Page 11 of Wood

“You look tired, Ben,” Todd says, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Pennecote’s fescue chewing you up already?”

“Just pacing myself,” I say, leaning back and keeping my voice level. “It’s only Monday.”

“Right. Pacing yourself.” Todd leans forward, resting his thick forearms on the white tablecloth. His eyes gleam with predatory mischief. “Is that why you hired a pretty babysitter for your bag? I saw you guys on the back porch earlier. What’s his name? John? Jason?”

My chest tightens slightly, but I keep my expression completely blank. No sign of the territorial growl bubbling in my head. “Geoff. With a G. He’s sharp, Todd. Knows how to read a green.”

“He looks like he just got his driver’s license,” Todd snorts, leaning back as his whiskey arrives. He takes a long sip, never breaking eye contact. “Is he even legal to drink? I mean, come on, Ben. Twenty-one? The kid’s practically vibrant. I saw him walking down the ninth. He looked like he wanted to sprint the fairway. Meanwhile, you looked like you needed a cane.”

“He has energy. It’s useful.” I want to tell Todd to fuck off, but he’d just twist it and make it something it isn’t.

“Energy is one word for it,” Todd says, lowering his voice, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. He tilts his glass toward me. “The guys in the locker room were taking bets on how long he lasts. A kid that young, he doesn’t know the pressure of a Major. He’s going to misread a wind vector on Friday, give you the wrong club, and you’re going to snap him in half.”

I take a slow sip of my water, letting the ice clink against the glass. I picture Geoff on the porch, the serious intensity in his blue eyes, the heat coming off his skin when our knees brushed.

“He listens,” I say calmly, looking Todd straight in the eye. “That’s more than I can say for most veterans. He learns. He does what I tell him to do.”

Todd lets out a loud, barking laugh that makes a couple of players at the adjacent table turn around. “Oh, I bet he does. He looks like a puppy dog following you around. Just make sure he doesn’t trip over his own feet on Thursday, Ben. The American Open is no place for a project. You need a killer on the bag, not a fan.”

He drains his Scotch and stands up, slapping the table. “Good luck tomorrow. Try to get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

I watch him walk away toward the buffet, his loud laugh echoing across the dining room. I look down at my hands, my knuckles slightly white against the condensation on my water glass. Todd thinks he’s poking at my pride, thinking to shake my game. He has no idea. And I want to keep it that way.

The pounding bass of KISS doesn’t cover my groan as I cum down a throat. I can barely see the boy’s face in this dark corner, and that is just what I need. I do not want to picture Geoff’s face right now, not as this obliging young guy swallows the last of my cum. The boy’s skin is dark, his eyes inky black as he beams up at me. Tucking my cock into my briefs, he tugs up my shorts and slithers up to standing. Slender arms wrap around my shoulders as his bristly lips brush my cheek, nibble onto my mouth.

“Mmm, Daddy, delicious,” he purrs. I press my lips to his stubbly cheek.

“Thanks, darling,” I say against his cheek. “I needed that.”

He rubs his naked chest against me, the scent of a cheap cologne - is that Cremo? - clinging to him as he winds his forearms behind my neck, tugging me close. “Mmm, take me home and have a round two?” he says in my ear. “My ass is hungry. You have such a nice big cock, would fill me up so good.”

Leaning my forehead against his, I hum against his mouth. “Just passing through, sorry, babe.”

“Ooh, pouting now, I am,” he declares but starts to peel himself off me. “I’ll let you jet, but here’s my digits if you change your mind.” Before I realize what he’s doing, he’s scribbled on my palm with a Sharpie marker (where the hell did he get that?) and slinks into the crowd with a backward thrown kiss.

Black marker is still hard to get off of skin. I grimace and set down the hotel soap. I need a pumice. At least I can cover the number with my glove tomorrow. I’ve washed the cheap cologne from my neck and tossed that hoodie into my dirty pile. I should just take a full shower, but I showered before going out and I’m tired.

Leaving the bathroom, I head into the living room, treating myself to a small dram of Scotch. Tomorrow we don’t start until later, a foursome for the full eighteen.

As I collapse into an overstuffed chair, the door opens and Geoff makes his way into the suite.

“In here,” I call out. “If you want to join me.”

He takes a seat on the couch and I wave to the bottle of Scotch.

“Help yourself, if you want. Or there’s beer in the mini fridge.”

Rising, he examines the whiskey. “Dad drank this,” he says softly, pouring a small amount into a tumbler before settling back onto the couch. He smiles at the glass, I assume at a memory. “Mom liked Bourbon.”

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. “Go, Mom,” I laugh, raising the glass. “Good caddie’s night?”

He glances up and raises his glass as well, then takes a tiny sip. Emotions flicker over his youthful face, melancholy for a moment, then they are gone, and he’s just enjoying the drink, swirling it around in the glass, sniffing, then tasting again.

He shrugs. “A bunch of older guys, complaining about their golfers.” He takes another sip. “I couldn’t relate.” He looks over and grins. “Nothing to complain about.”

I grin back. “Yet.”

He chuckles and puts the glass down on the table. Then sniffs again, turning his face toward me.