Page 19 of Wood

The previous group has moved off the green. We can finally tee off.

He looks at me sideways. “You’re really selling the safe play here.”

“I’m selling the smart play. Difference is the aggressive play misses the green. The smart play still gets you a chance at a birdie. It just doesn’t try to show off doing it.” I step back, giving him the box to himself. “Commit to smooth-pitching-wedge, back-middle and let the slope be the one doing the aggressive part.”

He exchanges his gap wedge for the pitching wedge and sets up. A deep breath and a loud exhale, shaking his shoulders loose. He takes one practice pass, smooth, unhurried, nothing like the nervy little jabs he was making on the first hole.

The strike sounds right before I even see it land. Soft, back-middle, just like I said. It catches the slope and starts feeding, feeding, dying about eight feet left of the cup.

“There it is,” I say, raising a fist for a bump. “See? You got this.”

He’s smiling now, all the nerves gone out of his shoulders. “Wish it was windy every other hole, then.”

“Ha, well, don’t get used to it,” I say, stepping up for my shot.

We wrap up, birdies for myself and Bobby. Geoff and I are standing off to the side, away from the crowd, as the amateur works on putt three. Geoff murmurs, “That was kind, what you did there.”

I glance at him. “Cost me nothing but words and got rid of his distracting nerves, win - win.”

Geoff huffs a laugh. “If you say so, Ben.”

I’m gassed by the time we finish putting on our eighteenth hole, number nine and I’m happy with a final par. With three birdies and an eagle, I’m five under par, hopefully good enough to keep me in the top twenty. Bobby and I part ways, his step bouncy as only a teenager can be. I walk away from his gushing thanks, his handshake that lasts a second too long. He ended up at two under par, so he’ll probably make the cut for Saturday. The amateur waves as he walks away with a “happy to be here” expression. Geoff heads off to the equipment tent as I field questions from the media. I’m currently sitting in eighth position, but there are still two hours of play, so I’m not guessing at my final. I’ll be playing tomorrow, bottom line.

With the obligations behind me, we head out for dinner. Tonight is Italian and I’m bracing myself for the gauntlet of fans, but Geoff takes up his stance in front of the table from the start. He’s donned a navy dinner jacket and dark glasses tonight, and his shoulders bulge like I have a personal bodyguard. All he needs is an earbud. One persistent man gets Geoff’s hand in his chest and a firm, “Let Mr. Vance eat, sir.”

“Fuck you!” the man yells at Geoff before the manager steps in. “I just fucking wanted to get a fucking selfie, is that too fucking much to fucking ask?” he yells as the manager pulls him out of the restaurant.

I hear a genuine growl from Geoff and my heart almost jumps out of my chest as my cock twitches. Damn, he looks good. Stance wide, sturdy, steady. Just like out on the course, he has a solid, steady manner that washes calmness over me. I’d tried to impart some of that to the rookie today, but Geoff is playing a big part in my mind game.

I realize I’m staring at his back and force myself back to the meal. The pasta is good, the marinara tangy, meatballs nice and firm, and it’s all nice and hot. I bite into the garlic bread with gusto, fueling up for tomorrow. As I approach fullness, I order Geoff’s meal to go, and the manager gives it to us on the house, apologizing for the ill-mannered guest he’d kicked out.

Sitting at the hotel suite table, I pour a bit of red wine to accompany Geoff’s dinner, and he raises his glass in thanks. His phone is pinging in his pocket, and he pulls it out and sets it on the table, peering at the screen. He snorts. I quirk an eyebrow.

“My roommates tell me we are trending,” he laughs. “#GuardDogCaddie. Asshole posted a photo, all pissed off. Fans are all over him, too. #LetBenEat.” He laughs it off, twirling his fork into his meal.

The photo of him is hot as hell, shoulders bulging under the buttoned jacket, dark glasses making him look menacing and serious as he guards my table, my back. He’d combed his hair back neatly instead of the unruly mop. Holy hell.

I clear my throat and admit, “I rather enjoyed having personal muscle with me tonight.”

Geoff huffs a laugh around a big bite of pasta. Swallowing, he replies, “Glad to do it. Tired of people thinking they can mess with you when you’re just trying to eat. Not on my watch. Not with my golfer. Pisses me off.”

“I noticed,” I smirk. I ignore the ripple of pleasure at being called ‘my golfer’.

“Maybe we should order in tomorrow,” he suggests. “Unless you like getting out of here?”

“And miss seeing you all growly and pretty?” I chuckle.

He coughs on a bite of meatball, pink creeping up his face. “Second time you’ve said I’m pretty,” he finally manages.

“Mmm,” I agree.

“Well, um,” he stammers, then stops, swallows. Ponders for a bit, tapping his fork on that plump lower lip, the tines indenting it with each tap. Damn. “I could change our reservation for tomorrow to a Japanese place with those little slide-y doors? If that’s ok?”

I set my glass down in astonishment. It’s a fabulous suggestion, and the fact that he thought of something that would let us go out and not have to deal with adoring fans has blown me away. Has anyone ever been that thoughtful? Julian just let me fend for myself in restaurants, found it amusing and said it was the price of the prize money. He could be a bit of a sadistic fuck.

“No?” Geoff asks in a small voice, and I realize I haven’t answered.

“Sorry, yes, please. That’s an amazing suggestion. Make it so,” I wave my hand expansively, and he chuckles.