Page 80 of Wedge

“It’s pretty personal to me,” Adrian says.

I don’t say anything, just watch him, proud and terrified in equal measure of whatever he’s about to do next.

“I appreciate the offer,” Adrian continues, voice steadier than I expect. “But I’m not interested in being your golfer and somebody else’s boyfriend, split into two different marketing categories depending on who’s more comfortable with which half. I love him. He’s on my bag. He’ll be with me at every tournament. If that’s a problem for your customer base, it’s going to be a problem for me.”

Craig’s smile falters, recalibrating. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

“I know what you meant.” Adrian closes the folder Craig laid out, slides it back across the table, gentle but final. “Thanks for your time.”

Craig glances at Ben, maybe hoping for an ally, but Ben just spreads his hands, unbothered.

“He makes his own decisions,” Ben says.

Craig gathers his things slower than David did, some of the confidence gone out of him, and shows himself out with little more said. The door clicks shut, and for a moment the three of us just sit there in the quiet aftermath.

“That felt good,” Adrian says, mostly to himself, something fierce and a little disbelieving in his voice.

I reach over and thread my fingers through his under the table. “That felt incredible. Watching you do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I bring his hand up, kiss his knuckles right there in front of Ben. “Proudest I’ve ever been of you. And that’s saying something after this week.”

Ben clears his throat, not quite hiding his own smile. “Next one’s in ten minutes. Some potential folks will walk away when word gets out that you rejected Craig’s pitch.”

“I’m ok with that,” Adrian says.

The rest of the day moves faster after Craig, word apparently traveling between reps in the hallway that Adrian’s not interested in being sorted into acceptable and unacceptable halves of himself. The blinds go from white to gold as the afternoon wears on, and the ones who show up after that come in with a different energy, straightforward, no hedging, no careful phrases about ‘Dialing back’ anything.

By late afternoon, we’ve got real numbers on the table: an apparel deal with a company that used Adrian’s actual photo from the eighteenth green, no hat, mohawk askew and arm around me, in their pitch deck without blinking. Titan Polo comes back with a revised offer that’s better than their first, David clearly having gone to bat internally after our conversation.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, two companies want me too, not as an afterthought, but specifically, the caddie who’s become part of the story, whether either of us planned it that way. A sunglasses brand sends over a pair that costs more than my old truck’s stereo system, sleek and dark and absurdly expensive-feeling. A rangefinder company, hearing about my notebook habit from someone who clearly talked to Adrian at some point this week, offers me a top-of-the-line unit and, apparently, a mandatory training session to actually learn how to use all its features properly.

“A training class,” I say, turning the box over in my hands that evening, back in the hotel room, the window gone dusky over the marsh, Adrian sprawled across the bed watching me with a grin. “For a rangefinder.”

“It’s a fancy rangefinder.”

“Got more buttons than my truck’s dashboard.”

“You’ll figure it out. You’ve got three notebooks’ worth of patience for this stuff.” He reaches out, hooks a finger in my shirt, pulling me down onto the bed beside him. “My caddie, sponsored. Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Your caddie, boyfriend, and apparently now minor brand ambassador for sunglasses I can’t actually afford to lose.” I settle in against him, the whole exhausting, exhilarating day finally catching up with both of us. “Big week.”

“Big week,” he agrees, and pulls me closer. The rangefinder box slides off the bed onto the carpet with a thump.

Snow’s coming down steadily outside the window, city lights blurred softly through it, and Adrian is curled against my side on the couch, controller forgotten in his lap for a while we just watch it fall. The apartment is warm and dim, the game paused on a loading screen, its blue glow catching the little ships on the shelf. Down on the street, every parked car has a white cap.

A folder sits on the coffee table with his homework from his therapist. I’ve found him more than one morning in the shower with tears streaming down his face, and my hatred for Vanessa grows. He tells me he is working through it. That I added to his angst never fails to make me cringe inside. I tug him onto my lap and he snuggles in tight.

“Ben wants us for Christmas,” he says. “Officially invited, not just implied.”

“You want to go?”

“I mean.” He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “We don’t really have anywhere else. We skipped Thanksgiving entirely. Didn’t even notice until it was already over.”

“I noticed,” I admit. “Didn’t say anything because I figured you’d rather skip it than talk about why.”

“Foster kid thing. Thanksgiving’s just another Thursday when you’ve bounced through enough houses. Nobody makes a big deal of it unless they actually want you there.” He picks the controller back up, like he needs something to do with his hands. “You usually do something?”