Page 16 of Wedge

The front nine goes clean. Two birdies, the rest pars, one bogey on a par three where I short-side myself into a bunker and have to scramble, sand stuck to my sweaty forearms. Stephen doesn’t make a big thing out of the mistake, just hands me my iron for the next tee and says, “Next hole,” like the bogey already stopped existing.

We stop at the comfort shack for a quick bite, a little log hut in the pines with a screen door that bangs shut behind us. I’ve already burned up my huge breakfast. Hot dogs and a bag of trail mix, eaten standing up while he checks the pin sheet for the back nine. I’ve stopped feeling weird about the free food. Mostly.

The back nine is where the course gets serious. Tighter fairways, a par three over a ravine that has half our foursome laughing nervously before they swing. I glance down once at the drop, a thin creek glinting between the rocks far below, and decide not to look a second time. I par my way through most of it, boring, unspectacular, exactly what Stephen keeps telling me is the actual goal, “Boring golf wins tournaments,” he says, more than once, until I start saying it back to him just to watch him roll his eyes. Two birdies sneak in.

Eighteen is a long par four, uphill to a green perched above the fairway like it’s daring anyone to reach it in two. I bomb the fairway off the tee and finish with a clean par.

I sign my card at sixty-nine, my hand trembling on the pencil. Best round I’ve played this summer, and Stephen looks it over with something close to pride on his face before he hands it back.

“Not bad, Adrian,” he says with that wry smile and one of those shoulder pats I have come to crave. “Not bad at all.”

We clean up in the locker room, the air thick with eucalyptus, Stephen taking some time to soak in the steam room. He grabs one of Ben’s free polo shirts, slipping it over his broad back. I catch a glimpse of a faded military tat on his shoulder before he covers it up. I force my eyes away from his body. Behave, A, don’t go lusting after the sexy caddie. We head upstairs to the lunch buffet, and I pile two plates full again.

Ben is circulating in the dining room and stops at our table.

“How’d our boy do?” he asks Stephen as I stuff my face with a slider.

“Three under on Ridge,” Stephen replies, and I hear the note of pride clearly. The heat on my face rises again, and I take a swig of iced tea to try to cool it down.

“Well done,” Ben exclaims with a small clap of his hands. “Keep that up and we’ll talk about the road to pro.” He doesn’t pat my shoulder. He’s right there, and it’d be a normal move, but someone must have told him. He catches my eye instead, like he’s asking permission with a look, and something about that lands hard. I nod, just barely, and he grins like he won a prize. Like he’s earned it. I get the small pat and smile.

Ben straightens, already half-turned toward the next table, always moving, always working the room. “Now eat your lunch.” He points at Stephen. “Make sure he actually eats vegetables sometime this century.”

“On it,” Stephen deadpans, and reaches over to drop a spoonful of green bean salad onto my plate without asking.

I glare at him. He doesn’t even look up from his own plate.

“Rude,” I mutter, and eat it anyway.

The rest of the tournament passes in a blur of early mornings and sore feet.

Friday I shoot a sixty-eight on The Meadow, better than Thursday, loose and easy in a way that surprises me, like my body finally believes it belongs out here. Saturday’s a grind on the Range, wind picking up out of nowhere on the back nine, dust blowing across the fairways, and I claw out a seventy that feels harder than the score shows. By Sunday, I’m running on fumes, legs heavy, left hand a little raw where my old glove’s worn thin, and I still manage a seventy-one on the Ridge again, closing it out well, even though my clubs feel like lead weights by the seventeenth hole.

Stephen doesn’t ease up on any of it, steady and solid. Same routine every morning: cold air and black coffee, same two practice swings he makes me take even when I want to skip straight to hitting; same quiet corrections when my tempo gets sloppy from fatigue. By Sunday he’s stopped bothering to hide how pleased he is, just says “There he is” so many times over the weekend that I say it back to him.

Ben finds us again on Sunday afternoon. After the tournament has wrapped, most of the field has already showered and is drifting toward the closing reception, and through the clubhouse windows I can hear the clink of glasses and a swell of laughter. I’m sitting on a bench outside the pro shop, spikes off, feet aching in a way that feels almost good, the kind of tired that means something.

“Sixty-nine, sixty-eight, seventy, seventy-one.” Ben ticks the scores off on his fingers like he’s been keeping track all weekend, which, apparently, he has. “Two seventy-eight, good for third. Adrian. That is not luck. That is a real golfer. You could go pro.”

I feel tears prick my eyes, so I just close them. Way too tired, if I get emotional this easy. I need Stephen’s unflappable trick right now.

“Told you,” Stephen says, dropping onto the bench next to me, close enough that our shoulders touch and neither of us moves away from it. The contact is grounding. Welcome.

I don’t have anything smart to say back. I’m too tired, too full of something warm and unfamiliar to be smart about it. I just sit there, the sun sinking over the mountains, my whole body worn out in the best way it’s ever been. I open my wet eyes and turn my head to Stephen.

“Tell me what this looks like, then,” I say.

Ben pulls a chair over from the pro shop patio and straddles it backward, arms crossed over the top, like he’s settling in for a while.

“So here it is,” he says. “You’re not the only one I’ve been watching this week.”

I blink at him, still fuzzy from exhaustion. “What?”

“There’s a woman, Dana, who shot a sixty-nine today. And a guy named Lavon, who’s been grinding it out all week with a bag he bought secondhand and chasing your scores.” Ben ticks them off like he’s been keeping a list, which, again, he probably has. “I started this scholarship thing for guys like you, Adrian. One slot each year. But watching this week, I’m thinking that’s not enough.”

Stephen goes still next to me, listening close.

“I want to make it a real program,” Ben says. “Every year, the top few rookie finishers who need it get a scholarship spot, entry fees covered, a shot at qualifiers, maybe even a stipend if I can swing it with the foundation. Not just for this tournament. Ongoing. Through Q-School. Won’t be a ton, can’t stay at the Ritz, but something.”