Page 63 of Wood

“Stick up his ass,” Geoff mutters under his breath as we walk down the fairway. I choke back a laugh. I ignore them all. I have my rock and nothing else matters. My ring is heavy under my glove, and I love it. I am here to play golf, not win any political fights.

We hike into the foothills for hole five. Lodgepole pines frame the fairways, and insidious bunkers have been shaped to echo the snowfields on the peaks above. Spectators are sprinkled among the tall pines along the fairways and grouped around the greens above. A few seats are nestled in the hillside, not even half of what Pennecote offers. This is where the course heads above seven thousand feet. Bobby is huffing as we walk.

“Air’s thinner,” I say mildly. Geoff and I live at a higher altitude, so I am not feeling it. But Bobby looks a bit gray.

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees on a wheeze.

I head into the Comfort Station before hole five. The heavy timber door slams shut behind us. The cabin is cool, and the tables are filled with refreshments.

“Hit the O2 bottles?” I suggest. The Tour offers oxygen on these high altitude refreshment tables, right alongside electrolyte water. It isn’t uncommon for people coming from sea level to struggle with the thinner air.

Bobby’s caddie rolls his eyes as he shuffles after us, and Geoff quirks an eyebrow at the boy. ‘Trent’, his name tag says. Guy’s income relies on Bobby. He should be watching out for the rookie.

Geoff grabs an electrolyte drink and hands one to me, then passes an O2 bottle to Bobby with a stern glare to his caddie.

“Put one of those in the bag,” he grumbles low at the boy.

The color in Bobby’s face returns slowly. Geoff hands him a bottle of electrolyte water with a stern, “You should drink this, sir.” God, I love this man. Bobby takes the drink and slugs down half of it.

“Ready?” I ask, and Bobby nods and caps the drink, handing it to his caddie. The kid stuffs it into the bag in one of the empty holes for clubs. Not in the cooler section.

“Yeah. Thanks, Ben.” Then Bobby turns to Geoff. “Thank you,” he says tightly and turns away sharply without looking at Geoff’s face. Something is going on there, clearly.

We step onto the tee box. The fifth tee sits on a shoulder of rock, the fairway climbing away from us like it’s daring somebody to quit before the bag’s even shouldered.

Wendell steps up first: three practice swings, and splits the fairway easily. He nods to himself with a smugness that only a local has, then steps back.

Bobby shuffles forward, driver in hand. Geoff glares at his caddie. The club is too much. He should use something less. When we walked this yesterday, we settled on a three wood, and that is what Geoff hands me now. Wendell stares at the bright ring on Geoff’s hand, then looks away tightly. I love that wedding band.

A solid WHACK from Bobby’s swing sends the ball sailing up the fairway and into the trees at the far end.

“Need to club, down, boy,” Wendell says dryly. “Not as much air, ball goes a lot further.” He stares at Trent. “Good caddie would know this.” Trent’s eyes roll again.

James sends his ball up the fairway, landing well, alongside Wendell’s ball. They all step back, and I zone in. Geoff and I decided to aim for a flat spot on the far right side, setting up for the hard dogleg. It’s a bit further than Wendell’s, short of the trees but offers an easy chip shot onto the green. If I fuck it up, we will be hunting through shrub oak or taking a stroke to drop a ball. The hole is a par four. I want three.

Bobby shuffles behind me. A hawk screeches above. I feel, rather than hear, Geoff take a deep, loud inhale, and I mirror it, and my vision narrows. I pull back and commit. And grin. Before it even lands, I know that I executed perfectly. Geoff gives a little fist pump and reaches his hand out for the club.

Wendell huffs but says nothing, marching off up the fairway. James can’t resist a “well damn, Ben” and a pat on my shoulder.

The eighteenth hole climbs back toward the clubhouse, stone walls catching the last of the light. Five under. I haven’t looked at a leaderboard all day, but I don’t need to. Geoff’s kept the math running under his breath since the first.

Wendell’s even par. So is Beckett. The two of them have spent the back nine in a silent little duel neither’s acknowledged out loud. Bobby’s two over and still pale under his cap, but steadier than he was on Five. Geoff and I have kept an eye on him, making sure he took hits from the oxygen bottle and electrolytes to keep him on his feet. He still won’t look Geoff in the eye.

We walk up the fairway together, Geoff a half-step behind me with the bag, close enough I can feel him there without looking. My force field.

Wendell’s approach lands twenty feet from the pin. Beckett’s inside him by ten. Bobby lays up short, playing it safe, and I don’t blame him. The pin’s cut tight against a bunker today, mean.

My second sits on the green already in my head before I hit it. Geoff called the number two holes ago and hasn’t changed his mind since. I trust it. The ball climbs, holds against the wind coming down off the peak, and drops twelve feet left of the flag.

“That’ll do,” Geoff says, low, handing me the putter before I ask.

Wendell two-putts for his par, radiating smugness and disapproval. Beckett matches him, same score, still tied. Bobby gets his bogey and something in his shoulders loosens like he’s just set something down he’s been carrying all day.

I read my line twice, bending low, checking the slope of the green, knowing Geoff’s eyes are on my ass. Geoff doesn’t say anything, hasn’t all day on the greens, just stands where I can see him out of the corner of my eye if I need him. My rock, my calm.

I don’t miss the putt.

Five under, finished. Wendell shakes my hand like it costs him something. Beckett just nods, already looking past me toward the scoring tent. Bobby shakes my hand vigorously, more color in his face now than he’s had since the Fifth.