Page 22 of Wood

“A fish?” I laugh. “Fish are not cute!”

“Wrong!” Ben exclaims, pulling his phone out and flipping through photos until he finds what he wants and shows me. It is him, I think, the scuba mask and regulator making it hard to tell. Next to him is a huge, so-ugly-it-actually-is-cute fish.

I throw up my hands in defeat, “Ok, too cute to eat, you win.” Now I’m laughing. “Ok, so no veal or lamb either, because calves and lambs are cute as hell, too.”

“Right, you get it!” he exclaims and I can’t help but howl.

“Killing me, Ben, I’m dyin’. You are a big ole softie.” Wiping my eyes with my fingers, I open the menu and look over the choices. It is pages long, and I’m tired; my mind a blur. “What are you getting?” I ask, “I’ll just have that.”

He raises his eyes to mine slowly, delight spreading over his lips. He orders for the both of us and we lean back in our tiny chairs and relax.

We devolve into “Would you eat”.

“Rattlesnake?” I ask.

“Hell yeah, if it can kill me, I will kill it first.”

“Rabbit?”

“Eat the Easter Bunny? Hell no!”

I cannot breathe for laughing.

We enjoy dish after dish until I am groaning and full. And no fans demanding selfies. As the waitress takes away the last of the dishes, he pours more jasmine tea.

“To one more round,” he says, holding up his tiny teacup. We clink.

“To a low breeze and clear skies,” I toast.

Pleasantly stuffed and sipping Scotch on the couch before heading to bed, I find my mind wandering again. Wishing I could lay my head on his shoulder, tangle my fingers with his and drift off. I have to head out before the crack of dawn again to check out the pin placement, but right now, I want to feel him against me so bad. Those thoughts are useless. That is not happening. He would rather go out, I remind myself.

Polishing off the last sip, I set my glass on the coffee table and stand.

“See you in the morning,” I say, turning to the hallway.

“Sweet dreams,” Ben replies.

I don’t look back. I won’t look back. Just keep walking, Geoff.

15

BEN

Final round. Players are moving a bit slower today. Sloppier. Even with taking Wednesday off, four days in a row is a slog. I stretch between holes, trying to keep my lower back loose.

Today I’m paired with Todd Harrington, the loud Texan in full form as his booming laugh carries across the fairway. I ignore his attempts to rattle me. Taunts aimed at Geoff slide right off of us. Geoff is solid and doesn’t flinch at all, just exudes quiet calm. We teed off later than any day before since I’m ranking high in the group. We are on the first tee at one PM, good timing for the afternoon broadcasts as we finish up in four hours.

The holes are stupid hard today and I’m satisfied with making par for each one. No risk taking, just keeping it safe and solid. As we come up on the eleventh hole, the wind is in play again, and Geoff pulls my nine iron with confidence. Same hole, different day. I plunk it right up onto the green. Todd’s shot mirrors mine, and we march up the pathway together, Geoff already pulling my putter.

We study the ball’s landing spot, crouching down together to gauge the path it needs to take. He murmurs low, for my ears only, then steps away, just to my left. Telling the butterflies to fuck off, I breathe deep and find Geoff’s eyes, steady. His face is calm. He breathes in deep, dramatically, that splendid chest rising, and I inhale as well, feeling my core pull in, focused. He nods, and I step forward, settling into my stance. The world narrows, and I tap the ball and let the putter follow through just enough. In a roll that will end up in the highlight reel, the ball travels up the slope, curving until it starts back again and heads for the cup. As it plops in, Geoff gives a small fist pump for the birdie, and the crowd cheers.

Todd makes do with par, his ball rolling just past the pin on his first putt. “Boy’s your lucky charm, eh,” he chirps. I walk away. On to hole twelve.

My final tally is one under par. The birdie on the eleventh was my only one of the day. They moved the pins to the absolutely most difficult placement on the greens today. There’s nothing left in the tank, but I manage the TV interviews after verifying my scorecard. I’m still in the top ranks, so I want to hang around and wait for the final players to finish up. Heading to the clubhouse, I graze on fruit and snacks, gathering up a banana and electrolyte water for Geoff.

I wander back out and find him counting clubs and wiping everything down before tucking it back into my bag. He devours the banana in several large bites, and I refuse to let my brain go down the path of imagining it is my cock in his mouth. What am I, fifteen? After chugging the electrolyte water, we toss the trash and make our way to the edge of the green to wait for the final group to wrap up.

The scoreboard is updating as each hole is finished, and I try not to flinch as my name moves down. A hundred grand lower with each movement. By the time the last player sinks his last putt, I’m solidly at tenth, tied with Todd. I give Geoff a quick, tight hug across his shoulders. That’s three quarters of a million for me, with another fifty grand for him.