Page 14 of Wood

Realizing how judgmental I was being, I try to crack a joke. “Also didn’t take you for a Stewie fan,” I laugh.

“Only tat I have,” Ben retorts, then blushes.

My turn to sputter. “What?” I start laughing and can’t get ahold of it. “You have a tattoo of…” I can barely speak, I’m laughing so hard.

He nods, sips more beer, “With the flamethrower.”

I gape. “Oh my god, that’s classic! Vintage Stewie!”

He grins over his beer.

“Where?” I ask, and he wiggles his eyebrows.

I’m saved from trying to work words out by the arrival of multitudes of baskets. Fried clam strips, flounder, shrimp, and a couple of lobster rolls, plus mounds of french fries. We dig in with gusto, and I can’t suppress a moan as the lobster hits my tongue.

“Good, huh,” he smirks and I cough.

“Almost the best thing I’ve had on my tongue,” I smirk and it’s his turn to cough.

Laughing, he takes the bait. “And the best thing would be?”

Shaking my head, “I do not kiss and tell,” I reply, popping a fried clam into my mouth. I see a head turn at his laugh, the look of recognition on the guy’s face. This is hardly the right location for going down that path. Lots of ears all around. I see another guy standing across the restaurant, phone up, catching us sharing the meal. That’ll be on the socials in minutes. Just a pro and his caddie eating, dude, nothing more.

11

BEN

Geoff has noticed people in the restaurant watching us and turns his attention to the food. This is his first experience of the fishbowl of The Tour but it’s important. I need him to understand and play the role out here, as I play mine. If I might want another role… This is not the place to open that conversation. If ever.

Another fan interrupts with pen and golf cap. I sign the bill with a gritted smile, thank him for his well wishes and return to our meal.

Geoff consumes quantities of food that only a young athlete can accomplish. Julian didn’t eat this much, but he was a smaller man in his thirties. When Geoff’s reduced to picking at the fries, I ask, “Should we get more protein?” with a soft smile.

He glances up in surprise, searching my face. I make sure to only show kindness, no judgment. His body needs fuel, and I have a responsibility to make sure he gets it. He bites his bottom lip, and I motion to the waiter.

“Another lobster roll,” I tell him. I turn to him with a raised brow. “Clams too?” He shakes his head and I add on, “and one more round of IPA.”

The waiter turns away and he murmurs low, for my ears only. “Thanks.”

I nod and sip the dregs of my first bottle. It’s warm, and I set it aside.

“Might have to come up with a regimen for you,” I ponder. I should have thought about this beforehand. He’s young and burning a lot of calories during the day, and I should do my part to help him maintain that gorgeous body. While he isn’t playing hockey, he isn’t just sitting on his ass in a cart, either. He’s hauling forty pounds of my gear over eighteen holes. I pull out my phone and tap a bit, then blanch.

“I’m not feeding you enough,” I say. His eyes meet mine in a startled look.

“Ben,” he starts to object, “I’m…”

I cut him off with a hand wave as the lobster roll arrives. “Yes, I know, you’re a big boy and can take care of yourself, but I did not give you enough time and calories to eat today.” I hold my phone out to him, and he obediently peers at the screen as he chews. “Look, you need at least four thousand calories on a day we play a full round of eighteen. I only aim for three for myself. You need more, Geoff.” I tap some more and start to outline a macro plan more suited to him than mine. “Your folks athletes?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nah, Dad was an engineer, Mom a public defender.” He swallows the last of the lobster with a swig of beer. “Dad had a gym membership but didn’t use it much. Golfed a few times each summer. Mom did yoga at home to videos.”

“Play sports in school?” I ask as I refine.

He shakes his head. “Just golf. A bit of soccer in grade school, but it didn’t stick.” He shakes his head with a small laugh. “Mom was so not a soccer mom. Did not get along with the uber mommies.”

“Roommates?” I ask.

He scoffs. “Bunch of geeks. We are the pizza, burgers, beer, and pop tarts crew.”