Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  The memory makes Greg smile. Had he known the kid would fill out so nicely in the years to come, he would’ve made a point to keep in touch. Just looking at Trey stirs his blood, and his heart quickens at the hands on his, that sunny grin, those sparkling eyes. Searching for something to say, anything to keep Trey at the table a little longer, Greg asks, “How’s your dad?”

  “Doing well,” Trey tells him, nodding in affirmation. “Real well. He booked a cruise this week in the Bahamas or he’d be here himself. He was so jealous when I told him I’d registered for the tournament. Wait until he hears I ran into you. Damn, you look fine.”

  Beside Greg, Carla clears her throat. “Weren’t you going to lunch?”

  Reluctantly he withdraws his hand from Trey’s. “Hey, yeah. Want to join me? We can catch up over a bite to eat. I’d love to hear what you’re up to now.”

  “That’d be great.” But Trey glances at his watch and frowns. “But I can’t. Tee time starts in ten minutes. I’m a little rusty and really need to practice my swing if I’m going to place this weekend.”

  Greg understands. He’s a blast from the past, nothing more, and Trey isn’t interested in someone he used to know ten years ago. He was kind enough to say hello. If Greg is lucky, he’ll see Trey before the weekend’s over, and maybe Trey will mention it in passing to his father, but that would be it. Come Monday, Trey will be back to his own life, wherever that may be, leaving Greg at the lodge to clean up after the tournament and wonder why he’d never bothered to answer the few letters Junior had sent him his freshman year of college.

  “Well,” Greg says, keeping his voice light, “guess I’ll see you around.”

  To his surprise, Trey reaches across the table to touch his arm. The press of flesh is a simmering heat that smolders between them. “What about tonight?” he asks, hopeful. “Maybe we can get together later, have a few drinks, you know. What do you think?”

  “Tonight?” Greg’s surprised to hear his voice crack when he says the word, as if he’s prepubescent all over again. Clearing his throat, he tries to play it off with a disinterested shrug. “That sounds great. How about dinner? We have a good steakhouse here at the lodge. I’m off at six.”

  He holds his breath, waiting to get shot down a second time. Sorry, Trey will tell him, but I just sort of meant a beer at the bar, nothing fancy, nothing much. Just a quick drink, some laughs, and we’ll go our separate ways. Nice seeing you again and all, but really. I’ve got to go.

  But Trey’s smile widens. “We’ll meet here at what, six-thirty? Seven?”

  Greg feels a weight lift off his chest. “Seven’s good for me.”

  “It’s a date, then.” With a wink, Trey steps back from the registration table. “See you at seven. I can’t wait.”

  For a moment, Greg stares after him as he disappears into the crowd. Then a sharp elbow prods his side. “That’s not your scene, eh?”

  He turns to find Carla smirking at him. “What?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She flips her wispy blond curls over one shoulder. “He was just all over you. What a hottie, too! Greg, babe, you’ve been holding out on me. Who is he?”

  Greg feels the heat creep into his cheeks again. “The son of an old friend,” he admitted. “His dad’s the first golfer I ever caddied for, years ago.”

  “And now he wants to carry your bag,” she jokes.

  The first beads of sweat pop up along the back of Greg’s neck. Her words are too damn close to his own sordid thoughts for comfort. “Carla! That’s vulgar.”

  She shrugs. “You hear worse working here. Golf’s full of sexual innuendos. So, are you getting with him or what?”

  “It’s only dinner,” Greg points out.

  “And drinks,” she adds. “Who knows where it’ll lead?”

  Greg doesn’t, but he can’t wait to see.

  * * * *

  The rest of the afternoon drags. Registrations peter out once the green opens, and new arrivals head straight for the fairway without even stopping to grab their nametags first. Greg keeps an eye on the lobby, but Trey doesn’t make another appearance. It seems so surreal, running into him again after all this time. He hopes Carla was right when she said Trey had been into him, because Greg would like nothing more than the chance to see where the night might end.

