Page 31 of Wedge

“That was you out there,” he says, looking at me steady and serious. “Every shot. I just carried the bag.”

“You did a lot more than carry the bag.”

He huffs a laugh. “Maybe a little.” He squeezes my shoulders once, then lets go entirely, stepping back like he needs the space. “Come on. Made cut means two more rounds, and you’re not playing them on gas station hot dogs.”

I laugh, wet and a little shaky, wiping at my face with the back of my hand before anybody besides Stephen can see it. At least I didn’t use his shirt.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, okay.”

We walk toward the truck together, and I catch him glancing back at me twice on the way, like the hug did something to him he hasn’t fully worked out yet. Our shoulders brush as we walk. And I like it.

The Keystone Saloon looks like it’s been standing since the Old West: wood paneling, swinging doors, floorboards worn pale down the middle by a hundred years of boots. Antlers over the bar, warm amber light, wood smoke and charred beef in the air. Somewhere upstairs a live band is tuning up. Half saloon, half steakhouse, the kind of place that’s fed skiers and locals since before either of us was born.

The booth is small, tight enough that our knees bump the moment we sit down across from each other and just stay there, neither of us bothering to shift away. I can feel the heat of his leg. I try not to think too hard about it. Fail immediately.

I scan the menu, and my stomach drops somewhere around the entrees. Ribeyes pushing forty dollars. A Colorado T-bone at forty-six, the biggest thing on the board, close to two pounds, mushrooms and onion rings and a baked potato all crammed onto one plate.

My legs are still heavy from eighteen holes, adrenaline finally draining out of me now that the scorecard’s signed and the cut’s official, and all I can think about is how much money this whole day already cost somebody who isn’t me.

“I’ll just get soup or something,” I say. “I’m not that hungry.”

Stephen doesn’t even look up from his own menu. “You walked eighteen holes at altitude, shot even par and made your first cut of the summer. You’re not getting soup. And don’t lie to me. I heard your stomach on sixteen.”

“Stephen, that’s forty-six dollars.”

“I can read a menu, Adrian.” He finally looks up, flat, unimpressed. “Get the T-bone.”

“I don’t want you spending money on me.”

“I am not spending money on you.” His knees squeeze together around mine under the table, deliberately. “I’m buying dinner for a man who just made his first cut on a course that eats good players alive. That’s not charity. That’s a celebration.”

“Same math, though.”

“No.” He sets the menu down, done negotiating. “Different math. You keep turning everything into a debt. Some things are just gifts. This is one of them.” He pauses. “Let me take care of you. Please. Order the damned steak.”

I open my mouth to argue again, mostly out of habit, and he raises one eyebrow, daring me, and something about the look on his face, equal parts fond and immovable, makes the fight go out of me all at once.

“Fine,” I mutter. “T-bone.”

“Good man.”

There goes that flash of heat, all up my fucking body, including my dick. Can he feel the heat pressed against my knee?

The waitress comes by, refills iced tea neither of us asked for, and disappears again before I can even finish ordering. Under the table, Stephen’s knee stays right where it is, warm and solid against mine, and neither of us moves to change it.

“You’re not gonna let me pay for anything all summer, are you,” I say, half a question, half already knowing the answer.

“Nope.” He says it easy, no hesitation at all, sipping his tea. “Get used to it. Get over it.”

“You are such a caregiver.”

“I’ve been called a lot worse. Mostly by drill instructors.” He steals a roll off my bread basket for no reason at all, just to steal something. He has his own basket. And I let him, the same way I let his knee stay pressed against mine. The same way I’ve apparently decided to let him do most things this summer without a fight left in me at all. Letting him take care of me. I like it. I don’t let myself overthink that. Shut up, brain.

The T-bone comes out enormous, sizzling, the smell hitting me a full second before the plate does, mushrooms and onion rings piled high enough to avalanche off the edge, and I dig in like the day finally caught up with me all at once, hunger and exhaustion and relief tangled together into one enormous appetite.

“Good?” Stephen asks, watching me with something soft in his face.

“So good.” I say it around a mouthful, completely unbothered by table manners at this point. “Worth the forty-six bucks, I guess.”