Page 7 of Wedge

We work through each hole, and the morning warms up. Dew burns off the fairways. A hawk circles above the trees for three holes running. Stephen reads slopes with the toe of his shoe, drops a ball to show me the break, points out the bunker I’m not supposed to look at.

Somewhere around the fifth hole, I stop watching his hands and start listening to his voice. I get used to taking my club from him without question, listening to him analyze the drive, the approach, the greens. This is more than just someone who carries my clubs. Stephen is a coach and cheerleader when we are out here. My foster father taught me how to swing a club. Stephen is teaching me how to play golf.

When we finish the ninth hole, we side-track into the clubhouse. It’s dim and cool inside, smelling of coffee and grilled onions, with tall windows looking out over the ninth green. He grabs electrolyte drinks and some trail mix and makes his way to a couple of empty chairs. He opens his drink and starts swallowing. Then stops and looks at me.

“Want a different flavor?”

I look at the bright yellow liquid. I prefer the white one, but yellow is fine. “No, it’s fine.”

“Well, you need to drink it, Adrian. Doesn’t help in the bottle. You need the electrolytes, burning up energy out there.”

I flush and open the drink, taking a swig.

He opens his trail mix and throws a handful into his mouth. Then he motions to me to do the same.

“What is the problem?” he finally asks. “Want something else? I usually do trail mix, but there are lots of choices. Lunch buffet in a couple of hours will be bigger.”

Fuck, this is embarrassing. “I didn’t bring any money.”

Stephen goes still for a moment, like he’s recalibrating something. Then he huffs out a breath.

“Adrian.” He shakes his head, then continues quietly, for my ears only. “It’s comped. For players. You don’t need money.”

I blink at him. “Comped?”

“Free. All of it. Drinks, snacks, whatever’s in that fridge. Comes with the tournament pass.” He nudges the trail mix bag closer to me on the little table between us. “You could’ve grabbed six of these and nobody would’ve blinked.”

I don’t know what to do with that information. I turn the bottle in my hands. The label is peeling slightly at the corner where I’ve been picking at it without noticing.

“Oh,” I say. Brilliant. Real articulate.

Stephen doesn’t push it, doesn’t make it a bigger thing than it needs to be. He just leans back in his chair, chewing, watching the ninth green through the window like it’s the most normal conversation in the world.

“Eat your trail mix,” he says after a while. “You burned about sixty thousand calories hitting bombs off every tee today.”

I almost smile. Almost. I eat the trail mix.

5

STEPHEN

We reach the twelfth hole, and I grin at the memory of Gavin schooling TJ here. The wind is gusting again, just like it did last year, shoving at the aspens on the left until every leaf flashes silver. The tee box sits on a rock outcropping high above the green, warm gray stone under my shoes, the whole hole spread out below us like a painting. There’s a deep bunker to the right of the green, the sand bright as bone, and a stand of aspens crowding the left. A dry creek bed cuts across the front, a pale scar of cracked mud and river stones.

“So,” I say, stepping up next to Adrian on the tee box. “This one is tricky. One-eighty-seven to the pin, flag’s at the back of the green today. Wind is… ten. Maybe twelve. If we use too much club, the ball will go right over the green into the backside and you’ll be digging it out of the rough.”

He studies the layout and the green below us. The wind picks up again, snapping the flag on the pin. Then it dies, and the aspens go still all at once, like a held breath.

“Downhill tee,” he says. “The wind will take it too far, too.”

“Right,” I agree. “Eight will be too much. Gavin choked down on a seven, waited for the wind to drop, no forcing it, plop it right onto the green then putt it out. You’ve got the same power he had, should work well.”

“Okay,” he says, holding out his hand.

I pass it over. “Wait for the end of the wind gust.”

He nods and steps up, setting his ball and getting into his stance. He waits. I wait. The flag sags against the pole. As the wind dies, he nails it perfectly, and the ball drops out of the sky and rolls onto the green, ten feet from the cup.

He turns to me with a blazing smile, and I stutter to a stop.