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“Your lawyer any good?”

“Kind of a moron.”

“Awesome.”

I reach for my disc. “Throw your shot.”

Zane steps up to throw. “Things still rough with Becca?”

“No worse than last week.”

“And no better?”

I look down the fairway. There are two possible routes, both bad. One narrow and clean if you hit the line perfectly. One wider, uglier, safer if you don’t mind losing distance.

“Depends who you ask,” I say.

“Her?”

“Probably no.”

“You?”

I throw too hard. The disc catches a tree with a loud, flat smack and drops straight down. “Fuck!”

Zane winces. “The oak says also no.”

“Your turn.”

He doesn’t move.

I sigh. “She’s being quiet.”

“As in you were a dick and need to apologize quiet?”

“Becca quiet.”

“Ah.”

That means something even to him.

“She’s got reasons,” I say.

“You give her some?”

“I give everyone reasons.”

Zane’s face shifts, just enough. “You still camming a lot?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Pressure getting to you?”

“Sorta.”

“Same, bro.” He turns, looks at me. “I mean, dude, how many things can I stick up my ass before I lose the ability to close?”

I almost lose it. Not from the words coming out of his mouth—which would be enough—but the totally sincere look of concern. I barely control my grin as I hold up my fists, side by side, and pump them in the air.