Page 83 of Iron

“Did I just…”

“You just won.”

“I bogeyed the last hole, Gavin.”

“You won anyway.” I'm already moving toward him, dropping the bag somewhere I'll worry about later. “Twelve under. Nobody catches you. It's over, TJ. You did it.”

The sound he makes isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite a sob, something caught between both, and then he's in my arms, all one hundred and eighty pounds of him nearly knocking me backward with the force of it, and the crowd around the eighteenth green is roaring loud enough that I can barely hear him when he finally gets words out against my shoulder.

“Card,” he manages. “Gavin, I've got my card.”

“You've had it earned for months. Today just made it official.”

He pulls back enough to look at me, tears cutting through the dust on his face, grinning like he's never going to stop.

“Bogey and all,” he says.

“Bogey and all. Nobody's ever gonna remember the bogey. They're gonna remember you eagled the risk on thirteen and held on when it mattered.”

“I didn't eagle it.”

“Close enough. I'm telling the story better than it happened.”

He laughs, wet and real, and for the first time since June, neither one of us is thinking about points, or standings, or anything except the fact that it's finally.

Actually.

Done.

45

TJ

Niki's on a Tuesday night is exactly the kind of place Gavin's crowd would pick to celebrate, low lit, good music, the kind of bar where everyone already knows everyone and a new face gets noticed within thirty seconds of walking in.

Bill spots us first, waving both arms over his head like we're landing a plane.

“There he is!” He's out of his seat before we even reach the table, pulling Gavin into a hug that nearly knocks the drink out of his own hand. “IPGA Tour card, baby! We are celebrating.”

“We heard everything,” Gregory adds, sliding a chair out for me like he's been saving it. “Every detail. Pat made me watch the whole final round on his phone at the gym.”

“It was a good final round,” Pat says, unbothered, already flagging down a server for another pitcher.

“You bogeyed the last hole and still won by two,” Netra says, grinning at me over her glass. “That's either incredibly clutch or incredibly stressful to watch. I haven't decided.”

“A little of both,” I admit, settling into the chair. “Mostly stressful.”

“Mostly stressful for us,” Bill says. “You were out there doing it. We were sitting on a couch, screaming at the television.”

Gavin orders a round before anyone can protest, and for a few minutes it's just easy, comfortable noise, everyone talking over everyone else, Gregory recounting the eagle putt on thirteen with more drama than actually happened, Pat correcting him on the yardage like it matters. It's the kind of table I didn't know I wanted until I had it, all these people who've apparently been rooting for us since before I even understood what Gavin and I were becoming.

It doesn't take long before the conversation turns.

“Okay, but can we talk about the actual headline here.” Netra sets her glass down with purpose, looking straight at my left hand. “You got engaged in a gay bar. At the bar itself. I need the full story, I've only heard secondhand.”

“Freddie was there,” Gavin says, like that explains everything.

“Freddie was there? Freddie saw this happen and didn't call any of us?”