Page 47 of Wood

“Freddie used to do that, polish the same glass that doesn’t need it.”

“Kind of like you cleaning a ball that is not dirty,” Ben replies, and I gasp in mock horror.

“I like keeping your balls clean,” I sniff and move to the window. The field opens up in front of us, the diamond green and the backfield looks enormous.

“This is huge. Like I’m at a different stadium. I can barely hear the crowd,” I marvel.

Ben puts his hand into mine and steers me toward our box. We pause for a moment, and he says something to a guy he knows from some sponsor thing. Easy. Unbothered. My hand held in his the whole time. Nobody here cares. It’s amazing, really, a gift. Even at Babylon, two men actually together wasn’t unremarkable. But here, it’s… fine.

The kiss cam’s been going for most of the second half. It circles through the bowl, making the crowd laugh. An older couple barely glance up from their nachos, give a quick peck, then go back to gooey cheese that actually looks pretty tasty. A teenage couple go beet red and hide behind a program. I’ve tuned it out. I’m more interested in whether the Rockies can hold a two-run lead in the seventh.

There’s a half-second lag as the cameraman finds a face and the crowd shifts. A ripple of heads turn our way. I look up and it’s us.

I nudge Ben and nod towards the jumbotron.

Our box, blown up twenty feet tall. Little pink hearts spin around us.

Ben goes still next to me. Calculating. Just like a line on a green. Down in the stadium, I hear it start. A few voices at first, then more, the rising chant, “KISS! KISS! KISS!” Forty-some-thousand people are all watching. Are we going to do this?

“They know who you are,” I say quietly, like that’s news to either of us. “Who we are.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes still on the screen instead of me, and I can see him thinking. Sponsors. IPGA. Twenty years of a career hiding so no one would ask this question in public.

He turns to grin at me and just… lets go.

His lips touch mine and press gently. My mouth curves up against his. The cheers of the crowd are louder for us than they’ve been for the Rockies. He pulls back slightly, his brown eyes crinkling. The cameraman moves to some kid. The game just picks back up like nothing happened.

Except it did happen. Forty-four thousand people just watched Ben Vance kiss me. My phone dings and I lift it, smirking at the social media pings. #theDaddyAndTheCaddie is trending. He grimaces. I catch Ben’s hand on the armrest between our seats, thread our fingers together, kiss his knuckles and don’t let go for the rest of the inning.

27

BEN

Mini-golf is as ridiculous indoors as it was as a kid. Loop-the-loops through windmills, thin beams that vault the ball over a ball-sucking gap, lewd clowns with blinking eyes and holes in their mouths to shoot into. It’s just plain silly. Geoff can’t stop grinning.

The guy in the couple in front of us looked hard at me when we first started, but now they just treat us like that cute gay couple playing putt-putt and sucking at it. Except Geoff does not suck at this, and he mocks me viciously about it.

“You should be good at this. You are a pro.”

“This putter is shit, and the handle is sticky like some kid smeared cotton candy all over it. Or snot.”

“I wiped it off for you, baby, just like in Ireland.”

“It is permanently sticky then. I need a glove.”

“Oh look, I love these, the boards move and you have to time it just right.”

“That is not realistic.”

“Really, Ben, realistic? It’s mini-golf, not Pennecote. Damn you suck at this.”

“You better suck later, baby,” I mockingly growl in his ear.

“Ben Vance,” he fake gasps, “this is a family establishment.”

Dammit, I can read a six-foot putt on a green cut to tournament speed, but I cannot get a damned ball through a stupid loop-the-loop shaped like a purple octopus. I miss it three times and laugh.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, lining up a fourth attempt.