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“None.” He says it simply, plainly, and doesn't elaborate, doesn't need to. The rainbow polo already said the rest.

Aaron asks, “Think you’ll be ready for Oklahoma in October?”

TJ nods. “That’s the plan.”

Aaron nods back, makes a note, and shifts the angle. “Gavin, there's been some noise online, speculation, about what this means for your standing this season, for how the Tour's going to view a decision like this. Any concerns there?”

“Some.” I don't dress it up. “I knew what I was giving up. I will not pretend it didn't cost me anything. But I've had a long career, plenty of chances at Cups, plenty of chances to chase points. I will not get a lot of chances to be the guy who shows up for someone when it literally matters. I picked the one that doesn't come around twice.”

“And you'd make the same call again.”

“Every time.”

“Any fallout for either of you?” Aaron asks.

“Exactly what you’d expect,” I reply. “Some sponsors not renewing, don’t like the image. New ones stepping up to talk.”

“Mean people on the socials,” TJ add. “We ignore them. Mean people suck.”

I grin. “Some paparazzi, mostly died down now.”

Aaron looks between the two of us for a moment, something almost fond in it despite the professional distance he's clearly trying to hold on to. I get the sense he's seen enough golf marriages, golf divorces, golf everything to know the real thing when it's sitting across from him.

“I think that's a good place to leave it,” he says, glancing at his producer and getting a nod back. “Thank you both. Genuinely.”

The moment the lights dim and the crew starts breaking down equipment, TJ exhales like he's been holding his breath the whole interview, even though he barely said twenty-five words total.

“That wasn't so bad,” he says.

“You didn't even have to talk much.”

“I know. I just sat here looking pretty in a rainbow shirt.” He grins, nudges my knee with his. “Turns out that's most of the job.”

“It did most of the job, yeah.”

“You did good,” he says, quieter now, more serious under the teasing. “The Cup thing. Saying it plain like that.”

“It was the truth. Didn't take much effort to say it plain.”

He doesn't answer that, just leans his head against my shoulder for a moment, right there in front of the crew still coiling cables and packing up lights, not caring who sees it.

Black tie is easy. I've worn it a hundred times, could probably do the tie in my sleep at this point. TJ, on the other hand, walks out of the bedroom looking like he's trying to start a minor riot. His black velvet lapels catch the light differently depending on how he moves. The bow tie is so dark purple it reads black until it doesn't, until the light hits it right and it goes rich and violet and impossible not to notice. Green eyes are popping from the slight black eyeliner. For a moment, I can’t breathe.

“You could've warned me,” I say.

“Warned you about what?”

“That you were gonna look like that.”

He grins, does a slow turn with his arms out like he's asking for a verdict. “Too much?”

“No.” I mean it more than the single word carries. My voice is husky. “Not too much at all.” I want to take it all off him, but we don’t have time.

When we walk into the ballroom, I put my hand on the small of his back, just resting there. I feel him glance up at me, catch the small smile that pulls at his mouth before he tucks it away and lets me guide him through the crowd.

The gala's the same as every gala: a string quartet doing its best with pop songs, a silent auction table running the length of one wall, sponsors working the room in tuxes that cost more than some people's cars. We make it about ten steps before someone recognizes TJ and pulls him into a conversation about his Boise win, and I stand next to him with a drink I'm not really drinking, content just to watch him talk golf with strangers who clearly think he hung the moon.

Later, we work our way down the auction table, TJ trailing his fingers along the edge of each item like he's window shopping.