Page 17 of Wood

I glance up at Ben, who finally flashes a wicked smile at me, and he pumps his fist in front of his chest. I can’t resist a matching fist pump.

“Did you just do that?” Buster exclaims. “A hole in freaking one in the American Open?”

“Well done, Ben,” says Ronald, raising his hand for a high five.

Ben hands me the nine and we walk up the small hill with light steps. He pats me on the shoulder as we ascend.

“Amazing,” I say out of the side of my mouth, my head tilted down to avoid the damned drone. “Brilliant.” He gives me another smile, then steps up to pull his ball from the hole, waving to the crowd in the stands.

That is one stroke less than we planned. His standing is going to rise into the top ten. I try not to think about the fact that my cut of his prize will go up as well.

“Same stroke, next hole,” I say, repeating something I heard from another caddie, and I get a snicker from him.

Walking away from the Eighteenth, Ben has finished this round with a solid four under par, one better than we’d hoped with the hole-in-one. Reporters are standing by for interviews as he steps off of the green, more than yesterday, probably due to the hole-in-one and I head to the equipment tent to clean and stow his bag overnight then grab some sandwiches before going back to our room to wait for Ben. Gonna be another early night as I have to walk the back course in the wee hours for new pin placements. Maybe fatigue will take my edge off tonight.

13

BEN

By the time I’ve wrapped up the post-round tasks - scorecard signed off, interviews given, visited the massage therapist for my aching back - I am ready to get away and chill. We have a reservation for an early dinner at a steakhouse in the next town over. I hope the fans stay the hell away.

The lights are low, and the tables spaced far enough apart that we shouldn’t be overheard by other diners. The classic harbor decor of nets and dark wood muffles the soft conversation around us, jazz crooning in the background.

Halfway through my cooling baked potato, I am ready to punch someone. Too many chirps about the missed birdie on ten, so many back pats of congratulations on the hole in one, I am gritting my teeth not to yell. Geoff is narrowing his eyes at the woman pressing herself behind me for a selfie, smashing her breasts against my arm.

When she prances away, he mutters under his breath, “Can I please stand guard so you can fucking eat in peace?” He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Please?”

I ponder the offer for a moment. Julian would never have even thought of this, standing between me and fans so I can just eat. And those eyes. I give him a quick nod. He stands up quickly and positions himself in front of the table with his back to me, facing the crowd.

As another fan approaches from the right, he holds out a hand. “Mr. Vance needs downtime time, sorry, man.”

“I was just…” the guy starts, but Geoff cuts him off.

“Another time, please,” he rumbles, stepping forward between the guy and me.

The firm tone combined with Geoff’s size works, and the guy retreats with a grumble. A couple more rebuffs and the other patrons get the message, and I am able to eat the remainder of my dinner without interruption, knowing that Geoff is literally guarding my back. We get his meal boxed up and head back to the hotel.

Sitting at the table with Geoff as he finishes his cold dinner, I sip at my glass of Scotch.

“Thanks for that,” I say, nodding at his cold steak. “Fans aren’t usually so…”

“Aggressive as fuck,” he growls around a bite, “obnoxious, intrusive, entitled, just fucking rude.”

Laughing, I take another sip, let the bite of the whiskey swirl around my tongue. “Must’ve been the eleventh hole,” I muse.

His face morphs from irritation to joy, a smile so wide my heart throbs and I have to turn away so I can breathe.

“That was brilliant, just fucking brilliant! You nailed it so good, just pow! Right in! So good! I can’t wait to watch that on YouTube!”

I check my watch, close to seven-thirty. The first round hasn’t quite finished yet, but we can check the leaderboard. I open my phone and pull it up. And shake my head in disbelief. I am currently tied with one other player at ninth. I turn my phone and show Geoff.

“Woot!” He yells, hands up high, then leans forward for a high five. “You killed it! Hell yeah!”

I sit back and sip the Scotch. The high pressure for tomorrow has been dialed down. I just need to stay focused. Not be thinking about that gorgeous smile across the table. Not be thinking how territorial I felt seeing Geoff wearing the American Open bib with my name emblazoned across the back. And his ass and legs in those shorts, nope, do not be thinking about that. Do. Not. Touch. And when he stood up to be my guard?

Damn, I need a distraction. Flipping on the TV, I bypass golf highlights in favor of some vintage Family Guy. Stewie pumped up on steroids is just what I need. Geoff brings his plate to the couch and we laugh for a couple of hours, letting the Scotch seep into my brain until I feel mellow enough to hit the bed and be ready for tomorrow.

Friday, the wind has lessened and I am dialed in, strokes are loose and smooth. Geoff made the walk early today ahead of the first tee off at 4:50 a.m. and we discussed each hole placement over a late breakfast. I had a later tee time today of 11:17, and we plan our strategy for all eighteen holes before setting out to grab my bag and walk over.