Page 6 of Wood

“Morning, Geoff,” Ben says. His voice is low, gravelly from sleep, and cuts through the quiet hum of the course’s automated sprinklers.

“Good morning, Mr. Vance,” I reply. I immediately take three steps backward, positioning the large black bag as a physical shield between us, exactly as Mac had instructed. Become a ghost, I remind myself. Give the number and step back.

Ben stops. He looks at the bag, then at me. One of his dark eyebrows twitches upward. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just takes a slow sip of his coffee and walks toward the first tee.

For the first three holes, I play the part of the perfect, invisible machine. I stay twenty yards ahead of Ben on every fairway. I drop the bag, zap the flag with my laser and delivered the numbers in a crisp, calm voice.

“One-hundred and ninety-two to the edge, one-hundred and ninety-eight to the pin, sir. Wind is dead.”

Ben nods, pulls a club and executes a flawless shot that lands softly on the dew-slicked green. He doesn’t offer any small talk. The easy, intimate vibe from the comfort station the day before has vanished, replaced by the cold, transactional reality of an IPGA pro. I ignore the dull, hollow ache of disappointment in my chest. This is safer, Geoff.

The illusion shatters on the par-five fourth hole.

Ben’s drive leaks slightly to the right, settling into the first cut of rough. When I march ahead to spot the ball, I realize Ben isn’t behind me. I turn around.

Ben is standing thirty yards back in the fairway, his hands on his hips, eyes staring intensely at me.

I blink, holding the heavy bag tight against my back. “Is everything okay, sir? The ball is right here. You have a clean line.”

Ben walks slowly toward me, his metal spikes crunching softly against the grass. He doesn’t stop until he is standing barely two feet away, completely invading my ‘safe’ boundary. Up close, I can see the faint lines of fatigue around Ben’s eyes. I have to tilt my head up ever so slightly to meet them.

“Who told you to do that?” Ben asks softly.

I stiffen under the crossed straps, swallowing hard. “Do what, sir?”

“The ghost routine,” Ben says, his eyes locking onto mine with a sharp, piercing intensity. “The staying twenty yards ahead. The ‘yes sir, no sir.’ A couple of days ago we were talking like people. Today you’re treating me like I’m one of the corporate suits from the Board who want in your pants.”

I swallow hard. The athletic tape beneath my jumpsuit feels tight and suffocating. “A veteran caddie gave me some advice last night. He told me how to protect myself out here. He said… he said some members get handsy, and it’s safer to keep my distance.”

Ben’s face goes completely still. The easy, relaxed country-club composure drops away. “Did someone mess with you?” He almost growls it. It makes me feel fluttery inside, something I realize I haven’t felt since losing my virginity at fifteen.

I look down at my boots, the humiliation of Gordon Senior’s wet hand on my neck and cupping my ass rushing back. “It doesn’t matter. I handled it.”

“It does matter,” Ben says. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the air for a fraction of a second before he gently, firmly grips the black leather strap crossing my chest. He doesn’t pull, but the proximity is dizzying. I can feel the warmth radiating from Ben’s body in the cool morning air, and smell his warm cedar scent. “Geoff, look at me.”

I snap my eyes up. I cannot not look up. His very presence pulls at me even though his hand doesn’t. I want to do what he is telling me. No, I have to. My throat swallows again.

“I’ve spent over a decade on Tour dealing with people who only see me as a scoreboard number or a paycheck,” Ben says, his voice dropping., and I shiver. “I don’t want a ghost carrying my bag. I asked for you this morning because when I am with you, I feel like I can finally breathe without a demand in my face. Without the expectation of payback. You have a calm about you that I…”

Ben releases the strap, his fingers inches away from my chest. I resist leaning in. I want to lean in. I should step back. I do neither.

“If you want to stay in Denver and be a ghost for these handsy old men, I’ll walk away,” Ben says, stepping back and pulling his four-iron from the bag. Then he looks me in the eye again. “I need a new caddie on The Tour. Julian quit. I’m offering it to you. Good cut of whatever prize money I pull.”

He lets me absorb that. He’s offering me a job.

Ben turns to his ball, swings, and the ball sails down the fairway, landing on the green. He’s there in two, on a par-five hole. When he makes the putt, it’ll be an eagle, two under par. Easily. He puts the iron back in the bag, then steps back. His tired eyes meet mine.

“But if you come on The Tour with me, you stand next to me on the tee box, walk next to me on the fairway, look at my line on the green right next to me. We are a team. We do this together.” He looks me straight in the eye again. “None of this ghost shit. Understood?”

I stand in the morning sunlight, the pain in my shoulders completely forgotten.

“Understood,” I say quietly.

Ben takes a slow sip of his water, his gaze never leaving my face. “I’m headed to New York after this. The grass is different. Air is heavy. Greens are concrete. It’s a grind.” He takes a step closer, reducing the space between us to less than an arm’s length. “I need someone who can handle the pressure out there. The numbers, my clubs… someone I can trust to be steady. Calm.”

I look at Ben, my breath catching slightly. This seems like more than just carrying a bag. “New York is a long way from Denver.”

“I fly private,” Ben says softly. “There’s plenty of room. And I won’t…” He clears his throat, looking away.