Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Victory never tasted so sweet.

  THE END

  Tee’d Off

  Greg Chennault has loved the sport of golf since he was a kid, when his parents lived in a gated community with its own small course for residents. Then, Greg’s backyard butted up against the fairway. On clear days, he would lie beneath the bushes, head in his hands, and watch the graceful swings of the golfers as they played through his line of vision. Whenever his father wanted to mow the lawn, Greg’s duty was to tramp through the grass in search of errant golf balls, which he kept in a bucket behind the shed.

  When he was twelve years old, he jumped the fence separating their yard from the course and trooped toward the club house, determined to get a closer look at the sport. Watching Nicklaus play on TV was one thing; feeling the springy grass under his feet and the cool breeze blow the sweat off the back of his neck quite another altogether. He stopped in mid-step to savor the feel of the sun on his arms and scalp, the scant wind across the open field, the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel and grass, the distant call of “Fore!” Closing his eyes, Greg raised his face to the sun, basking in its warmth. To his pre-teen mind, this was paradise.

  A man’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You busy here, kid? Or can I play through?”

  With a start, Greg turned to find he was no longer alone—an older gentleman leaned on his nine iron, a bemused expression on his face. He nodded in greeting, tipping the brim of his cap in Greg’s direction. A bag of golf clubs lay on the ground behind him. “Do you mind?”

  “What?” Greg asked. Then, realizing he was in the way, he jumped aside. “No, sorry!”

  The man gave him an indulgent smile. Quietly, Greg circled around behind him, watching intently as the man squatted to set his tee in the ground. Over his shoulder, the man asked, “Can you get me a clean ball? They’re in the front pocket of my bag.”

  “Where’s the one you were using?” Greg asked as he hurried to obey.

  The man made an off-hand gesture in the direction of Greg’s house. “Over there somewhere.”

  Brightly, Greg told him, “That’s where I live. I can go find it for you, if you want. My dad says I’m really good at finding all the stupid golf balls that wind up in our yard.”

  The man laughed as he took the new ball Greg offered him. “You’re something else, kid. You like golf?” At Greg’s eager nod, the man extended one gloved hand, which Greg shook eagerly. “I’m Trevor Johns. I got a boy myself, a few years younger than you, I imagine. I hope one day he’s as into the sport as you seem to be.”

  “I love golf,” Greg gushed. “This is my first time on a course. I came looking to see if they’d hire me on for something. Do you think I’m too young to get a job here?”

  “Probably a little,” Mr. Johns admitted.

  Greg’s face fell—his mother had told him he’d need a work permit, and he wouldn’t be able to get one for another three years.

  But a heavy hand clapped his shoulder, and when he looked up, Mr. Johns smiled again, a warm expression that lit his dark eyes. “I’ll tell you what. My usual caddy couldn’t make it this afternoon, and I’m left carrying my own clubs. It’s not the most glamorous job on the course, I’ll admit, but if you want to get into golf, you have to start somewhere. Would you like to caddy for me today?”

  “Would I?” Greg grinned so hard, his cheeks hurt. He heard the excited squeal in his own voice and clamped both hands over his mouth as if to stifle it. Then he nodded vigorously and, from between his fingers, said, “Yes, please, Mr. Johns. I’d like that very much.”

  Mr. Johns ruffled Greg’s thick mop of sandy brown hair. “You think you can lift the bag? It might be too heavy for you—”

  “It’s not,” Greg assured him. He didn’t care if it weighed a hundred pounds—he’d carry it to the club house and back, slung over his shoulder the way he’d seen the caddies do it on TV.

  * * * *

  Fifteen years later, Greg works at the Hermitage Country Club, an exclusive resort tucked away in the small town of Colonial Pines. The pay is good, the lodging free, and in his spare time, he has his pick of five different golf courses on which to practice his swing. He’s on staff as an “expert,” which is a far cry from the nervy kid who had jumped the fence looking to learn the sport. Greg owes his career to Mr. Johns, who hired him on as a full-time caddy despite his age and kept Greg on the fairway all throughout his teenage years. When Greg left for college—on a scholarship, no less, with the campus golf team clamoring for him to play—Mr. Johns gave him a gift he still treasures to this day: his own set of clubs. At the Hermitage, he has his pick of expensive clubs, nine irons and five woods by the best manufacturers on the market, but whenever it’s just him and the ball out on the green, he totes his own bag.

