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Zane shrugs. “Ain’t gay if it’s for tokens.”

I stare at him.

“That may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said.”

“That’s a rare achievement. Level up?”

He’s smiling, so I can’t go serious. I shake my head and grin.

He pushes off the tree. “Just sayin’… you don’t gotta marry the guy. Just do a show. Hell, pretend it’s middle school. You know, just a couple jerk-off buddies.”

“I never had one of those,” I say.

Zane looks at me. I look down at the disc in my hand.

“Well,” he says, lighter than before, “you missed out, bro.”

I step around him toward the fairway. “Throw your disc.”

“Yes, Coach.”

We finish the course badly.

At the parking lot, he tosses his discs into the back of his truck and leans against the tailgate.

“Think I’m gonna do it,” he says.

“Collab?”

“Yeah, that.”

I try to smile. “Watch your closing ability.”

He stares in the distance beyond me. “You gonna be weird if I do?”

I open my car door. “Why would I? I don’t care what you do with your parts.”

He digs in his cooler and tosses me a bottle of water. “Drink that before you go be naked on the internet.”

“Yes, sir.”

Zane climbs into his truck, then pauses. “Hey.”

I look over.

He nods. “Fuck off, Clint.”

“Fuck off, dude.”

The five-minute drive back to the apartment takes twenty.

Everything has started looking like two versions of itself. There’s the road I’m driving on, and under it, another road that leads to Paul Benton’s house. There’s the bank sign flashing ninety-one degrees, and under it, money I may or may not have coming to me.

There’s camming, and then there’s collab.

Ain’t gay if it’s for tokens.

Just pretend it’s middle school.