Page 40 of Wedge

“Yeah?” he says, reaching over to steal the last bite of my toast without asking.

I force myself to nod and steal the toast back from him, popping it into my mouth before he can grab it again.

My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Caleb.

CALEB

YOU ARE KILLING THIS! Call me when you get back in town. We need to CELEBRAAAAATE!!!!

“He’s going to make us go dancing again, isn’t he?” Stephen chuckles.

“Might,” I agree with a grimace.

“This time,” he says, grinning, “I’m holding your drink.”

I can feel the heat of my blush.

We hit the highway with the windows cracked open as the desert slides away behind us. Somewhere past the last of the red mesas, the land starts to climb and green up, and the first aspens show gold on the high slopes. Stephen drives with a wrist draped over the wheel and the radio low.

I doze against the window for a couple of hours and wake with the imprint of the glass on my cheek and his hand on my knee, gone before I can really register it.

The clubhouse is quiet, the way places get when the season’s almost over. Tarps are going over the equipment out past the ninth green. It feels like we’ve got the whole building to ourselves, even though we technically don’t.

“Members are mostly cleared out by now,” Stephen says, badge swiping us through a side door near the pro shop. “Course closes for the winter in a couple of weeks. Ben always complains about it like it’s personal.”

“It is personal. It’s his course.”

“Fair.”

The locker room smells of cedar and eucalyptus, the same dark wood and white tile as that first day, old-money quiet. Nobody else is in here. Just the hum of the pool filtration system somewhere behind the wall and our footsteps on the tile.

“I didn’t exactly pack for a swim,” I say, realizing it a beat too late; everything in my bag is made for golf and nothing else.

“Bin by the showers.” Stephen points without looking, already unbuttoning his shirt. “Ben stocks loaners. Sizes are a crap shoot, but they’re clean.”

Sure enough, a wicker bin sits under a shelf of folded towels, a stack of swim trunks in plastic sleeves, a variety of colors and sizes, and a laundry hamper beside it for when I’m done. I dig through until I find something close enough: navy, a little snug in the waist, definitely not mine, and pull them on, feeling strangely exposed in a way my board shorts never make me feel. Four months ago I wouldn’t have changed anywhere, but a locked stall. Now I just turn my back and do it.

“Nice,” Stephen says, glancing over, something warm and a little too interested in his eyes for a pair of borrowed trunks.

“Don’t.”

“All I said was ’nice.’"

“You were thinking it loud enough.”

“Thinking’s not a crime.” He grins, unrepentant, and finishes changing. I toss my folded clothes into a nearby locker before he nods toward the door to the men’s deck. “Come on. Before I fall asleep standing up.”

The hot tub is steaming in the cold air, the deck empty, the low sun turning the pine trunks to copper. I ease in slowly, hissing out a breath as the heat hits legs that have earned every bit of the ache. The chill pricks at my shoulders above the water. Stephen slides in next to me a moment later, groaning low in his throat, and my cock twitches hard.

“God,” he says, head tipping back against the edge, eyes closing. “Four hours on I-70 and my right leg still thinks it’s on the gas. Best decision I’ve made all week.”

“High bar. You made a lot of excellent decisions this week.”

“Name one.”

“Banana hand-offs.”

He cracks one eye open, smiling. “Proudest achievement of my career.”