  Greg’s memories of Trey are ancient. Mr. Johns’ only son, affectionately called “Junior” as a kid, Trey had been like a little brother to Greg—always underfoot, always annoying, and never really registering on his radar. Trey had never shown any real interest in golf, much to his father’s disappointment. When he would tag along with them to the course, he’d bother the other golfers so much that Greg was often asked to take him back to the club house. There the two boys would wait for Mr. Johns to return, Greg flipping through the channels on the television in the lobby while Trey kept up a constant chatter. “What do you think about that?” he’d ask, trying to snag Greg’s attention. “Huh, Greg? We can watch this if you want. Oh! I love this show! Can we watch this instead? I wish they had a Nintendo. Are we leaving soon? Greg? Are you bored yet? I’m bored.”

  As Greg grew older, his own interest in the sport naturally began to waver. Sure, he still caddied for Mr. Johns, but most of the time while he waited on the green, his mind wandered. He was a teenager, with raging hormones, and out on the golf course, he’d passed many an afternoon lost in wicked thoughts. More than half of them involved Mr. Johns, who was attractive even if he were old enough to be Greg’s father. Whenever Trey joined them for a few holes, his presence grated on Greg’s nerves. He was a geeky kid who wore glasses and had a constant battle with acne on his cheeks. Around Greg, he had such a goofy, nervous laugh. Suddenly he couldn’t string together two complete sentences; he grew awkward, his usual banter quieted, and the moments they had to spend together were strained. Greg began to suspect they simply had nothing in common, or perhaps Trey harbored some resentment toward him for working so closely with his father.

  But now, looking back, Greg thinks maybe Trey might have been crushing on him. Here he was, eighteen and confident, working for Mr. Johns on a regular basis with cash in his wallet, a car of his own, and the promise of college on his immediate horizon. Trey was just a freshman in high school. The change from adoring fan to sullen teenager had been abrupt, but Greg was too occupied with everything else going on in his life at the time to worry much about it. They had never been friends, not really, so in his mind, it had been no great loss.

  And here they were, going to dinner years later. On a date—Trey said it himself. Every time Greg thinks about their chance encounter, he wants to laugh. Who would’ve thought all those years ago that they might come to this?

  What is this, exactly?

  Greg doesn’t know yet, and he doesn’t really want to get his hopes up so soon, but when six o’clock rolls around, he practically knocks over the registration table in his hurry to return to his suite and freshen up.

  Staff at the Hermitage can choose to stay at the lodge—the second floor is dedicated to their quarters, the room and board free. Greg has a nice suite, one of the larger rooms available. There’s a mini kitchenette, a breakfast bar that doubles as a dining area, and a central living room with a gorgeous view of the fairway. On clear days from the balcony off the living room, he can see all the way out to the water trap at the eighteenth hole.

  His bedroom is dark at this hour of the day, the curtains closed against the dying sunlight outside. Greg clicks on the overhead light to rummage through his closet for something to wear. A nervousness has settled into the pit of his stomach, a fluttering mass of anticipation that he hasn’t felt in quite some while. With Antoine, it hadn’t been there—they knew each other from work and had finally hooked up at a lodge party one evening, chatting and laughing and drinking way too much wine before the night was over. The two men had helped each other into the elevator; no words were exchanged, but before they even reached the second floor, the fly on Greg’s pants was op
en and Antoine’s hands were jammed down the front of Greg’s briefs. Their first time had been a hot, quick fuck on the floor just inside the door to Greg’s room. He doesn’t even recall if they had bothered to close the door behind them or not. He only remembers the hard cold tile on his hands and knees, the tight pressure of Antoine pushing into his ass, and throwing up on the carpet after he came.

  Tonight, none of that will happen. Well, no—Greg won’t say that. Carla was right, he only has three days, and unless something really sparks between them, he knows he might never see Trey again. So he has to make this count, whatever “this” turns out to be. And if it leads to sex…well, he hasn’t gotten laid since Antoine left, so he’s about overdue for a good screw. It’ll be a little weird at first, he’s sure, but the child he remembers Trey as is grown now, the age gap narrowed. If something does happen between them, who’s to stop it?

