Tee-off at eight – A round of golf that changed everything

I'm 22 and standing on the first tee early in the morning. The grass still glistens with dew, the air is fresh and clear, and the sun is slowly rising over the hills. No wind, no sound except the chirping of birds and the soft click of my driver as I hit the ball perfectly straight 280 meters. I love this moment: just me, the course, the distance. On the fourth hole, I meet an older gentleman, perhaps in his mid-50s, graying temples, well-groomed, wearing expensive clothes. He's playing alone, just like me. We greet each other politely, he smiles warmly and says, "Beautiful day today." I nod, we chat briefly about the course, about the greens, which are particularly fast today. His name is Thomas. His voice is calm, deep, pleasant. We walk a few holes side by side, not as playing partners, simply because we have the same rhythm. It feels relaxing, almost meditative.

From hole 7 onwards, we deliberately walk together. Thomas tells me about the old days, how this area was all forest 30 years ago, and I talk about my studies. He laughs at my jokes, looking at me longer than necessary. When he bends down to pick up his ball, my gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long on his strong forearms, on the way his polo shirt stretches across his shoulders. Nothing sexual, but there's suddenly this little warmth in my stomach, this feeling of "he's really nice and attractive for his age." Our hands briefly touch as we both reach for the scorecard pencil at the same time. He smiles apologetically, I smile back. There's a faint spark in the air, but you could also call it wishful thinking.

On the 12th, a long par 5 through the woods, I lose my ball in the rough. Thomas helps me search. We're suddenly alone among the trees, far away from the other groups. He stands very close behind me, pointing with his outstretched arm: "I saw something white flash over there." His breath brushes my neck. I feel the warmth of his body. When we find the ball, he briefly places his hand on my shoulder: "Well done, lad." The touch lasts two or three seconds too long. My heart races. Afterwards, in the clubhouse, we have a beer together at the bar. He orders without asking and pays. Our knees touch under the counter—first accidentally, then not anymore. Neither of us moves away. We continue talking, but our glances become more intense. He says softly, "You've really got talent... and a very pleasant manner." I blush, feel something stirring in my pants, but it remains just that subtle tingling sensation.

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