Page 45 of Iron

“Rude. I birthed this relationship, I deserve details.”

“You did not birth anything, Caleb.”

“I facilitated. Same energy.” He shoos me toward the tee box. “Go hit your ball, Casanova.”

I do. Clean, center-cut, the kind of drive that sets the tone for a whole round, and I follow it up with an approach that spins to six feet. Birdie on one, same as it always seems to go lately, like the good nights with Gavin translate directly into good mornings on the course.

I try not to think too hard about why that is. I try even harder not to think about the fact that he wants to see my dildo tonight, wants me to fuck myself with it while he watches. My face goes warm enough on the second tee that Caleb notices immediately.

“There it is again. The face.”

“I do not have a face.”

“You have several faces, and that one specifically means you’re thinking about something filthy.” He grins, delighted with himself. “I don’t need details, but I need you to keep your head in this round, because you are currently seven under through one round of a tournament that actually matters.”

He’s right, dammit. I shove the thought aside, mostly, and focus back on the course in front of me instead of the phone call waiting for me tonight.

The round settles into a rhythm from there, clean and controlled, the kind of golf that doesn’t need heroics to add up fast. The tiredness that should be dragging on me by now just isn’t. I have some strange, buzzing energy carrying me through instead.

“You’re playing like a man who slept great,” Caleb says at the turn, handing me an electrolyte drink, eyeing me with real suspicion now. “Which, given the bags under your eyes, is deeply suspicious.”

“Maybe I’m just good at golf.”

“Maybe you’re powered entirely by sin.” He shrugs. “Either way, keep doing it.”

The back nine goes even better. My phone buzzes once, midway through fifteen, and I don’t check it, don’t even let myself think about who it might be, not until this round finishes.

The eighteenth hole is where I let myself finally feel it, walking up to a green with real applause waiting, a small but growing gallery that recognizes my name from Illinois, from the video that went viral after Cedarfield, from whatever version of a following I’m apparently building without meaning to. There’s even someone with a rainbow golf cap.

My approach from the fairway, a hundred and forty yards out, tracks straight at the flag and never wavers, bouncing once short of the pin before disappearing into the cup.

The gallery loses its mind before I even fully process what happened.

“Eagle! Ten under!” Caleb yells, practically vibrating, hugging me hard enough to lift me half off my feet. “TJ! That is your best round of the season!”

I sign my card in the scoring tent, hands steady, grinning so hard my face hurts, tired and happy and thoroughly pleased with myself in a way that has almost nothing to do with the score and everything to do with the fact that somewhere in Memphis, a man I love is probably checking a leaderboard for my name the same way I’ve been checking his.

I pull out my phone the moment I’m clear of the tent. One text, sent an hour ago.

Gavin: Seven under again would be a hell of a thing to celebrate tonight. No pressure.

I laugh out loud, alone in a Nebraska parking lot, and type back before I can overthink it.

ME: Ten under. Toy’s already charged.

Good boy comes back almost instantly, and I have to lean against my rental car for a moment, flushed and absolutely done for.

Caleb, catching up behind me, takes one look at my face and groans. “For fuck’s sake. Put the phone away. We have dinner reservations, and I refuse to third-wheel to a text convo.”

“Sorry.”

“You're not sorry.” He loops his arm through mine anyway, grinning. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go celebrate your very impressive, very suspicious golf game.”

Dad’s face on the phone screen has that sad basset hound look to it.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard, son,” he grumbles. “Don’t burn out.”

“No harder than any other rookie, Dad,” I reply.