Page 17 of Wedge

“You’re serious.” It’s not really a question.

“Absolutely. I don’t do things halfway.” He shrugs, but there’s something underneath the casual delivery, some old weight I don’t fully understand yet. “I had people who helped me when I had nothing. Costs me nothing to pay that forward, and it means everything to the guy on the other end. You’d know something about that.”

I would. I do. Beside me, Stephen is nodding, watching me with that same unbothered calm he’s had all week, like none of this is a surprise, like he already knew Ben was going to say all this.

“You knew,” I accuse.

“I had a guess.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Ben doesn’t go small once he decides to do something. I felt like he was up to something with the scholarship slot.”

“Damn right,” Ben says, standing, pushing his chair back. The low sun catches the diamonds in the wedding band on his hand and throws a spark across the patio. He doesn’t go small at all. “And Adrian? There’s a scramble in Denver in two weeks, and a mini-tour stop out in Steamboat the week after. I can get you into both if you want them. Some open qualifiers over the summer that you can compete in. Then Q-School in the fall.

“Yeah,” I manage once I can breathe again. “Yes. Please. I want them.” Then, because I don’t even know, “How does Q-School work?”

Ben leans on the chair. “First Stage is fourteen tournaments around the country, a hundred and fifty-some players at every one. There’s one out by Grand Junction. Four rounds, and about the top twenty at each site move on to the Second Stage. Same deal there, five sites, about the top twenty at each move forward. Then Final Stage, one week in Florida, no cut, and the top five walk out with their IPGA Tour cards.”

I do the math. Fourteen sites, a hundred and fifty at each. Over two thousand players. And five cards.

That’s… brutal.

“Okay,” I say, and it comes out smaller than I mean it to.

“Good. I’ll get you the details this week. I’m sending over some gear: shoes, gloves, shirts, hats, etc. Might look at upgrading your clubs.” He points at both of us. “Go eat something at the reception that isn’t a slider. There’s prime rib and asparagus. Get some. And go home and sleep for about fourteen hours, Adrian. You earned it.”

He’s gone before I can thank him, already crossing the patio toward Dana, who’s standing near the leaderboard looking dazed, like she doesn’t quite believe her own scorecard either.

I watch him stop and say something that makes her whole face change the exact same way mine probably did. She actually lets the tears flow down her face, unembarrassed, and wraps him in a hug.

“He’s going to do this for a lot of people,” I say quietly.

“Yeah,” Stephen says. “That’s just who he is.” He turns to me. “Makes it a little easier to accept, too, if you aren’t the only one?”

I give him a fond smile. He gets it.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It does. Less like a charity case. I’m part of something.”

“A good something,” he agrees, leaning back next to me. Shoulder still touching mine.

9

STEPHEN

Istand outside the nondescript building with its simple black door for at least twenty minutes, my gut churning. Beyond that plain black door is a new world. There is no sign indicating that it is a bathhouse, nothing to offend the greater population of Denver. The windows are all covered, no way to see what is happening inside.

A few guys have gone in as I have stood here. None of my hesitation, and when it opens, I hear cheerful male greetings. Another man leaves, a sated grin on his face.

A deep inhale, and I walk up to the door and put my hand on the knob. I force my hand to turn it, and I step inside. It’s a small lobby, with worn, flat carpet underfoot and a little service window to the left. I hear music from inside, and a head pops into the window, a big smile on the cute guy’s face. He has on a bright pink bandana with little white dicks spraying cum all over it. Guess I’m in the right place.

“Hello, gorgeous, come on over here. First time?”

Gotta be all over my face that it is so I just move forward until I am at the window. He grabs both sides of my face and leans forward, plants a kiss right on my lips, then grins at me. “I’m the welcoming committee. Let’s get you signed in!”

The signup is a blur: a small fee, a signature, and he hands me a towel and a key on a springy bracelet for a private room. “Need supplies?” he asks, gesturing to a basket with tiny packets of regular lube, anal lube, douching nozzles, and other items I can’t even guess at. I shake my head. Not letting anyone fuck me just yet. He gestures to a guy down the hall wearing just a towel around his neck, soft cock dangling long on his thigh.

“William, please show Stephen where room twenty-two is? Remember, consent is sexy, no means no, you can move away if you don’t want to be touched. Oh, you are going to have so much fun! The boys are gonna just eat you up!”

I follow William, a soft young guy with a bald head and a bubble ass, and he leads me through some tight hallways. We pass a few men also wearing just a towel around their necks, and I have to shift sideways to let them pass. A hand runs over my chest as a guy goes by. I didn’t even see him do it. William giggles.

“That’s bathhouse speak for ’yum’!” he explains. I had read up on protocols and norms, so I knew going in, but the touch was unexpected, so I’m grateful for William’s explanation.