Page 3 of Iron

I glare at him. “Don’t.” I’ve refused to touch up the few gray strands at my temples, and I know I have some lines on my face, but I’m not a fucking Daddy.

Caleb cracks up.

“Give me space,” I mutter, waving him back.

TJ tugs on Caleb’s arm, pulling them towards the back of the tee box. I shake out the tension that has gathered in my shoulders and roll my neck. Bending down, I press my tee and ball into the turf, not looking to see if TJ is watching. I don’t care if he is eyeing my ass.

Focus, Gavin.

Stretching my lower back out and taking a quick practice swing, I settle into my stance, feet slightly more than shoulder-width apart. Weight balanced, push the driver head to hover an inch off the grass behind the ball. One deep breath, one look down the fairway, shift my feet slightly, back to the ball and then I move, winding up as I have thousands of times before. It’s a solid hit, the ball streaking through the air to land thirty yards beyond TJ’s and rolling another fifteen.

“Fuuuck,” Caleb breathes.

I hand my driver to my caddie, Stephen. “Let’s go, boys,” I can’t resist chirping, not looking at TJ.

The heat of the hot tub sinks into my body as I ease back against the side. I’ve already cum, a sweet young man on his knees before I even exited the tiny room I paid extra for. I’d hit the gym before coming here, getting my shoulders and arms puffed up from lifting. I know the effect it has on the guys who love muscle, and I aim to appeal to them. That is definitely half the reason I keep myself hard and muscular. Guys like knowing I can probably bench press two of them, running their fingers over my ripped delts and biceps, down the ridges of my abs. I’ve had more than one hand brush over my ass and pecs as I walk through the halls, a gesture of appreciation in a club like this.

Closing my eyes, I scoot sideways to get a jet right where I need it in my lower back. My arm brushes the guy next to me. I open my eyes and look at the face grinning next to me.

“Damn, I want to fuck you,” he says, and I huff a laugh.

“Sorry,” I reply. I don’t bottom for a guy I just met, but I don’t need to tell him that. “Just got off, gonna chill for a bit.”

He takes the rebuff easily and shifts away, leaving the tub after a moment. That’s a prod to get myself back to my hotel. I’ll just have to turn more guys down if I stay here. After rinsing off in the cold showers (why doesn’t the hot water ever work in these places), I make my way to my tiny cell-like room, closing the door behind me. I spot a guy following me as the door clicks shut and I lock it, just in case. Most guys respect the closed door, but no need to take a chance. Pulling my clothes back on, I head out, summoning a ride before I open the door.

My hotel is ordinary, and I settle back on the bed to channel surf. Golf highlights stream and I largely ignore it, just letting it be company in the background. Sipping my bourbon, phone in hand, I flip through my social media accounts, which I rarely post to, just read. Someone has tagged me in a story, and I click the link.

Well, fuck. Marius just had another kid. Fuck him. I close my eyes. Marius Webb. Twelve years ago on Tour when I was still finding my footing, Marius was devastatingly handsome, a mentor first, then something else entirely. Three years of hotel rooms and locked doors and a relationship that only existed in the dark. Never sat in a restaurant or bar together as anything more than golfers. He wasn’t ready. Said it wasn’t safe, that the Tour would eat him alive if anyone found out. He said all the things a scared, closeted man says to a young guy who loves him enough to accept whatever terms he wants to make.

Then he found someone he could actually be seen with. A woman. Got married eighteen months later, two kids now and still plays occasionally on the Champions Tour circuit. And he still won’t even meet my eyes if we’re in the same room.

I delete the notification and unfollow the person who tagged me. I do not need that in my life. That shit hurt and I don’t want it popping up again.

Another post grabs my attention. Caleb next to TJ on the deck of Ben’s clubhouse. Damn, TJ is so fucking pretty. Those pink, lush lips and those damned, brilliant eyes. I stare at the photo for far too long, then turn off my phone and flip the TV to an episode of Survivor. Barely clad people doing stupid contests on a deserted island. Perfect.

Tomorrow is Round One of the Pride Tournament and my tee time is ten AM, nice and leisurely, late enough to hit the clubhouse restaurant for breakfast before heading out.

3

TJ

My foursome includes Mr. Grumpy Pants again, Gavin McClain. Fuck, he is hotness on a stick. Broody gray eyes, short mahogany hair with a few distinguished grays… big muscular shoulders, bulging traps and pecs, hard, peaked biceps, flat stomach I suspect has at least a six-pack and that ass, damn. Just like the top in my favorite video.

He’s also beating me soundly in this round. I’m doing well, scoring birdies on most of the holes, but that fucker is getting a few eagles. And I know this course well. We’ve finished the front nine, and I’m seven under par. Gavin is ten under. Fucker.

Gavin and his caddie, Stephen, sit at a table on the clubhouse deck, discussing the back nine. His tee offs have been further than mine and right in the middle of the fairway. My nerves are fluttering and I’ve flubbed my putts a few times, either too hard, sending them skittering across the green right past the hole, or stalling inches before it. I’m usually steadier than this. Fucking Gavin.

The other two golfers in our foursome are sitting at another table with their caddies. They are both over par and look at Gavin with stars in their eyes. Assholes.

Caleb is chattering on about something he saw at Babylon last weekend, but I’ve tuned him out. He’s just filling the silence. He notices I’m not really listening and turns his head to follow my gaze.

“Ooh, Mr. Grumpy Pants, got the hots for him, eh? Yum, yum, yum,” he says low enough for just my ears.

“I do not have the hots for him, Caleb,” I hiss. “He is killing me out there. I’ve never been ten under by the tenth hole, ever.”

Caleb tsks. “That isn’t a ‘he’s beating me by a mile’ look, boo, that’s a ‘I want him to pound me into a mattress’ look,” he smirks.

“Pfft,” I scoff. “I’ll do the pounding, but no.”