At the golf course

Lancelot stepped out of Doctor Flinn's office. Peter was seated in one of the chairs in the reception room, eager for his boss's arrival.

When Lancelot cleared his throat and straightened his posture, Peter eyes rose up from the Macbook on his lap to his boss's tall frame. Lancelot tucked his hands into the pocket of his trousers and leaned against the wall.

"Am I missing something?" Lancelot asked, taking note of the creases formed on Peter's forehead as a result of his frowning.

Peter sighed, packed up his gadgets quietly and rose up.

"Nothing serious. The Alpha king has just requested for your presence at the golf course."

Lancelot scoffed, rolled his eyes and stood straight.

"My father knows I hate golf." He stated. Lancelot had never cared for the game. Golf was simply one of those things his aristocracy demanded that he learnt. And it was very easy to, considering the eight thousand yards of expanse land that served as the Dankworth's golf course.

"So do I sire. However,