Page 16 of Iron

I go very still.

The bartender, following my line of sight, glances up at the screen and grins. “Kid is having himself a week. You golf?”

“Some.”

“You believe that shot? Kid's what, twenty-one? Making the veterans look silly out there.”

I don't answer right away, watching TJ’s face on screen, that unguarded, blinding, breath-stealing grin I've been trying not to think about since the tenth hole of a tournament three weeks ago. He looks lighter than he did on the clubhouse deck yesterday. No thanks to me.

“Yeah,” I finally say. “I believe it.”

I order a club soda and keep watching the screen, hoping it loops back around, gives me another four seconds the way the deck did. Here in this tiny gay bar, far enough away from him that I don't have to do anything except sit here and want.

A guy a few stools down strikes up a conversation, easy and flirty, a touch on the shoulder, the kind of low-stakes attention I’d normally take without thinking twice. A month ago, I might even have gone home with him. Tonight it just makes me tired. I give him enough to be polite, nothing that invites anything more. He takes the hint after a bit and moves on to someone more available.

I'm not available. I don't know when that happened exactly. Not sure when I stopped being able to pretend otherwise. Sitting here nursing a club soda while a pretty kid twenty years younger than me racks up highlight reels I can’t stop watching. It’s not exactly a mystery what is going on in my crate-baggage head.

I settle my tab before the highlight package can loop a second time. Walking out to the car, letting the thick, warm Illinois night air wrap around me, I pull out my phone and check the leaderboard.

TJ Harrington. Six under for the round. Tournament total: Fourteen under. Thirteenth place.

Four shots behind the leader. One shot ahead of me.

Tomorrow we'll be two, maybe three groups apart. Too close to avoid. Dammit.

I put the phone away and drive back to the hotel with the radio so loud it should drown out my thinking. It doesn’t.

15

TJ

My phone buzzes on the nightstand at eight AM, the Tour app notification lighting up the screen before I’m even fully awake. Final round pairings and tee times.

I sit up too fast, making me dizzy, heart already going double time, and pull up the grid with fingers that aren't quite steady.

There. Not in the last pairing, but close, six groups before the final tee time. My name, 2:05 p.m. Holy shit.

Thirteenth place, one of the later groups out. My first Tour start, and I'm playing that late in the day. Holy fucking shit.

My stomach drops somewhere around my knees, and it takes me a few seconds to remember to actually breathe. This is what I wanted. This is the whole point. The reason Dad pulled strings, the reason I've been grinding since Thursday, since I was a kid in the high school golf club, since I was six and wanted to try, wanted to go with Dad. Thirteenth place, four back of the lead, playing late enough on Sunday that the leaders will still be able to see my number on the board when they make the turn. I should be thrilled.

Then I scan up a few pairings, and my whole body goes cold in a completely different way.

Gavin McClain. 1:47 p.m.

Two groups ahead of me. One shot behind me on the leaderboard, close enough that we'll be crossing paths on the course all day, close enough that I might catch glimpses of him from the tee boxes behind, close enough that there is no fucking way to avoid him.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone longer than I should. Not actually thinking. The room is too quiet. My heart is doing something complicated and fast in my chest. Late group for my first Tour event. And instead of feeling ready, I feel a panic attack coming on, like there is not enough air in this room.

I’m staring at my phone screen, thumb hovering over Stephen’s name to call him, when there’s a knock at the door.

I stumble out of bed and yank on yesterday’s sweatpants, then open my door… and he just walks in, my bag over his shoulder, my name on his caddie bib.

I want to hug him. Fall on his shoulder and sob with relief. Instead, I collapse onto the edge of the bed.

Stephen studies me for a second, reading whatever’s all over my face right now. I can only imagine what he sees. My emotions have been all over the place this morning, and it’s only a quarter past seven. “You gonna sit here staring at a phone all morning, or are we gonna go get some breakfast?”

“Yeah.” I shake myself, force my legs to actually work. Shower first, then head out. “Yeah, gimme ten minutes.”