Page 60 of Wood

“Hey, I never really thanked you. For that advice, back in Spring.”

He grunts but doesn’t look back up at me.

“The straps, the mechanics, all of it. Saved my shoulders, for sure.” I hesitate, then ask, “How’d you know that stuff?”

Mac stops working on the bag for a moment. A huff of breath.

“Had a nephew,” he says finally. “Looped up in Castle Pines Ridge one summer. Real good kid, good player, heading for pro.”

My gut clenches. I can guess where this story is heading.

“One member,” he swallows. “Boy didn’t know how to say no to a Board member, thought he had to…” He looks up at me. “Quit the job, golfing, all of it. Never picked up a club again. Been twenty years.”

“Shit,” I breathe out.

“Didn’t want to see it happen again. Wanted to make sure the next kid,” he nods at me, “knew he had options. Glad I could help.”

I don’t know what to say to that for a moment.

“He ok now? Your nephew.”

“Sells insurance in Aurora, rescues pit bulls, coaches pee wee football.” He pulls the bag to him and resumes his repairs. “Glad it worked out for you.” Then he squints up at me. “I did warn you about the pros, though. Guess you didn’t take all my advice.”

The smirk on his face brings out a real laugh from me.

“Here you are,” Ben says as he rounds the corner. He eyes Mac as he walks over.

“You’re his golfer,” Mac says. Not a question.

Ben stops next to me and extends a hand. “Ben Vance. You must be Mac.”

Mac looks at the hand for a second before he shakes it. I see the flinch on Ben’s face as they grip hands.

“Mac Doyle,” he says. “I taught this one,” he releases Ben’s hand and jerks a thumb at me, “everything he knows about not letting rich men grab his ass.”

Ben’s mouth twitches. “I heard about that. I’m grateful.”

"Should be." Mac crosses his arms, looking Ben over head to toe, slowly. “Heard you're the reason he can’t feel his legs half the time now, married and all.”

“Jeezus, Mac," I hiss. I didn’t expect a pissing contest.

Ben doesn’t flinch, staring Mac straight in the eyes. “Something like that.”

Mac holds the look a beat longer than is comfortable. Still, Ben does not flinch. I know this look. He gave me this look the first day, deciding whether I was worth the trouble of caring about.

“He's a good kid,” Mac says finally, still to Ben, not looking at me. “Works hard, don’t complain, and don’t let people walk on him no more.”

“I know,” Ben says quietly. “I see it every day. I love it.”

“Better.” Mac uncrosses his arms, apparently satisfied. “Because if I see him flinching when a man reaches for him, I know where you live.”

“Understood,” Ben says, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or impressed. Possibly both.

Mac nods, satisfied, and claps me once on the shoulder. “Good for you, kid.” Then, to Ben, already turning back to his bag, “Congratulations, I guess. Don’t let him carry your bag wrong. Small of the back, not the shoulders.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben calls as we walk away.

Mac doesn’t look back up, but I catch the smallest of a pleased twitch on his lips.