Page 11 of Wedge

Semper Fi. The bulldog. It was right there in the locker room, and I was too busy blushing to read it.

“Four years. Long time ago now.” He says it easy, like it was nothing, but there’s something that makes me think it isn’t nothing at all. I file it away instead of pushing. It feels like the kind of thing you get told when you’re ready, not when someone asks.

“Explains the whole…” I gesture vaguely at him. “Unbothered thing you’ve got going on.”

“What unbothered thing?”

“You know. Nothing rattles you. Guy could set himself on fire next to you, and you’d just go, ’Huh, that’s new.’”

He laughs, an actual laugh, head tipping back a little. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. “Rattles me plenty. I just don’t see the point in showing it.”

I think about that. About how different that is from me, where everything shows, whether I want it to or not.

“Must be nice,” I say before I can stop myself.

Stephen looks at me for a beat too long, like he can hear my thoughts. But he doesn’t push either. Just picks a corner of brownie off the plate and pops it into his mouth.

“It’s a skill,” he says. “Not a personality trait. You can learn it.”

“And how did you end up here? Going from Marine,” I hold up one hand, “To caddie.” I hold up the other hand. “Doesn’t seem like a straight path.”

That wry grin again. “End of my four years, broke up with my girl. Was gonna propose but caught her with a buddy, Danny, very cliche, and that was that.”

“Ouch,” I wince.

He nods. “Finished my term, got out of the Marines, and I wanted something peaceful. Nothing more peaceful than a golf course. Started at a local private club, much like this one. Got a chance as a stand-in for a guy whose caddie got the flu. Guy liked working with me.” He shrugs.

“Just like that? From stand-in to full-time?”

“Pretty much. Word gets around when you’re good. Golfers talk. One guy tells another guy, and suddenly you’re not just filling in anymore.” He pinches off the last corner of the brownie. “Caddied for a few club members for a few years. Then Gavin needed somebody after his last guy retired, and here we are.” Something flickers across his face, there and gone. “Weird thinking about not doing that anymore.”

I catch the past tense. “So, you’re not caddying for him at all anymore?”

“Not since TJ’s full time on the Pro Tour most weeks. Gavin is his husband’s caddie now.” He says it easy enough, but there’s a beat under it, something he’s deciding whether to say. “Semi-retired, I guess you could call it. Which is how I ended up available to loop for a scrawny rookie at a charity tournament.”

“Hey.”

“I said scrawny, not bad.” He nudges my knee with his under the table. “You’re plenty good, Adrian. Better than plenty. You could go pro.”

I feel that more than I want to admit, warmth climbing up my neck. I lift my arm and flex again. “Not scrawny, either.”

“Those guns,” he agrees.

“So what, you’re just gonna caddie for whoever now? Freelance?”

He considers that, actually considers it, like it’s a real question he hasn’t answered yet.

“Dunno, really. Gavin made me a ton of money, so I don’t have to do anything.” He takes a sip of water. “And what do you do when you’re not bombing balls down a fairway?”

I flush, then just say it. “I haul for a moving company.”

“Oof,” he replies. “That’s some brutal work.”

“Versus a Marine.”

“Marines get therapy and medical care. You just get bad knees and a bad attitude.” He clinks his glass to mine anyway.

I don’t sleep great. At all.