Page 21 of Wood

“You have no idea,” he snickers as he hides his mouth with his bottle as well.

Fuck. Do not get hard on the damned golf course.

By the eleventh hole, Ben is two under par, another solid birdie on his scorecard. This is the hole he got it in one on Thursday, but the pin placement is far to the left today and we’ll have to take the smart route, just get it on the green then hopefully birdie it in on the second shot. No wind today, so the eight iron comes out to play.

He winds up high, ready to let it fly, when a spectator whoops and claps loudly, and he drops his arms, stepping back and glaring into the crowd, swinging the club from side to side in agitation. He has completely lost his focus. Shit. I move forward to stand right in front of him, close enough to smell his cedar scent.

“Ben?” I ask in a low voice. “This one is easy, you got this.”

He huffs out a growl and I continue soothing. “Come on, look at me.” His dark eyes meet mine, edges crinkled in irritation. I can feel the fucking cameras on us and I speak low, not moving my lips much, for his ears only, hoping the stupid drone cannot hear me. “No wind, the eight will play it beautifully, get it right up there on the green and we’ll be sitting pretty, just like we practiced. Nice and easy, big breath, slow swing, ok?” I give him a tight smile, just the right side of my lips quirking up, still looking into those dark brown eyes, then say, “Make it so.”

His snicker takes his shoulders down away from his ears, and he shakes his head, meets my eyes, takes a deep breath and replies, “Aye, aye,” then steps forward, shaking out his shoulders. I move back again, giving him the box, inhaling deeply and loudly. He echoes my breathing, shoulders rising then falling, then winds back and nails it, the ball sailing up, and we hear the plonk onto the green and polite applause from the gallery.

Chad steps forward. “Damned fans,” he mutters low and quietly, “well done.”

Ben laughs, stepping away to give him the box. Unfortunately, Chad’s shot is not as clean, and the splat into the sand makes him groan. Ben pats him on the back in commiseration, and we trudge up the short walk.

We finish just after noon, and I head straight to the equipment tent to drop off Ben’s bag, then hit the buffet line, grabbing snacks and fruit enough for both of us. Ben will be a while with the increased media presence and his current high ranking. We ended up a full three under par, putting Ben near the top.

I try not to think about what my cut would be if he is in that top ten ranking. He already seeded me the three grand for the week and I’ll net at least five percent of whatever Ben earns. If he gets in the top ten, my cut goes up to seven percent. My college debt could be wiped out, and I could move out of that shared apartment, not have to listen to Charles get off every night.

One day at a time, though. We still have tomorrow to play, for me to be the rock for Ben to lean on. Tomorrow will be the hardest day: the worst pin placements, and everyone will be tired. I’ll focus on being the rock he needs and not on the potential paycheck. Exactly what he said he hated being for his former caddie. I need to take care of this man. Centering him when the fan rattled him felt so right, like I was made for this, for this man. I banish that thought. Head in the game, Geoff.

After a quick shower, I’m chilling in front of the TV again, re-watching the Denver hockey team playing in the Stanley Cup final. The action is fast and brutal, and I feel a familiar longing that comes from never having played team sports. Working that close, learning to read each other, to pass with the knowledge that your teammate will be right where you expect him to be, just like you practiced. Mesmerizing. I love watching. I’m so absorbed in the game, I don’t hear Ben come up behind me, and I jump as he plops down next to me, sandwich in hand.

“Thanks for this,” he says, waving the banana as he bites in, nodding his head at the TV. “Hockey fan?”

I tear my eyes from watching him chew, the muscles in his jaw, the cords in his neck that I want to feel under my lips. Fuck, look away, Geoff. “Yeah, another sport my mother couldn’t stand being around the other mommies.”

“Oof, hockey moms are brutal,” he agrees.

“She just wasn’t good with other women,” I say. “Hanging around criminals all day gave her a short fuse with nonsense, as she put it.”

“Well, she helped raise a solid guy, so I’m a fan,” he replies. Popping the last bite of fruit, he gestures to the table where I left the yardbook. “Let’s look it over then go get tempura and sushi.”

Mindful that the private booths are the low Japanese tables, I dress accordingly with loose stretchy chinos and clean socks. Ben and I wiggle into place across from each other, him wincing slightly at sitting crisscross.

“Not as flexible as you,” he admits, rubbing at his right hip.

I smirk and keep my ‘old man’ comment to myself. Ben is a fine silver fox, and I know he knows that. “Did you get to the PT tent today after the media circus?”

He nods. “They loosened up my lower back. Again. Didn’t realize I needed my hips opened up, though.”

My face is pink. I know it is, as I can feel the heat. Flashes of my legs wrapped around those hips takes my breath away, and I cough and pour tea to distract myself.

His right eyebrow quirks up. “Where did your mind go just now, Geoff?” he snickers.

I cough again and sip the jasmine tea, wincing at the heat. Getting some serious wood while wedged under a short table is not happening. Thankfully, the waitress slides the door open slightly to slip inside and kneel, then close it next to her. She hands us each a hot towel, and we dutifully wipe our hands and set them on her tray. She lays down leather-bound menus and a sushi order sheet onto the table with a tiny pencil and backs out the door, sliding it shut behind her.

“Looks like a scorecard pencil,” Ben says as he picks it up and twirls it a little, then quickly puts marks next to a half dozen items. “Anything you want in particular?” he asks as he studies the sheet.

“Nah,” I reply, “I love it all.”

“I’d rather not eat octopus,” he admits, and it’s my turn to quirk an eyebrow. “Too damned smart, I don’t want to eat smart animals, just dumb ones.”

I cough again, mid-slurp of tea. Well, shit, that’s actually rather sweet.

“I also don’t eat grouper,” he adds. “Come scuba diving with me some time, they are just so damned cute. Ugly cute, but cute, like giant puppies with huge lips. Following you around, getting in the way. I cannot eat cute.”