  During the last weekend in May, the Hermitage hosts its annual Mid-Atlantic Golf Tournament, a small event that attracts golfers from up and down the east coast. Greg spins into overdrive—he has to coordinate the lodging, the food, the entertainment. He hires mowers to trim the green down to a playing height; he brings in rakers to smooth out the sand traps, and divers to clean the ponds. He has to replace every worn out and ragged pennant on the fairway, and puts his employees to work repainting old golf balls until they gleam in the sun. He’s the one the concierge calls when the rooms are full and guests have to be diverted to another hotel; he’s the one who arranges for discounts at the Hilton Garden and Sheraton West. The week before the tournament begins, Greg doesn’t get a chance to hit the putting green on his lunch break—he doesn’t get breaks. He runs from sun up to sun down, trying to pull the tourney off without a hitch.

  Then the weekend approaches and the first guests start to arrive, and things really get hectic.

  * * * *

  It’s Thursday, a mere twenty-four hours before the first rounds of golf begin, and Greg stands in the lobby of the Hermitage, waiting. He’s behind a long registration table—spread out before him are nametags on lanyards, free pens, and goody bags full of promotional tees and mini golf balls on key chains and other knick-knacks golfers will love. Greg knows; he spent most of the night before stuffing the last of the bags after the shipment of Ping-sponsored golf towels finally arrived. Now he stands with his arms folded behind his back, his gaze roaming over the table one last time, assessing it as if the items before him were an offering to please the gods.

  His attention is drawn to the nametags, which look jostled. A few of them are just slightly out of line with the others. The smallest detail bothers him—with so many people lodging at the Hermitage for the tournament, Greg knows just how much can go wrong over the course of one weekend, and he’s determined to make sure nothing happens that might make golfers not want to return or sponsors pull out of the event. Anything he can control, anything at all, takes priority, even if it’s as simple as straightening a line of nametags.

  Leaning over the table, he runs his hands along the rows of plastic-coated tags to shimmy them into position. They’re in alphabetical order, the registered golfer’s last name in large print across the center of the tag, their first name or nickname of choice in small print above that. This being the South, there seems to be an extraordinary number of men named “Bubba” participating in this year’s tournament. Greg thinks it’s a stupid nickname, but as long as they paid their three hundred dollar entry fee like everyone else, he’ll call them whatever they want, no matter how dumb “Bubba, sir” may sound.

  Now that the first row is fixed, he moves onto the next, and the next. Halfway through the rows, he notices a name he hasn’t seen in quite a while. JOHNS. From where he stands behind the table, the first name is hard to read—he’s looking at it upside down, and the nametag above it partially obscures the word. He sees the letter T, though, and to be honest, how many other Johns does he know in the world of golf? It’s a small sport of diehard fanatics like Greg himself. Each year, the same faces show up at the Hermitage for the tournament. Greg recognizes a lot of the names wh
en he receives their entry forms. Some of the older guys he’s played with on the green, and can even cite their handicap if asked.

  There’s only one Johns among the golfers in Virginia, and Greg remembers him well. It’s good to see he’s still playing the game. I’ll have to keep an eye out for him. Make sure I say hi. Mr. Johns would get a chuckle when he saw that Greg still dragged around his mentor’s old golf bag full of clubs some ten years later.

  Then the sliding glass doors leading into the lobby open, and the first busload of golfers descend on the Hermitage. Some make a beeline for the check-in counter; others veer in Greg’s direction to complete their registration before they even bother unloading their luggage. Hands reach for the nametags, scattering Greg’s arrangement as nimble fingers flip through looking for their own name. The goody bags start to disappear as if by magic. Ducking beneath the table, Greg grabs another box of bags to restock the supply. Let the games begin.

  * * * *

  A little before noon, Greg’s coworker Carla weaves through the crowd that loiters around the registration area. In her early thirties, she’s a few years older than Greg and pretty in an ephemeral sort of way. Her hair wisps back from her face in pale blonde feathers, and a smattering of barely-there freckles dot her cheeks and nose. Her skin looks almost translucent, and her eyes are the light blue shade of clear ice. She looks impossibly frail, as if the first strong wind could knock her off her feet.

