Page 13 of Wood

“Pretty and smart,” he says in a low voice, only loud enough for me to hear, standing two feet from him.

That heat steals up my neck again, and I fumble trying to get the putter in the bag. He thinks I’m pretty, a little voice whispers.

As we approach the fourteenth hole, the heckling ramps up. We are on the tee box, waiting for the group ahead to clear the green, when Novak turns to Beckett.

“You know your swing’s got a hitch in it now, right? Right at the top. Like you’re checking if your wallet’s still in your pocket,” he chirps in his nasal accent.

“That’s called rhythm,” Beckett replies, not looking up from re-gripping his glove. “You wouldn’t recognize it. Your backswing looks like you’re trying to start a lawnmower.”

“My lawnmower’s cut more fairways than your driver has this year.”

Priya laughs, not even trying to hide it. “Can we get a rules official over here? I think Beckett just got smoked, and I want it on record.”

“Nobody smoked anybody,” Beckett says. “I’m choosing not to engage with a man who three-putted from four feet on the sixth.”

“Ooooh,” Priya laughs.

“That green had more break than your short game.”

“Cute. Real cute. You practice that one in the mirror?”

Ben has been quiet, lining up his tee shot, finally stepping back and turning around. “Can you two finish foreplay so we can hit? Some of us are trying to figure out where the pins are gonna be Thursday.”

“Vance speaks,” Novak says in a deep, ominous voice. “The oracle has words.”

“The oracle’s gonna hit it forty yards past both of you and keep walking.”

“Do it then,” Beckett says, waving him toward the tee. “Put your money where your mouth is, big man. Thousand that you don’t go forty past. Gotta be on the fairway.”

Ben smiles. The kind of smile that makes the other three go quiet for half a second. “Make it two,” he replies, setting up. “And start writing the check now.” He winds up and rips it dead center, well past the forty yards beyond the group’s average.

Nobody says anything for a beat. I feel my chest swell with pride. That’s my golfer.

“… Okay,” Priya says. “That’s annoying.”

“Foreplay’s over,” Ben says, picking up his tee. “Your turn, hitch-swing.”

Walking back to the clubhouse after the eighteenth hole, Ben slowly heads back to the locker room to get ready for the PR bit while I take care of his bag. He has selected the fourteen clubs for the day, and I want to be sure they are pristine for our next round before we check the bag in. We aren’t practicing tomorrow, letting Ben have a day off before the actual competition days coming up. He has a sponsor dinner tomorrow, then our Thursday tee time is at nine-thirty, just before the heavy hitters taking their first tee at ten-fifteen.

“I’ll be ready to leave by seven,” Ben says as we part. “Let’s hit my favorite seafood place for dinner, get away from here for a bit?”

I readily agree, not really wanting to hang out with the older caddies again. I felt like a kid last night, and while no one had been nasty, I definitely could not relax. Fried clams, beer, maybe a lobster roll or two? Sign me up. I am starving.

Hanging out in our room post-shower, I surf the TV and pause on Family Guy. Time-traveling Brian and Stewie, perfect. As Stewie screams, I’m laughing so hard I don’t hear the door close. Ben plops down next to me on the couch.

“Oh, this is a good one,” he says, laughing. “Watch, there goes Brian, oh noooooo,” he mimics. I look at him, surprised.

“What, I’m too old for Family Guy? It’s almost as old as you,” he says, shoving my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get some fried goodness.”

We pile into his rented car, and he heads west towards the coastline. He pulls up a classic rock playlist and hums along to an old Van Halen song my mother loved. The drive is slow with a lot of cars all crowding the only road available and the sun blazing in our faces. He pulls into a lot next to a true dive shack, and my mouth waters. Classic weathered white shingles, a wood deck with iron tables, umbrellas flapping in the breeze, it’s a great spot.

Our table is at the quieter end and he sits with his back to the restaurant, ball cap on his head, aviators in place. Obviously hoping to avoid fans. No such luck. Several tittering women approach, their pristine white visors shading bee-stung lips and the zippers on their golf shirts pulled low to show off their ample cleavage as they angle for an invitation to join us. Ben is polite but chilly, signing the napkins they hold out, then he turns back to me, gently dismissing them. They teeter away on their high heels, and he tugs his cap down further.

After a couple of IPAs are on our table, he leans back, drinking deeply, watching the sun lowering over the harbor.

“I didn’t think you’d go for a dive,” I admit. “Figured we’d end up at one of the high-end restaurants with fancy tablecloths and lots of forks.”

He coughs into his beer. “What the hell have I done to make you think that poorly of me?” he sputters.