taken aback by the way they looked out for him off the course- he felt wanted. Of course, he knew that the second they stepped foot on the course in the morning it would be back to business, high stakes competition…but right now, it felt so warm.
"Look out, boys…high clubbers in the house," Mike mumbled, and Chas glanced over his shoulder to see Dextera and a couple other golfers walk in- obviously the richest in the room.
Dextera caught sight of Chas and walked quickly to the bar, where he received scowls and hushed conversation from all the guys there. He didn't seem to care, though, and he extended his hand for a handshake with Chas.
"Excellent round today, Mr. Kramer," he said with a smirk as Chas swiveled around on the barstool. Chas held up his hand, displaying the bandage, leaving Dextera's hand untouched.
"Ah, yes. I forgot about your…mishap," he said, unfazed as he pulled his hand back. "Superb show of willpower, doing eighteen holes with such a nasty setback."
He reached over and took Mike's beer from him, and the mild mannered science teacher wasn't about to complain. Dextera raised the glass, as if he were performing a toast.
"Here's to hoping you can pull off the impossible again tomorrow, Mr. Kramer," he said, and then he took a drink from it and handed it back to Mike. Chas didn't reply; anyone watching (and everyone was) could tell that the toast was a mockery of Dextera's true wishes.
As Dextera walked away, Mike gave his glass of beer a disgusted look and pushed it away. The bartender had an understanding expression on his face as he replaced the glass with a different one.
"What a stuck-up bastard," Jimbo muttered as Dextera and his posse took a table across the room.
"He only finished with a 70," Mike pointed out.
"Yeah, but he thinks he finished with a 50. I'll bet he pays people to tell him that," Allen said, chuckling.
"Don't let him bother you," Mike said softly to Chas, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. "He thinks he owns California and everyone in it. But you've got over him today, by two strokes."
"More than any of us old fogeys could do," Gary said, receiving laughter and shoves from the other guys, as well as comparing of scores.
The scores had come in close. Chas was in the lead with 68, a professional from Maryland pulled in a close second with 69, then Mike and Dextera followed with even par, 70.
It was a close race, and Dextera was right on his heels. But no matter how close it was- all the guys at that bar were backing him up, supporting him, making sure he knew that they had his back all the way.
Chas was pulled from his thoughts when a caddy stepped into the clubhouse and yelled out the tee times had been posted for the following morning. A few of the guys stayed to finish their drink before going to have a look, but Chas and Mike decided to go ahead.
Chas was third to last to tee off that next day, almost two hours after Dextera, and about 40 minutes after Mike.
Knowing those scores as he played, however, could be either a blessing or a curse.
Chas got back to his hotel about 10, and he immediately set about taking a long shower. About the time he got his bathrobe wrapped around himself, there was a knock on his door.
He looked out the peephole, and sighed when he saw John standing there with the same doctor who'd done his stitches before. He opened the door, gesturing for them to come inside.
"Just stopping by to have a look at that cut, Mr. Kramer," the doctor said as John stood at the side, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. Chas closed the door and sat down on the bed.
"It really isn't that bad…"
"Let me have a look."
Chas reluctantly tugged off the bandages, and winced as the cool air hit the cut on his hand. The doctor clicked his tongue and set to work cleaning the wound and putting a couple fresh stitches in.
"You take it easy tomorrow, understand?" The doctor advised, and Chas nodded, though he had no intention of 'taking it easy'. The doctor gave him a few more tips on taking care of and bandaging the wound, and quick as that, he was gone.
"You did good today," John said, and Chas nodded.
"Thanks."
Cue awkward silence.
"Look, Chas…I have an apology to make," John suddenly said, and Chas looked up in surprise, unsure of where this was going. "I feel like I…like I pushed you into this."
"John, you know this wa-"
"No, let me finish," John said sharply, and Chas stopped talking, eyeing John warily.
"I feel like I pushed you too hard. Made you feel like you had to do this," John continued, and Chas had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something. "And, I just…I wanted to let you know…there wouldn't be any hard feelings if you didn't feel up to it."
Chas gaped at him for a few moments, and then he shook his head. "Am I hearing you right? Cause it sounds to me like you just told me to quit."
"No, Chas, that's not-"
"That's exactly what it is!" Chas snapped, standing up. "You don't want to lose your damn bets if I lose, so you're tryin' to get me to drop out!"
John's eyes narrowed. "Now that's fuckin' ridiculous. I've been backin' you up this whole damn time. Hell, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have gotten this far."
Chas felt his fists clench. "Get out."
"Look, I'm just tryin' to-"
"Get out!"
John obeyed this time. He hesitated, mumbled something about just trying to look out for Chas, and then he retreated into the hallway. Chas slammed the door shut behind him, and then collapsed on the bed.
He lay there for a few minutes, breathing hard, too angry to think straight. Then, he crawled across the bed and grabbed the phone and his address book from the nightstand, looking up a number and dialing.
Fuck Dextera's threats, fuck these stupid feelings for John Constantine…
"Hello, Mr. Burton? This is Chas Kramer. I just called to say…well, if I win this tournament, I can be packed up and ready to go to that Q-School in two days, tops."
