Page 12 of Wood

I quirk an eyebrow, raising my glass to take another sip. His eyes flash to my palm, and I flinch. I catch his widened eyes, and his face reveals his thoughts, his connection of dots I didn’t realize I’d drawn.

He clears his throat and breathes a deep inhale. “Um, if you need, um,” his face is flushing deep magenta. “I can stay out late if you need the room for… um…”

My turn to flush. “Not necessary. I… went out.”

His harsh laugh surprises me. “Yeah, I figured that out.” He rises abruptly, tosses back the last sip of Scotch. He is irritated, and now I am the one not connecting the dots. Because he cannot be jealous, and there’s no other explanation coming to mind.

“See you in the morning,” he mumbles, disappearing into his room. I sit there for a while, puzzled. I hear the shower run and sip on the last of my Scotch, not wanting to finish it, but not wanting to pour more. A muffled bang comes from the bathroom, like he’s slammed the shower door, then silence.

10

GEOFF

Why the fuck am I mad? So Ben went out and got laid. With a guy. So what? Why do I care who he gets his rocks off with? Why the hell do I fucking care, dammit. And why the hell do I keep imagining Ben when I jerk off? He is my boss. The man paying me to carry his damned golf bag around this fucking course.

No, the course is gorgeous. Again. And Ben is kind. Again. And so fucking gorgeous.

The pros shake hands in greeting. The other caddies just exchange head nods. James Beckett is loud and jovial, shaggy brown hair tucked under a cap sprinkled with sponsor logos. Rashad Priya is tall and lanky with a snooty, superior air, dismissive to the other two guys but fawning over Ben. The last, Chris Novak, is a blond, preppy guy with a thick, nasal Boston accent.

We are later in the morning than yesterday. As Ben predicted, with the dew blazed away by the sun, the first hole was too risky to use the driver, but he plunks it nicely with a three wood. As we play this round with three other players, three other veteran caddies, I watch and observe. Imitate. I make notes of everything. Ben appreciated the notes yesterday, so I take extra care with them today, scribbling fiercely as we go.

As we approach the eleventh hole, the most difficult par-three on this course, we pause to take stock. It’s short, only one-hundred-fifty yards, but all uphill and the green is hidden at the very top.

My laser says one-fifty-seven, but it’s playing one-seventy-five between the elevation and the wind. We can’t even see the green from the tee box.

“Thoughts?” Ben asks, standing slightly away from the others.

I set the bag down gently. “Wind is swirling in the hollow. Hit the seven-iron and you’re flying over the back into the runoff banks. It’s a hard nine-iron. Trust the wind to lift it up the hill?”

Ben ponders for a bit. “We’ll try the eight,” he finally replies, holding out a hand. “If that fails, we’ll go for the nine.”

Trying to school my face into no emotion, I hand over the eight and step back to give him room to swing. He pulls back and lets loose. The ball sails up, then stalls in the upper wind currents, falls short of the green and plugs directly into the face of the steep, gaping front-right bunker with a splat.

“Oho!” crows Beckett. “Going to the beach! Break out the shovels!”

Ben grimaces, then hands me the eight. “Give me the nine,” he says flatly.

I will not gloat, I will not gloat, I repeat as I uncover his nine and hand it to him, cleaning off the eight before sliding it back into the bag.

Another swing, and this time it’s fucking perfect. It’s got enough power to get up into air and let the wind carry it forward. We hear a thunk of the ball landing on the green.

“Hmph,” he grumbles, handing the iron back to me with a wry smile. “Good work. Make a note.”

I just nod. I think I am not smiling. I’m trying very hard not to.

We trudge up the narrow, pedestrian path cut through the thick, waist-high native fescue. The Atlantic wind, which was blocked down on the tee box, hits us full in the face as we ascend the crest of the hill.

“Oof,” Ben grumbles as he surveys the two balls. His first is buried deep in the sand. I pull out his putter and hand it off to him, then set the bag down on the end of the green and hustle forward to dig the ball out of the gritty trap, combing the sand back into a smooth surface as I walk backwards. I wipe the ball clean of sand with my towel as I walk back to the green, just in time to see Ben sink the putt.

“Birdie vs par and no risk,” Ben says to me without rancor.

“If the wind is favorable,” I reply with a small grin.

“Good work,” he says, patting my shoulder as he hands me the putter.

“Said I can learn,” I can’t resist chirping.

He busts out with a full laugh, drawing the eyes of the other three players and their caddies.