  He ducks into the bathroom for a hot shower, then dresses in a pair of his tightest jeans. He waffles between a snug T-shirt and the closet full of golf shirts he owns, identical except for color. The T-shirt might be too much—he does work here, after all, and he doesn’t need to broadcast his hopes for the evening to the rest of the lodge staff.

  A golf shirt, then, light blue to match his eyes. He stands in front of the bathroom sink, peering into the mirror for long moments. Too much blue? Not enough? God, is he going gray already? He runs a hand through his short-cropped hair and leans in close to the mirror, scrutinizing the cropped curls. No, they’re just darker than normal because they’re still damp. And he’s gotten a little sun in them, that’s all. He’s not even thirty yet. He isn’t going gray.

  Calm down, he tells himself. Deep breaths, you hear me? This is only Trey Johns. Junior. You know him already. Nothing to get yourself all worked up about, is there? I mean, seriously. You’ve seen him naked before. You know it ain’t all that.

  True, he has seen Trey’s goods, but the kid was twelve at the time, and Greg had accidentally entered the upstairs bathroom at the Johns house while Trey was changing. “Greg!” Trey had shrieked, throwing one of his muddy golf cleats at the door to chase him off. He’d seen a skinny ass, knobby knees, white briefs down around Trey’s ankles, and the red fisted tip of a hard dick before he had turned away. It was the first time he had ever seen another guy naked, and the encounter embarrassed both boys so much, they couldn’t look at each other for weeks. Trey took to locking the bathroom door behind him, and Greg…well, let’s just say his wet dreams took a more realistic turn after that.

  Somehow, he suspected the now sexy Trey might be a little more filled out than he had been all those years ago. He’d seen the way those khakis hugged Trey’s buttocks as the guy walked away from the registration table. Those legs looked strong and firm, as muscular as the rest of him. And what treasure might hide nestled between them? Greg hopes to find out.

  * * * *

  Downstairs in the lobby, Trey waits by the large-screen TV that’s constantly tuned to the Golf Channel. His back is to Greg, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his pants, pulling the khakis taut across his ass. He’s wearing the same pants he wore earlier, but the polo shirt has been replaced with a flimsy, dark red shirt tucked into his khakis. As Greg approaches, Trey turns, a winning smile already sliding across his face. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, through which the hint of a tan tank top can be seen. A braided hemp choker around his neck blends in with his tan. His baseball cap is gone; his hair falls to his collar, the front of it tucked behind his ears. He looks as refreshing as summer and impossibly young, and Greg’s heart leaps to think a guy this hot just might be interested in a boring old fart like himself.

  He holds out a hand as he nears Trey. “Hey, man. You look good.”

  “Me? Nah.” When Trey ducks his head, a strand of hair falls across his brow and he sweeps it back into place before taking Greg’s hand in his. Instead of the quick shake Greg expects, he finds himself pulled into a tight embrace. Suddenly Trey’s body is pressed to Greg’s, one arm easing around Greg’s shoulders to hold him close. In his ear, Trey murmurs, “Now you, on the other hand…you look amazing.”

  Greg laughs and tries to step back. At first he doesn’t think Trey will let him go—forward much? “You said that earlier. You sure you didn’t leave those glasses of yours lying around here somewhere?”

  “I don’t wear them anymore. I had corrective surgery when I graduated from State last year.” Trey releases Greg but keeps hold of his hand, and his arm still rests on Greg’s shoulder. This close, his sun-browned cheeks look flawless. Gone are the acne scars of his youth, the blemishes that had plagued him as a teen. Greg finds himself staring at the tiny dark lashes that curl beneath Trey’s warm eyes. “My present to myself. My eyesight’s twenty twenty—I see fine. And I like what I see.”

  With another laugh, Greg retracts his hand and tucks both into the back pockets of his jeans. He isn’t used to guys being this open toward him, this flirtatious. Part of him wants to roll with it, see where it leads, but another, very real voice inside his head keeps whispering, This is Junior. What will his father think? Greg looks at the guy and sees the child he used to know superimposed over the man standing beside him.

