Page 10 of Wood

A few practice swings, then he locks in and WHACK! The ball is sailing. It’s a perfect shot, high in the humid air, riding the edge of the fescue before biting into the tight turf and rolling out, easily over three hundred yards. What remains is a short wedge to get the ball onto the green. He turns back to me with a tight grin and gives me a nod, handing back the driver. He takes the three-wood and sends another ball sailing down the fairway. It stops well before the first ball, catching in the dew. He hands the club back with another nod. I slip the covers onto both clubs and slide them into the bag, and we head down onto the fairway.

“Perfect shot,” I murmur for Ben’s ears only. He gives me a side glance with a smile. Both balls are easy to spot. Their paths are dark through the shining, wet grass. I pick up the second ball as Ben passes it by, drying it as I walk. As we get to the farther white orb, we are both scanning its resting area. It is in a perfect, pristine lie and will be an easy move to get it up on the green. I step back and pull Ben’s Lob Wedge, raising an eyebrow for confirmation.

Another barely there smile with a nod. His approval sends another little jolt through me. Pulling the hood from it, I extend it out and step back to give him space, forcing my eyes away from his lean body. An easy two more strokes as I scribble in the yardbook and we are on the way to the second hole.

The morning passes in a relaxed eighteen holes around the course. We have this round to ourselves because of our super early start. There is no pressure to hurry, and Ben takes advantage of this a few times to try out several shots, discussing how he wants to play each hole when the competition starts. I take copious notes.

We finish and head toward the clubhouse.

“I’ll meet you on the deck,” Ben says as he heads to the locker room.

9

BEN

The humid, salty coastal air is abruptly cut off by cool air-conditioning, the scent of wood polish and leather. The locker room gleams and I flop onto the bench with a weary groan, stretching my lower back. Leaning forward, I slowly untie my shoelaces, pulling the spiked shoes from my feet and wriggling my toes with a relieved sigh. Ugh, my feet hurt. A quick shower - no, you will not jerk off to thoughts of Geoff on his knees right there, blue eyes begging… dammit. I grunt my release into the drain on the floor, then change into fresh clothes and head to the back deck.

The heavy screen door clicks shut behind me, cutting off the low hum of the locker room. The back porch of the Millford clubhouse is quiet, shaded from the midday glare, smelling of salt air and sun-warmed cedar.

I drop two sweating cans of electrolyte water onto the dark wood table and slide into a wicker chair. My lower back throbs from fighting the morning wind, a dull, familiar ache that reminds me I am thirty-nine, not twenty-one. I wonder again if this should be my last year. Look into buying my own club, play golf for fun, do local tournaments versus this grind. This very well-paying grind, I remind myself. I’ll hit up the massage therapists before dinner tonight.

Across from me, Geoff is already waiting. He sits on the edge of his seat, his broad shoulders squared, still buzzing with the hyped energy of a young man who just walked his first championship loop. His forearms are lightly tanned, dusted with dark hair, a contrast to the white towel he is meticulously folding and unfolding over his knee.

“Drink,” I say, nodding toward the can.

“Thanks, Ben.” Geoff pulls the tab. The hiss of the aluminum splits the quiet, and he takes a sip. He doesn’t look at the drink; his blue eyes lift right to mine, intense and eager. “We crushed the front nine. The line you took on One? God, that was ballsy. I thought we were gonna be dead in the fescue, but you just…” He mimes a plop with his hand.

I let out a slow breath, leaning back so our knees brush under the small table. I don’t pull away. “Monday doesn’t pay the mortgage, Geoff. We took a bit of risk today. In the tournament, we lay back. We don’t have to go for the top ten slot, my current standing is fine around twenty-five.”

“But it worked,” he says softly, leaning forward, his broad chest pressing slightly against the edge of the table. He smells of sunscreen, sweat, and the sharp, clean scent of crushed grass. Opening his yardage book between us, he points to a heavily annotated sketch of the first green. “Look at the slope here. If you fly it sixty yards with the lob wedge like you did, the dew holds it. It’s a dead-stop birdie.”

I reach out, my hand hovering over his for a fraction of a second before I place my palm flat on the opposite page of the book. I will not touch. The heat radiates off his young skin. I want to touch him. Want to feel that broad hand under mine.

“And if the wind flips on Thursday morning?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave, lower than it needs to be, gentle. Very gentle. This boy needs a caring approach, so young and fresh and eager to please. Christ, I just jerked off. Why is my cock twitching at that thought? I look up from the notebook, holding his gaze. Such pretty blue eyes. “The dew dries out by nine. If you give me that same yardage into a dry, crusty front slope, the ball rolls twenty yards backward. I’m scrambling for a bogey.”

Geoff swallows. I watch the muscle in his jaw tighten as he processes the information. He doesn’t look away from me, just like he didn’t last night. A subtle flush creeps up his neck, turning the edge of his collar a deeper pink. I feel my own face get hot at the memory of him standing there. Naked. So beautiful.

“Right,” he murmurs, his voice a little thicker now. He clears his throat, shifting slightly in his chair, his knee making direct, brief contact with mine before he pulls it back. “Adjust for the dry air. Got it.”

“You have great instincts, Geoff,” I say, keeping my hand steady on the page, just inches from his. “But at Pennecote, patience keeps you alive. You have to learn to restrain yourself.”

He looks down at my hand, then back up, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can learn,” he says.

My cock twitches. Again. Damn, I am in trouble. I lean back, pulling my hand from his notes and forcing it into my lap, pressing my cock down into submission where he can’t see.

“Let’s go through the rest of the round,” I reply. “And drink, dammit.”

He drinks.

I need to get laid, badly. This evening, I am going to head to a gay club in the next county and find some pretty boy to get me off. I can’t get Geoff’s face out of my head, and that is just not a path I can go down. I told him I wouldn’t hit on him, and I need to honor that. Those pleading blue eyes are killing me.

The players’ dinner is for golfers only, so Geoff is on his own. I’ve given him an advance so he can go out if he wants to. Probably chowing on a burger at some local place with the other caddies. His notes - neat, precise pencil marks on waterproof paper - are still fresh in my mind. The way he listened, absorbed, pressed back when he had a point but backed off when I corrected, he sticks in my head. Those bright blue eyes, not flinching away from mine. So sincere, so calm. So innocent, I add to myself. Is he going to hook up tonight? I flinch away from that thought, don’t look at the irritation that simmers up suddenly. I plan to, so I have no right to resent him for doing so.

The dining room inside the player hotel is a sea of navy blazers and low, tired murmurs. The scent of seared ribeye fills the air. I sit at a corner table, a glass of icy club soda in my hand, my lower back finally loosened up after the massage therapist worked on it and I sat for a half hour in the hot tub and four ibuprofen and a ton of water.

“Look at him. The lone wolf.”

A heavy hand drops onto my shoulder, shaking me slightly. I don’t need to look up to know the booming, gravelly voice. It’s Todd. The Third. He pulls out the chair directly across from me and slides into it, his blazer stretched tight across his chest. He orders a Scotch from a passing waiter before he even looks at me.