Page 38 of Studs Up
“Fuck you.”
The weather was warm for early spring, but the day was still gray. Bright enough for sunglasses but too dark to be in a forest looking for a fucking golf ball.
“He’s not so bad,” Marcel called as I stomped on another plant.
“He’s an arrogant prick,” I called back. Where the fuck was this thing? I didn’t want to spend time doing this. I wanted to see a man bend over and then wait for my cock to react. Not look for a fucking ball in a bunch of fucking ferns.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “At least he’s not Ennis.” Derrick Ennis. At six foot three and just over two hundred pounds, he was a beast and a brute. I was a beast for being a solid and consistent defender.
He played dirty and hit hard, and no one wanted to keep him. His contracts were for a year, maybe two, and then the team would dump him, and a desperate one would pick him up. He wasn’t good for the locker room or winning games.
He got the call up for the Canadian national team, and we’d be playing them in Miami. It was something I was looking forward to.
Ennis thought he was God’s gift to soccer and had the mouth to back it up, but not the talent. When I got the chance, I loved putting him in his place. But he was a dangerous player. Someday, he was going to hurt someone. Really hurt them, and we all braced for it.
Found it. Nestled in twisted-up roots was my golf ball.
“Got it,” I announced. “Now what.”
“Now you’ll thank me for being a gracious player and letting you bring it out here to hit it again.”
It took us four hours to work the whole eighteen holes. Plenty of time to conduct my experiment and get early results. We played behind a group of four businessmen. All young, fit, and handsome. I watched them bend over, take their swings, and even glanced at their groins.
My cock couldn’t even muster a lackluster throb. There was no hot blood or pounding of my heart.
“He’s having a hell of a season though,” Marcel said.
“What?” I turned to him. I was trying to decide which of the men ahead of us had a similar ass to Monroe. A comparison might help. But none of them were that round and I didn’t have the desire to dig my fingers into them.
“Monroe,” Marcel said with a slight bit of irritation in his tone.
“What about him?”
“He’s having a hell of a season. What the hell are you looking at?”
“Nothing,” I muttered. “Yeah, he is, I guess.” He was having an amazing season and when he played well, he was incredible to watch. Each goal was getting better, and the smile on his face when he scored killed me.
“Wonder what changed,” Marcel said. He picked up the ball from the hole and we walked to the next one.
“What do you mean?”
Marcel shrugged. “Big difference from last season.”
“Pulled his head out of his ass and now he can see where he’s going,” I said dryly.
Marcel snorted.
Later, we went to the bar for dinner. Again, more young, fit men, and older ones too, and still nothing.
On the TV, a golf game was being played in Hawaii, and the Mariners played in Seattle. They were losing, so no one was particularly interested.
“Hey, Jimmy,” Marcel called to the bartender. “Put on the Rover game. I want to watch them lose to San Jose.”
Losing to San Jose would be fucking embarrassing. Jimmy smiled and changed the game. No one grumbled.
It was half time and the score was nil nil. We ordered and talked until the second half started. We didn’t get the commentary, but I didn’t need it. No doubt John and John were talking about Holden because he was the focus on the screen. He walked onto the field with Alex, and they talked with their hands over their mouths. Either he was having a really good game or a shitty one.
It didn’t really matter because my dick was awake, and I was grateful for the table. Watching him play was different than playing on the same field. There was a distraction, a focus. Here, all I got was Holden, and Marcel might as well have fallen off the face of the planet for all I knew.
