Page 46 of Wood

“Benjamin!” A tall blond man hurries through the clubhouse door, the same older version of the boy as the first time we met them. “There you are! What did I say?”

The kid turns, fists on hips. “I’m not bothering Mr. Vance!” He gestures in my direction and I have to grin. “I’m talkin’ to Geoff!”

The father looks over apologetically. I take out an earbud and remove my glove to extend a hand.

“He is fine, really.”

“Tom Reidy,” he says as we shake.

“Cute kid,” I say, watching him bounce his ball as he chatters to Geoff. “Lots of energy?”

He rolls his eyes. “You have no idea.” He hesitates for a moment. “Saw your interview. Took some guts.” He nods toward Geoff, who has climbed out of the leg extension machine and is bouncing the ball back and forth with Benjamin. “He’s a good one.”

I’m sure my surprise shows on my face. “Thanks. He is. The best.” My eyes are fucking blurring up, jeez, what a sap. “My rock.”

His eyes shine with understanding. “You and Geoff are welcome to visit. My husband cooks a mean steak.”

My mouth may just be hanging open.

“Whoa! Dude! That bounced so high!” Geoff laughs as Benjamin whoops.

“Let’s go, buddy,” Tom says, turning to grab a tiny hand. “Ben and Geoff are working. Let’s go see what your dad is cooking for dinner.”

“Ok, Daddy! See ya!” the boy yells as the door closes behind them.

“Whew,” Geoff chuckles. “Guy’s got his hands full.”

I nod. “He and his husband,” I murmur, staring out the door.

“Yeah, I caught that. Pretty cool.” He must see something wistful in my face. “You want kids, Ben?”

I shake my head. “Never gave it a thought,” I admit. “Was never a possibility.” I look into his beautiful face. “You’d be good with kids.”

He bites his bottom lip as he thinks. “Never really thought about it either.” I want to pull that lip from his teeth. “Maybe someday.”

I walk to him and take his hand. “Come on,” I say, tugging. He follows, eyebrows raised. “I need you, Geoff.”

He grips my hand a little tighter and we walk out.

26

GEOFF

Walking down the Sixteenth Street Mall in downtown Denver is nothing unusual. Doing so while holding Ben’s hand is surreal. We walk slowly, keeping in the shade as the late summer sun is blazing. We step into a coffee shop. He ushers me in with a hand on my lower spine, not gripping, just there, the kind of touch that used to be something we saved for behind closed doors. Now it is what it is, out here in a coffee shop. I still notice it. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop noticing it. My pleasure is unrestrained as he orders for both of us, just some iced tea and a bite to nibble on. I grab a table near a window and lean into his shoulder as we watch people walking by. Ben rests his hand on my thigh. A business guy talking into ear pods does a double-take at Ben but doesn’t stop.

We are between tournaments, taking a break from the long weeks of early mornings and hot fairways. Japan in August will be hot. Scotland in four weeks should be in glorious Fall colors. The crowd outside becomes more dense with a whole lot of purple walking by, heading to the Rockies game. Marcus got us a suite for today’s matchup, so we are not in a hurry.

The box holders entrance is around the side on Blake Street, away from the general gate crowds, just a discreet awning and a guy checking names off a tablet instead of scanning tickets like stadium seats. Ben gives his name and mine both, and the guy just says, “Right this way, gentlemen,” and waves us through. I hear that word landing different than it used to. Gentlemen. Both of us. Nobody blinks.

Inside it’s cool and carpeted, purple-and-black carpet that’s seen a lot of expensive shoes. Below on the regular concourse, I know it’s beer-sticky concrete.

“Look, real art. And cool photos of the team.” I stop to examine one. “The first Rockies team. My folks were not impressed.”

A guy in a vest holds the elevator door for us.

“Fancy,” I mutter to Ben. He claps a hand on my ass and I shut up.

Doors open onto the box level. A whole lot of glass and leather. There is a table of food nobody’s really eating yet. A bartender stands behind a small open bar and is polishing a glass that’s already clean.