Page 2 of Iron

“Dolly the drag queen?” I laugh. “Hope she ditches the stilettos.”

“The same! What a hoot,” he replies. “Her wig is so big. Hope it doesn’t fall off when she bends down to tee her ball.”

“You’re still playing tomorrow, right?”

“Yep! Got my outfit picked out! Sparkles, babyyy!”

“And you’re sure about being my caddie for the rest of the season?”

“Hell, yeah, bestie! Help you grind for points for that pro card.”

“You’re the best, Caleb. Got your school stuff figured out?”

“Yep, no problemo, easy peasy.”

I plan to start the real grind to go pro this summer. Dad got me an exemption for the John Bell Classic in Illinois later this month. The Tour will pay Caleb a couple grand for the week and a piece of my cut if I place high enough. I’m pretty sure I can get into the top forty, at least. Pressure is on, though.

The Fourth.

2

GAVIN

Entitled little fucker, I growl to myself. Surrounded by his flaming gay little friends, supported by his retired pro father, TJ has it all. He is wearing a polo, but where the hell did he find one in fluorescent rainbow stripes? His black hair is trimmed high and tight under his cap. And that fucking eyeliner making his green eyes pop. Who the hell has green eyes like that? Must be colored contact lenses.

Too damned pretty. Always has been. Hanging around his father on Tour, giving doe eyes to Ben Vance’s husband. I don’t notice that he has filled out his slim frame with some smooth flowing muscle, forearms and biceps rippling in the sunlight. Nope, not looking.

His cute twink buddy flails at the ball on the tee, whiffing his first attempt, which sets them both laughing, and it’s another minute before he can compose himself to try again. That floppy, bleached blond hair isn’t helping the skinny boy, but he has refused to wear a golf hat.

“Gasp!” He actually says ‘gasp’ aloud. “Noooo, no hat head for this boy, I need to be wild and free!” He shimmies his skinny hips, covered by sparkling little pink shorts. “Everywhere!” he titters. “Commando baby!”

“TMI, bitch,” TJ laughs. “Damn, Caleb.”

“Will you please tee off? Some of us are here to play golf,” I grumble.

“Ooh, Mr. Grumpy Pants on deck,” the blond snickers. “Would you like to play through, honey?”

I am at least fifteen years that boy’s senior and probably twenty years older than TJ. At forty-one, I am still in the game, still ranking in the top thirty in The Tour. I came to Denver to play in Ben’s “fun“ new Pride Tournament. I am already regretting this.

“Give the boys some competition, Gavin, it’ll be fun,” Ben had said. “Help bring the gays onto a golf course.”

This first “fun“ day has been eye popping and head shaking. The group in front of us includes a drag queen, six-four, her giant wig doing its best to block her vision as she swings. At least she ditched the stilettos and is wearing combat boots.

“No point in playing through,” I sigh, suppressing a growl. “Group ahead is just as slow. Just… tee off already.”

Caleb rolls his eyes and approaches his ball again. He huffs out a breath at his bangs, then pulls back and connects in a surprisingly good hit, barely into the shorter rough, two-hundred and fifty yards down the fairway.

“Sweet!” TJ crows, raising a hand for a high-five.

Caleb steps back, saying, “Ok Mr. Baby Pro, show me some good stuff.”

Shaking his head, TJ sets his ball on a tee. I do not watch his cute ass as he bends over. Not at all. Shaking his shoulders out, he settles into his stance, takes a slow, even practice swing, then steps forward. He winds up in a beautiful arc, then lets loose, and the ball sails down the fairway over three hundred yards easily.

“Damn, boo!” Caleb whistles as TJ turns to him with a blinding smile.

My breath seizes. That smile stole it away. I force myself to turn away and pull my tee and ball from my pocket. I adjust my glove. Then, dammit, adjust my shorts. I should visit a gay bathhouse tonight. Chubbing up on the golf course is ridiculous. Especially for a guy twenty years younger than me. Do not think about his slim, five-ten body wrapping around my six-three. Focus.

“Ok, Daddy, show us how it’s done,” Caleb chirps.