Hole in One

Chapter 1-2

The lounge was crowded and noisy with the chatter of men reliving their games and commenting on the sudden storm. The air conditioning cleared up the mugginess, but Greg wished he had a light jacket because, when compared with the heat outdoors, the lounge felt a little chilly. With the exception of a handful of females, it was a man’s world. Greg’s kind of world. In more ways than one. He and Roland bought drinks for their caddies and themselves, then dug into salty peanuts and pretzels at the bar while waiting for the sandwiches they’d ordered for the four of them. When the food came, the men found seats at a round table covered by a linen cloth.

The tournament chairman arrived, and the noise quieted as soon as he’d been spotted at the door. “My apologies for the sudden squall,” he said as he walked to the speaker’s stand. “The weathermen failed to notify us in time to reschedule.”

With the notorious reputation for meteorologists being hoodwinked by their own predictions, laughter filled the room. A cheer went up when the chairman added, “You’ll be glad to know our thirsty, drought-ridden desert is soaking up the water, and we expect to resume play tomorrow. The names of those who made the cut will be posted soon, and we’ll assign courses at that time.”

Although the caddies had joined the two pros at the table, they polished off their sandwiches and beers and left as soon as the names and courses for the next day were up. By four-thirty tomorrow morning, they’d be pacing off the holes and making notations for their players of things like the speed of the greens, puddles remaining after the rain, and how to manage difficult approach shots.

Roland excused himself, too. “Big day tomorrow, huh? We made the cut, and have been assigned to different courses and times. If I don’t see you, play well, my friend.”

“You, too,” Greg said, clapping him on the shoulder.

He’d just finished a croissant sandwich loaded with turkey, cheese, lettuce, and tomato and was cleaning his hands on a napkin when he spotted someone out of his past across the room.

Rio Vargas.

The pulses in his throat throbbed. His mouth went dry. Images flooded his memory.

They’d been so young—nineteen—playing in an international collegiate tournament. They’d met, lusted, and had a smoldering, three-night affair. It hadn’t been Greg’s first time with a male, but it was the first and only time it had meant more than s*x to him.

During the days, it was a wonder they could swing a club at all after staying up most of the night talking and f*****g their balls off, but, even though shaky, they’d managed to finish the course. And play well. At night, they’d laughed themselves silly over how out of it and yet how successful they’d been. Then the laughter would fade into a blend of hungry mouths licking, kissing, and nipping, hands touching and rubbing, of c***s pulsing as sensual ecstasy thundered through them in utter abandon.

When the tournament had ended, so had the affair. They’d returned to their respective countries and universities, separated by almost five thousand miles. Like so many guys that age, they weren’t into writing, but Greg had sent two or three brief letters. When there was no response, he hadn’t written again. Or called. An overseas call didn’t fit his wallet, and he wasn’t eager for another rebuff like the unanswered letters.

He’d always thought the loss of this friendship was because he’d beaten the gifted Vargas in the final round of the competition. It had given Team USA the win over runner-up and rival Team Madrid. Years had slipped by, yet, still, he’d wake from a dream in the night and the image, the feel, and taste of that lover would be there. Sometimes he’d lie in the darkness for hours before he could claim sleep again.

When the Americans had learned what Rio meant in Spanish, they’d nicknamed him “River,” and that was how Greg still thought of him. Now, he drank in the sight of him as thirstily as the desert was soaking up the rain. Six years had passed, but the man’s serious, dark looks and the smooth skin, the encompassing smile, were the same. The strong fingers swirling the brandy glass were all too familiar.

Greg looked down at his lap to be sure his linen napkin covered a crotch threatening to rise as his balls tingled for action. Holy Moly. What in hell’s this? I’m not a s*x-hungry kid anymore. Against his better judgment, he looked for a ring on Rio’s finger. There was no sign of one, and from this distance, he couldn’t see any paler skin where one might have been.

The Spaniard was standing next to a man Greg didn’t recognize, but he looked European. German, maybe? Vargas’s full attention was on whatever he was saying. Greg remembered that about him—the ability to shut out everything else as if what you thought, whatever you had to say, was of major importance, and, by connection, you were a person of worth.

It was one of the traits that caused men and women to fall in love with River. Aside from the caressing hands on Greg’s balls and River’s thick, hard d**k satisfying his carnal needs as it pumped into or onto him, it was one of the reasons Greg had fallen in love with him, too.

Who knows who the man is today, he told himself. Those hot nights under the sheets could’ve been mere experimentation to settle the angst for him of whether or not he was truly gay. They’d never discussed it. They’d simply played golf hard during the day and shed their fatigue by vigorous night activity and unimaginable positions that might have been a compilation of all the books on gay s*x. Happy s*x. Happiest he’d ever experienced.

Greg sighed. For all he knew, Vargas could have decided he preferred women.

Damned if his d**k wasn’t beginning to stiffen. If he didn’t leave now, it just might stand up and wave hello. Pulling his thoughts out of the past, Greg made a final swipe at his hands with the napkin and left without reintroducing himself. There were some acquaintances it was best not to renew.

He returned to his room and checked his watch. It was still early enough to call his financial advisor. Once that call ended, he then had to endure the usual restlessness he experienced before every tournament. Some men barfed or had diarrhea. He felt lucky his anxiety didn’t inflict those annoyances. He’d have dinner in the hotel, and his food would stay in and down without causing any problems. Same for breakfast, too.

A twinge in his right knee stabbed. Surgery for a torn meniscus had kept him off the circuit for six weeks. Now he was back and playing well, but the knee still protested at the end of a day of golf or practice. The orthopedic surgeon had assured him this would pass. Now, Greg took the plastic liner from the ice bucket, walked down to the ice machine to fill it, then wrapped a few cubes in a towel and held it over his knee.

Switching on ESPN2, he watched coverage of the day’s play. Watched River’s perfect stance at the tee—feet wider than his shoulders for added strength in hitting, the coordinated pull back and powerful swing that accelerated at the moment of impact with the ball. Greg sighed. River was still a beautiful athlete to watch, no matter what his s****l preference might be these days.

As of today, he and River were four over par and tied for the top of the leader board. River was a long-baller. Strong arms and a near-perfect swing shot were his strengths. Greg couldn’t usually quite match him in that, but echoes of his coaches over the years rang in his mind—It all comes down to the short game. That’s the game that wins, and that’s your strength. Wanna talk about perfection? You’re close to it on the putting green.

He sighed. Time would tell which strength would win out. Enough of ratcheting up my nerves. He switched off the TV.

Shit, the pressure was on. He’d always had difficulty sleeping the night before any round in a tournament. They’d already played thirty-six holes, and this would be the third night of broken rest. It would also determine the winner. Greg checked his knee. The pain was gone, the ice was water in the towel that covered it, so he hung the towel in the bathroom to dry and slid a brace over his knee.

Afterward, he left his room and drove to the Shadow Mountain Country Club where he’d been assigned to play on the most famous course of three, where over the years all the golfing greats had played. Arnie would walk the course at daylight to check it out, especially after the rain. Tonight it would be all his.