Page 37 of Wedge

“Hadn’t gotten that far,” I admit, not even sure where my phone is and if I even charged it up.

“Just encouragement, nothing big,” he says, unwrapping a burrito and biting deep. “Quick shower, then range. Tee time’s in seventy minutes. Warm up, then do yesterday again.”

“We’re at the other course today, right? The one with the Spanish name?”

“Tiara Rado,” he says, closing the bathroom door partway and talking through the crack. “Front nine’s flat and friendly. Back nine has teeth. Same plan as yesterday.” He cranks on the shower and flicks the curtain closed. I try not to imagine him with water running down his hard body.

Turning away, I gulp the coffee. Fuck, it’s too hot. Now my tastebuds are going to be mad all day. I focus on the burrito, finishing half before he comes out.

Don’t look, A, don’t fucking look. I look. And choke on a bit of chorizo. Fucking hell. His chest hair is gleaming with water, dark with some silver strands sprinkled around. Tracks of water run down his sides along his Adonis belt under the towel around his waist. He moves unselfconsciously to his gym bag on the floor and crouches down to root through it for clothes. The towel gives up and falls around his feet, and I’m staring at his naked ass, at the crevice where my cock nestled this morning. Motherfucking hell.

I wrench my eyes away with a pained grunt, taking another swig of coffee and closing my eyes.

“You okay over there?” he asks, concern etched in his tone, and maybe a smile.

Fuck, he heard that.

“Yeah,” I strangle out. “Peachy.” Jee-zus-fuck Adrian. Peachy? Really? I shove more burrito into my mouth to stop it from saying anything more, my gaze firmly fixed down on egg and potatoes.

He rustles around a bit, then I hear him sit on the bed to pull on shoes.

“Almost ready,” he says.

That makes one of us.

17

STEPHEN

In spite of our awkward start this morning, Adrian does fine. The other course is flat and friendly on the front nine, with wide fairways under a hard blue sky, the heat already rising off the grass by the first tee. He’s able to set aside our unplanned cuddle session and zone in. He’s not talking, not sulking, not spiraling. Just still and solid, the place I’ve been trying to get him to all summer and only ever half-managed. He birdies two of the first four without ceremony, a two-putt from thirty feet that he barely reacts to, like it was always going to fall.

I say nothing. The version of him that’s working doesn’t need me narrating it.

He birdies six, as well, a longer putt, same non-reaction, and I catch myself doing math I promised I wouldn’t do out loud. Three under through the turn. I hand him a banana at nine, and he takes it without looking at me, eyes already on the tenth tee, and something about the certainty makes my chest swell.

“You’re playing, not thinking,” I tell him on the way to ten, double-patting his shoulder because I can’t help myself. The cart path is hot enough that I can feel it through my shoes.

“Don’t jinx it.”

“Not how it works.” It isn’t. Carried a bag through enough rounds to know that a round like this doesn’t care what anyone says about it. It only cares what he does next. “Keep doing that.”

He keeps doing it. The back nine tightens the way I promised, trees pressing in, dappled shade breaking up the glare, and he doesn’t so much as glance at the trouble. Four under at fourteen. I keep the number to myself. By seventeen, my own hands aren’t steady, which is stupid, since I’m not the one hitting the shots. He hits two of the best swings I’ve seen from him all month. I have to look away, because he doesn’t need to see whatever is on my face right now. Eighteen is short and forgiving, and the putt actually falls this time. The ball drops dead center like it never had a choice, and he stands there too long, not trusting it either.

Five under. He reads the card twice, checking the total each time like it might change.

I do the math anyway, even though I told myself I wouldn’t.

“Seven under through two.”

“Don’t.”

“Just counting.” I’m smiling, though, can’t help it, watching him try not to. I open my arms, and he walks straight into them, squeezes me tight, and just breathes, the heat of him soaking through my shirt.

Señor Taquitos is a dive: loud Spanish music in the dining room and angry punk arguing with it from the kitchen, Formica tables, chairs that don’t match. Perfect. We order so much food there’s barely room for the plates. I get a beer with a lime in the neck. He orders water.

“Don’t like beer?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Drunk mom. Never wanted to risk it.” He dips a chip into the guacamole.