  But since he’s been working with her, Greg has learned not to misjudge Carla. She’s feisty, quick, and damn strong, to boot. One evening after work, as the two shared a few drinks at the lodge’s bar, she told him she’d been studying tae kwon do since high school. Greg laughed, picturing this little dandelion of a woman playing at martial arts. “Stand up,” she said, indignant. “I’ll show you.”

  To humor her, he pushed himself up from their table. “In case you haven’t noticed, honey, I’m a big guy. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to hold my own—”

  A petite foot struck his inner thigh. As he lowered his arms to block the kick, Carla’s open palm chopped at the sensitive spot between his shoulder and neck. The next thing Greg knew, he knelt on the floor in front of her, the beer in his stomach churning nervously, threatening to come back up. “Oh! I’m so sorry!” Carla’s hands smoothed over Greg’s back, seeking purchase to help him stand. “I didn’t hit you all that hard.”

  Since then, Greg has been careful not to underestimate his coworker—he watches those tiny hands of hers at all times just in case she decides to throw him down again. At the moment, a glower simmers on her ethereal features and Greg hopes that isn’t directed at him. As she eases around behind the registration table, he turns from the guests picking over the goody bags and flashes her what he hopes looks like a sympathetic grin. “Uh-oh. I know that look.”

  Her smile is just a sardonic twist of her lips. “The next old man who winks at me with his wife standing right there and asks if I’ll meet him up after work for a drink or two at the bar is going down. I’m just saying.”

  Greg laughs. “Old men like you,” he teases. “You should be flattered.”

  “We’re not talking Sean Connery.” Carla glares at a couple of golfers lingering at the table and they quickly move along. “We’re talking wrinkly old geezers with pace makers and hearing aids.”

  Because that describes most of the men in the Hermitage’s tournament, Greg can’t disagree. Still, she doesn’t have to put it so succinctly, particularly when their table is surrounded by golfers who fit her description. Greg doesn’t want to hear any complaints about the staff this weekend, especially those coworkers he considers friends. “Now honey, you’re just being mean.”

  “Don’t ‘Now, honey’ me,” Carla warns. “Who seriously hooks up with a random person they meet working at a place like this? I mean, really? I’ve been in the hotel industry all my life and I’ve never gotten with a guest. Ever. Hello? Three days and he’s gone. It’s bad enough that happens normally, but why bring it upon yourself in the first place?”

  Greg chooses not to answer, but his lack of response doesn’t deter Carla. Waggling her hand over the nametags on the table, she flashes her wedding ring at the golfers gathered there and says, “I’m married, people. Back the hell off.”

  “Ooo-kay.” Greg steps in front of her, his back turned to the guests. Leaning against the table, he absently picks at a nametag behind him as he stares Carla down. “Listen. They’re harmless. I’m guessing if you ever winked back and said, ‘Hey, sounds great, I’ll meet you at eight,’ the old man would have a heart attack right there at the front desk. We’d have to call the ambulance.”

  A slight smirk curls the corners of Carla’s mouth, but she pouts harder to tamp it down.

  Greg sees that half-attempt and grins. “And heaven help whoever decides to press his luck. I’ve seen you work your—” he chops the air with one hand—“magic. These guys just think they’re being cute, flirting with you.”

  “How many guys have you picked up working here?” she wants to know.

  There’s no fooling Carla—she knows he’s gay. He never said it out loud and she never asked, but at some point during their friendship, she made it clear through similar comments that she knew. Greg thinks that’s the reason she likes him so much, because he’s one of the only guys at the lodge who doesn’t hit on her.

  Turning his back to the table so the golfers there won’t overhear, Greg admonishes, “Carla! None. That’s not my scene.”

  “That’s why you’re single,” she replies.

  “You said it yourself—three days and they’re gone.” Carla isn’t the only one who’s had offers—Greg is always surprised when he gets propositioned by a guest. He just doesn’t get involved with them, end of story. His last lover was one of the chefs in the lodge’s steakhouse, but before things could get too serious, Antoine was offered a better position at the Omni in Richmond and left the Hermitage. After that, Greg threw himself into his work, and has been too busy with the tournament these past few weeks to even look twice at anyone else on staff.