  Glancing around the lobby, he notices the open glass door that leads to the lodge’s steakhouse. “Are you getting hungry?” he asks with a nod. “Their sirloin just melts in your mouth. Let me buy you something to eat.”

  “Oh no,” Trey says. “It’s my treat. I’m the one who asked you out, remember?”

  His hand drifts from Greg’s shoulder to his elbow, where it stays. His heated skin seems to simmer on Greg’s bare arm. As they head over to the steakhouse, that hand drops lower, tickling along Greg’s forearm before drifting up again. Trey’s fingers fold into the crook of his elbow with a faint squeeze. Greg wants to clamp his arm to his side, trap that hand there or, better yet, take those fingers in his own and hold them tight. He wishes he were that bold.

  Inside, the restaurant is filled with guests visiting for the tournament. Greg has never seen the place this busy in quite a while. Every table is taken, and younger, single golfers line the bar. Silverware clatters against plates, and raucous friends raise their voices to call out to one another across the room, the noise easily drowning out the faint piano music played over the speakers.

  “Two?” a harried server asks, grabbing a couple of menus and a handful of utensils.

  Trey has to shout to be heard when he jokes, “I’d say somewhere quiet, but I guess that’s not really an option, huh?”

  The waitress laughs. “If you want quiet, go back to your room and order in. We deliver.”

  When Trey looks at him, hopeful, Greg shakes his head. Too fast, too soon. “We’ll eat here. Is the back room open?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s still too early. We can sit you by the bar—”

  “The back room will do.” Greg digs into his pocket and flashes her his employee ID card.

  Frowning at his card, she seems undecided. “I’ll have to ask. We don’t usually open it until a little later in the evening…”

  He hands her the ID. “Check with your boss. We’ll wait.”

  They don’t have to wait long. In a few minutes she’s back, her smile once again in place. “Right this way, Mr. Chennault. I’m sorry for the delay. I’m just over from the Hyatt for the night and didn’t know you worked here. The back room’s all yours.”

  Trey’s hand stays on Greg’s arm as they follow the server. Set off the main dining room, the steakhouse’s back room holds an additional twenty tables, none of which are filled at the moment. They’re given a table by a window that overlooks the fairway, the green dark this time of the evening. The horizon is tinged with a deep mauve where the sun has disappeared from view, and the moon shines as a bright dot just behind a small copse of trees. “Gorgeous,” Trey murmurs, taking the seat across from Greg. He winks and adds, “The view’s nice, too.”

  With a laugh, Greg ope
ns his menu. “You’ve grown up a lot since I saw you last. The Junior I used to know wasn’t quite so cocky.”

  “I was just a kid then,” Trey says. Greg glances up to find his friend staring openly at him, his own menu untouched. “I’m older now, and I know what I want. What I’ve always wanted. You.”

  A foot nudges Greg’s beneath the table. Suddenly his palms feel damp and sticky—he wants to wipe them on his pants to dry them off but doesn’t. Hoping to keep the conversation light between them, at least at first, Greg jokes, “And here I thought you only came to play golf.”

  Trey sighs, exasperated. “You want to talk golf? Fine. I’m here with a few guys I knew at State. We used to tee off during finals to relax, and when my dad got the tournament brochure in the mail, I thought why not? It’s a chance to get back together again with old friends, you know? And yes, I mean you. I saw your name on the registration form and wanted to see you again.”

  “Trey—”

  “I’ve always liked you, Greg.” Trey gives him a frank, no-nonsense look. “Don’t act like this is news to you. Every time you so much as looked at me back in the day, I creamed myself. The first guy I ever slept with reminded me of you.”

  “Trey,” Greg tries again. “This is really quite sudden—”

  “Is it?” With a frown, Trey shakes his head. “It’s been ten years. I don’t think so.”

  Before Greg can answer, their waitress approaches with glasses of water. “You guys ready to order?”

  Trey doesn’t drop his gaze from Greg’s. “I know what I plan on having tonight. How about you?”

  His suggestive tone hints at more than just dinner. Greg’s stomach flutters in nervous anticipation. “I’m ready if you are.”