Page 8 of Wood

I grab my garment bag, but I let Geoff haul my heavy leather golf bag out of the trunk. It weighs forty-five pounds, packed with three dozen fresh balls, backup rain gear, and a heavy alignment stick. Geoff hoists it using the crossed-strap method Mac had taught him, his jaw setting as the heavy leather settles into the small of his back. I know his shoulders are still aching. He doesn’t complain, though. He doesn’t look at me. He stands two paces behind me, his eyes locked onto the heels of my white sneakers. A perfect boy.

The lobby is a minefield of familiar faces. Blue blazers from the IPGA, sports agents whispering into iPhones, and a handful of Euro Tour players checking in.

“Benny! What’s the word, my man?”

I turn, forcing a wide, calm smile onto my face before I even register who it is. Todd Harrington, the Third, ranked thirty-two in the world. He is a loud, aggressive Texan who spends his off-weeks hunting wild boars and moose. A man’s man. He claps a heavy hand onto my shoulder, right over my sponsor logo.

“Todd,” I reply, shaking his hand. “How’s the turf looking out there?”

“Brutal, man. Like putting on the hood of a car,” Todd barks. He glances past my shoulder, his eyes lingering on Geoff for a fraction of a second. He takes in the young, unlined face, the oversized polo, and the lack of a traditional Tour caddie badge on his belt. “New loop?”

“Yeah,” I say easily, detached. “Picked up Geoff out in Colorado. Kid knows how to calculate altitude bounce. Figured I’d give him a shot at the big tracks.”

Todd lets out a low whistle, looking Geoff up and down. “Bold move for a Major, Benny. Pennecote ain’t Denver. You need an old dog out here who knows where the bodies are buried in that rough.” He pats my stomach, laughing. “Don’t let the kid get you lost in the bushes. See you on the range tomorrow.”

“Count on it,” I say, resisting the urge to grit my teeth.

I keep walking, my spine rigid. I wave to other golfers without stopping. I can feel Geoff’s heavy, rhythmic steps behind me, the metal rings of my golf bag clinking softly in the quiet, carpeted hallway of the west wing.

It isn’t until the heavy oak door of our suite clicks shut behind us that the air finally leaves my lungs.

I drop my garment bag onto the hardwood floor and throw my car keys onto the entry table. The suite is gorgeous. There’s a large living area with ocean views, flanked by two bedrooms. Big, overstuffed chair and couch with a nice, large TV on a low table against the wall. A small gas fireplace to the side is already on, casting a warm, cozy glow over the room.

Geoff places my heavy golf bag against the wall with a soft rattle. He lets out a long, ragged breath, sliding the crossed straps off his shoulders. Underneath his green polo shirt, I see the faint outline of the white athletic tape.

He looks at me, his eyes bright and intense in the quiet room. The professional distance he kept in the lobby vanishes.

“Is that what it’s like?” Geoff asks, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “Every day?”

I walk to the wet bar, grabbing a crystal glass and filling it with tap water just to give my hands something to do. “Every single fucking day. You smile at guys you can’t stand. You give the media the same five sentences about taking it one shot at a time. And you make sure nobody gets close enough to mess with your bag.”

I turn around, holding the glass. Geoff hasn’t moved from the doorway. He looks small against the backdrop of the massive, expensive suite, but he is so grounded. Calm. I haven’t found that in anyone else on Tour.

“Todd’s right about one thing,” I say, stepping across the Persian rug until I am standing close enough to see the green flecks in his blue eyes. “Pennecote isn’t Denver. The pressure out there is going to feel like a physical weight on your chest.”

I don’t step any closer even though my body says to close the gap. Geoff’s staring at me, waiting for me, his chin tilted ever so slightly up to meet my eyes. The faint scent of cheap soap. Pulling me. Blood rushes into my cock and I have to turn away. Do. Not. Touch.

“You did very well out there,” I force my voice to stay level so it doesn’t betray me.

“Thank you, Ben.”

I can hear the pride in his voice. He likes the praise. Likes it a lot. Damn, I’m in trouble.

“Let’s order in some dinner, then we should get some rest,” I sigh as I walk to the dining table. “We have the first tee off tomorrow, bright and early.” I select a steak and salad from the small tablet kiosk and pass it to Geoff, who looks puzzled, then selects something for himself and passes it back.

We settle into white wicker chairs on the patio, quietly decompressing. Dinner arrives quickly, and we eat in companionable silence at the patio table, watching the sunset. I pour a small bit of Scotch to settle my nerves. Not a lot. I want to be sharp in the morning.

“Take the first bedroom,” I say, nodding toward the hallway. “Unpack my gear. Use that clinical cream on your shoulders and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning at six o’clock, we hit the practice range and you become the best damn caddie on Long Island.”

Geoff sits perfectly still for a long, heavy second, measuring the quiet resolve in my face. Then he nods, picks up his duffle bag and carries my garment bag down the hallway.

I don’t follow him, remaining on the patio until the door to his room clicks shut, and he leaves me entirely alone with the view of the golf course. Once he is asleep, I have a date with my hand in the shower.

6

GEOFF

Ican’t sleep. I’m so wired and I can’t get Ben’s sad look out of my head. Why is he sad?