Page 63 of Wedge

“That’s insane.”

“That’s the job. You have a pro caddie, baby. Not just muscle carrying your bag. You focus on hitting the ball. I’ll worry about everything else.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods, something settling into his shoulders that wasn’t there at the start of the day.

The light is going gold over the marsh by the time we walk back toward the clubhouse, my notebooks full and color-coded in a system that probably only makes sense to me.

“Feels like a golf course,” Adrian says. “A really, really good one.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “Feels like I can play it, though. That’s the important part.”

I bump back. “You can play it. That’s the only part that matters.”

26

ADRIAN

Reyes picks up on the second ring, his voice crackling out of the phone’s speaker, already talking before either of us gets a word in. “How’d the courses play? Both of them.”

I run him through it quickly, stretched out on the bed while Stephen sits at the desk with his notebooks, the lamp making a yellow circle on his pages: Heron Valley’s tighter off the tee, Ponte Marsh’s greens run faster; wind’s been inconsistent both days, but Stephen’s got it all charted across three notebooks. Reyes asks about club strategy on the long par fives, hums approval when I tell him three-wood off sixteen at Heron Valley to stay out of the fairway bunkers, one extra club into anything with a false front so I never short-side myself.

“That’s the one thing I want you to remember Thursday, more than any yardage,” he says. “You’re not playing to make birdies. You’re playing to not make high numbers. Anybody can go low for a round. Fewer guys can go four rounds without a disaster.”

“Boring golf,” I say, glancing at Stephen.

“Whatever you want to call it. Just play it.” A pause, quieter than Reyes usually lets himself get. “You’ve done the work. The swing’s there. This week’s not about being a different golfer. It’s about being the one you already are, four days straight, without blowing up.”

“Okay,” I say, and mean it more than I expected to.

“Okay. Stephen, keep him fed and off his phone reading other guys’ odds.”

“Already on it.”

“Good. Call me after round one.” He hangs up the way he always does, no ceremony, like sentiment’s a currency he doesn’t deal in much.

I set the phone down, staring at the ceiling, the words still settling. Outside the window, the last light has drained out of the sky over the marsh.

“Boring golf,” I say again, mostly to myself.

“Boring golf,” Stephen agrees, gathering up the notebooks. He has already written down everything we need, memorized it, and is ready. “Four days of it. That’s all this is.”

“Just four days.”

“Just four days.” He climbs onto the bed next to me, pulls me against his side, and reaches over to click off the lamp. For a minute neither of us says anything else, just letting the quiet of the room sink in. Seeping into each other, feeling the solid man next to me.

When I turn to him, he’s soft. We move slow. None of the frantic desperation I felt Sunday night when it was all so overwhelming. This is gentle.

I suck his tongue into my mouth, pulling on it. I bite across his jaw, then suck on his earlobe.

His touch is both soothing and arousing. Kissing over my collarbone, sucking long enough that he may leave a mark next to my rose. Plucking at my nipples, kissing down my phoenix, another suck bruise on my ribs, then sucking my cock into his throat until I’m straining against him, so close to falling over the edge, I’m trembling. God, he’s gotten so good at this, hands on my ass, pulling me into his mouth, urging me to pump up, shoving my cock down his throat without gagging, like he doesn’t even need air.

Just when I’m sure he’s going to let me spill down his throat, he pulls away.

“I want to rim you. Okay? On your stomach?”

Oh. My. God.

I nod and he rolls me to my side, pushing up my top leg, then kisses his way down my spine, sliding his tongue down my crack.

“Oh, fuck, that feels amazing,” I moan. “Like you are licking everywhere.”