Page 6 of Wedge

“Wind’s flat, just put it down the middle,” he says in a low, even tone.

I set up and then take a few practice swings. Nerves are coming back in, and I shake my shoulders loose.

“Just a practice round, no stress, no points. Just breathe deep and let ’er fly.”

My lungs inhale obediently before I even think about it, a deep breath then a full exhale. Tension bleeds out with the air, and I settle into my stance, look down the fairway, then back down to the ball, and… just… swing. The impact gives a satisfying WHACK, and the ball stripes down the middle.

“Christ,” someone off the tee box mutters.

“There he is.” He sights it with the rangefinder. “Three-twenty-four. Well done,” he says, and a thrill runs down my body.

Really, Adrian, a fucking praise kink? On a tee box? Get a grip.

He holds out a big hand, and I pause, confused. Stare into his brown eyes.

“Your club, Adrian?” he says with a slight grin, and I shake myself loose, passing it over for him to slip into my bag.

I won’t let myself think of the fact that I wanted to take his hand in mine, feel that big palm. Those fingers wrapped around… just fucking stop it already.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “Not used to having help.”

“No worries,” he says, echoing my words on the dance floor. “You’ll get used to having me around soon. Took Gavin a while, too.”

Ah, safe territory. “How long did you caddie for him?” I ask as we walk.

“Eleven years,” he replies as he jots down notes. “It was a good run.”

“Miss it?”

He thinks a bit rather than answering straight off. “Yes. And no.”

I wait for more.

“I miss being outside almost every day, the company, the camaraderie,” he finally continues. “Being retired can be lonely. Fattening.” He pats his waist. He isn’t fat.

“You gonna sign up with another guy?”

“Well, I do not miss airports,” he admits. “Screaming babies. Rude people. Lost baggage. Missed flights. Travel is fun. The process of getting there, not so much.”

“I can imagine.” Actually, I can’t. I’ve never been on a plane.

We reach my ball and study the placement. The approach is short now. A hundred and forty yards, maybe less. Stephen hands me the eight-iron without me asking, already knowing, already three steps ahead.

“Flag’s tucked back-right,” he says. “Bunker’s not your problem. Don’t even look at it. Just hit your number.”

Just hit your number. Like it is that simple. Like my body won’t try to sabotage me the moment it matters.

I take my stance. Look at the green. Adjust my feet. I hear him noisily breathing deep, and my lungs obey, copying him. Tension again drains from me with the breath, and I wind up. And swing.

The ball flies high, spinning against the wind, landing softly eight feet from the cup and stops almost exactly where it lands.

His pats on my back are welcome. I suppress a shiver of delight and walk forward, putting my club into his outstretched hand.

We crouch on the green together, knees almost touching. No wonder he has such a fine ass, squatting like this every day. He rolls a ball out from where mine is to show the break of the green.

“It’s a left-to-right break,” he says as we watch it bend toward the cup. “Play it a ball or two outside the cup so it’ll curve in.”

I try twice, the second putt rolling right in.