Page 35 of Wedge

“Not like this.”

“No,” he agrees. “More kids with nervous parents. Same guy with a bomber swing that makes the competition curse. Same killer tats.”

I snort a laugh. “Killer tats, huh?” He hands me my wedge, same as always, nothing different about the handoff itself, but there’s something new in the way he’s looking at me while he does it, softer somehow, warmer, like he’s letting a little more of himself show through than usual.

“Killer,” he confirms, patting me on the shoulder. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I say, and something about the way he’s watching me makes me actually mean it a little more than I did five minutes ago. “Yeah, I think I am.” And I am.

He smells different today, I notice. Something clean and a little spicy, not the usual sunscreen-and-sweat-and-just-Stephen combination that’s been our whole summer. Aftershave, maybe. New. On purpose, it feels like, though I can’t say why that thought makes my stomach flutter.

“You smell nice,” I blurt, immediately regretting every word choice I just made.

His mouth twitches, fighting a full smile. “Thanks. Big day. Figured I’d show up looking sharp.”

“Right. Makes sense.” I definitely do not need to think any harder about why that answer disappoints me.

We work through the bag, the same rhythm as always. Nothing about his hands or his distance is any different from any other range session this summer. But he talks more than usual between clubs, easy stories, a joke about the guy three stations down who’s been re-teeing the same damned ball for ten minutes like it owes him money, small extra warmth that settles the jitters better than any technical advice could.

“You’re gonna be fine today,” he says, handing me my driver. “Whatever happens. You know that, right?”

“Even if I don’t make it?”

“Even then.” He says it plain, certain, no hedging at all. “It’s one round of four. One day doesn’t erase a summer.”

I want to believe that as much as he clearly does. I’m working on it.

“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the first tee, something easy and fond in his expression that I still haven’t figured out what to do with. “Let’s go show them what I’ve been telling Ben about all summer.”

The first few holes settle me more than I expect, pars on the first three. The morning heat is already climbing, shadows sharp on the fairways, sprinklers ticking somewhere out of sight. A two-putt bogey on four, known as the Cliff Hole, where the fairway runs along the lip of a red-rock drop and the whole valley opens up below, and I bail out right to avoid my ball going over the edge into oblivion and land in the damned bunker instead. Par again on five and six, reliable, unspectacular, exactly the kind of golf Stephen’s spent all summer insisting actually wins.

“Boring golf,” he murmurs, low, handing me my six-iron on six. “Beautiful. Keep doing boring golf.”

I do. I hit a bombing drive down the center on seven that sets me up for a birdie. Even par now going into the eighth, that birdie on seven bringing me back.

“Textbook,” Stephen says, quiet, pleased, and the praise settles into my body. Warm, grounding words, familiar enough, but I still flush when he says them.

Eight’s a tight carry over water to a green boxed in by boulders the color of rust. It’s the kind of hole that can totally psyche a golfer out. Par. Nothing flashy, my swing staying quiet and controlled. I catch myself glancing sideways at the scoreboards other guys are posting, low numbers, other guys clearly feeling it today.

“Eyes front,” Stephen says, catching me at it on the walk to nine. “Play your card. Nobody else’s.”

“Easier said.”

“Yep. Do it anyway.”

I do it anyway. Somehow, even with my brain trying to spiral every few holes, my body just keeps doing the quiet, boring thing he taught me all summer: hitting fairways, hitting greens, two-putting instead of chasing anything risky. No hitch.

By the time we make the turn, I’m even par: seven pars, a bogey, and a birdie, exactly the kind of round that doesn’t announce itself but somehow adds up to something real.

“Even par,” Stephen says, checking the card over my shoulder, close enough that I can feel his body heat, something satisfied in his voice. “Solid half, Adrian.”

His hand lands on my shoulder. Finally. Two-pats and gone, but I feel it.

“Half,” I remind him. “Nine more to go.”

“Nine more of the same,” he says, easy, like it’s simple, like I haven’t spent the whole front nine white-knuckling every single shot underneath a calm exterior he apparently bought completely. “The guy who shot sixty-eight at Ben’s is still in there.”

We grab a quick bite at the turn, protein bar, banana, white electrolyte water instead of anything heavier, and I catch him watching me eat with the same quiet attention he’s given everything else about me all summer, like even this ordinary moment is something he doesn’t want to miss. His ears are pink as I shove in the banana and he looks away.