  Carla doesn’t need to know that. “Just smile back,” Greg advises. “You never know, you might get a good tip. What’s the harm in that?”

  Wrapping her arms around herself, Carla frowns past him and doesn’t reply. She knows he’s right. After last year’s tournament, one smitten retiree left her a tip so large, he had to call his credit card company to assure them it wasn’t a mistake.

  For the first time all day, there’s a lull in the lobby around them. Greg glances at his watch—12:10, time for his lunch break. “I’m going to get something to eat. Promise me you won’t go all kung fu on the guests while I’m gone.”

  She narrows her eyes at him, peeved. “You know that’s offensive, right? Tae kwon do is Korean, not Chinese.”

  Before he can reply and possibly say something even worse, Greg feels a touch on his hand and a man behind them speaks. “Excuse me. I believe that’s mine.”

  Greg turns. He’s been leaning back against the table, his hand resting on it to steady himself, and now finds an attractive young man pointing at the nametag under his fingers. For a moment, Greg can only stare. The man is a few years younger than himself, with broad shoulders that fill out a loose-fitting polo shirt and a narrow waist accentuated by crisp khakis cinched with a leather braided belt. The flat plains of his chest and stomach hint at a band of thin muscle hidden beneath that shirt. His hands are large, his arms strong and tanned and covered in faint, pale hair, as if bleached by long days spent in the sun.

  Eye contact, Greg reminds himself, forcing his gaze to rise from the front of those khakis, up over that firm chest. A thin gold chain winks in the open collar of the man’s shirt. Above that, his face is smooth, giving him a boyish appearance, and something about him pings Greg’s memory. That thin top lip that curves back when he smiles, the pert button of a nose, the warm eyes like twin pools of melted milk chocolate. Greg knows him somehow, or has met him bef
ore, maybe at an earlier tournament. Somewhere. Sweet Lord, how could he ever forget a face like this?

  The guy smiles as he plucks his nametag from Greg’s nerveless fingers. He lowers his head, holding the lanyard open wide to get it on over the baseball cap he wears. His hair is dark and long, brushing the back of his collar, and he flips it up to get the lanyard situated. Greg’s gaze drops to the nametag and he gasps.

  JOHNS.

  “Wait, I’m sorry.” This isn’t Mr. Johns, at least not the one Greg knew. Nodding at the tag, he asks, “Is that yours?”

  The guy picks up the nametag and turns it around to read it. “Yep. Thanks.” He flashes Greg another of his winning smiles, then falters when he really gets a good look at Greg. One hand reaches out, forefinger extended, pointing. “Oh, my God. Greg? Gregory Chennault? Is that really you?”

  Confused, Greg nods. Who is this guy? Should he know him? Hell, can he, please?

  The hand opens, offered. When Greg doesn’t move, he finds his own hand grabbed in both the stranger’s own and pumped vigorously. “I’m Trevor’s son.”

  “Junior?” Greg can’t believe it. Trevor Johns Junior had been a gawky, awkward kid of fourteen when Greg saw him last. He’d never thought that shy, clumsy boy with the skinny legs would grow up so damn sexy.

  “It’s Trey now.” The hands holding Greg’s have grown warm but don’t relax in the slightest. Instead, Trey covers Greg’s thumb with one palm, encasing his hand completely. Greg is very aware of the heat generated between them, and the faint touch of Trey’s fingers where they rest along his wrist. “God, it’s good to see you. How the hell have you been?”

  With a self-conscious shrug, Greg murmurs, “Oh, fine.” Then, before he can stop himself, he gushes, “You look amazing.”

  Trey laughs. “You’re one to talk! They say some things only get better with age.”

  A thin blush rises in Greg’s cheeks, heating his face. Four years apart in age, Junior had always followed Greg around, toting a kid’s set of golf clubs as he trailed behind Greg, who carried Mr. Johns’ bag. While his father played a hole, Junior would set up his own tee nearby and swing voraciously. “Watch me, Greg,” he’d cry out, interrupting the other golfers’ concentration. “Greg, watch this! Watch!”