Page 76 of Wedge

The walk to the first tee feels different from any other morning this week, quieter, heavier. The grandstand is full for the first time all week, and the crowd noise drops to a low, expectant murmur as we come through the ropes. Jeremy’s waiting near the tee markers, bouncing slightly on his heels, nerves wearing a thin disguise as energy. Mike’s standing a few yards away, not really invested in Jeremy, just carrying his bag.

“Big day,” Jeremy says, more to himself than to me.

“Big day,” I agree.

Stephen hands me my driver without a word, just a squeeze to my shoulder before stepping back, and something about the simplicity of it settles me. No speech, no notebook consultation, just trust.

I pull my drive left on the first, not disastrous, just enough to complicate the approach, and I make a scrambling par that feels like a small victory. Jeremy matches me hole for hole through the first four, both of us grinding out pars, neither willing to be the one who cracks first.

“You’re quiet today,” he says at five, waiting for his turn to hit.

“Thinking a lot.”

“About last night?”

I can hear the note in his voice, but I won’t open that. “About today.” Though he’s not wrong. “You?”

“Trying not to think at all. Works better for me.” He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the same tell from yesterday morning. “Whatever happens today happens, right?”

“Something like that.”

Five and six pass clean, both of us finding pars, and on seven I finally break through, a wedge that spins close enough for an easy birdie, my first real breath of the day. Jeremy claps me on the back, walking off, no jealousy in it at all, just genuine warmth. The touch is okay. Fine even.

“There he is,” he says, echoing a phrase he’s clearly picked up from listening to Stephen. “Knew you had one in you.”

Eight and nine hold firm, and at the turn I’m one under for the day, eleven under overall, right on the edge of where I need to be. Jeremy’s matching me shot for shot still, and something about racing alongside him instead of against him makes the whole back nine feel less like a solo grind and more like two guys pulling each other along.

“Can I tell you something weird?” he asks, walking to eleven.

“Sure.”

“I want to shave my head. Like, all the way, or do something with it. Not this.” He yanks his golf cap off and fluffs the sweaty hair underneath, a conservative, boring haircut, the kind every junior golf academy probably drilled into him. “I’ve wanted a mohawk since I was fifteen. My parents would actually disown me.”

I laugh, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious. My dad still picks out my clothes for tournaments.” He says it lightly, but there’s real frustration underneath. “You’ve got balls doing what you do. Being who you are, out loud, in this sport. I don’t even have the guts to cut my own hair.”

“I could shave it for you. After today. Whatever happens.” I mean it as I say it, surprising myself a little. “Doesn’t have to be a whole thing. Just, you know, an option. Shaver’s in our room.”

He looks at me like I’ve offered him something bigger than a haircut, which, given everything he’s told me, maybe I have.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Sure,” I reply. “Easy. Zip, zip, done.”

“Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Eleven and twelve go clean, and on thirteen a long putt breaks exactly the way it should, another birdie, twelve under for the tournament now, deep enough into the top five that I let myself feel something close to hope for the first time all day. Jeremy’s right there with me, matching birdie for birdie, both of us climbing together.

Fourteen is where my hands start to shake again, not from anything specific, just the accumulated weight of everything catching up. I glance at Stephen before I hit, and he’s right there, steady, unreadable to anyone but me. He lets his eyes tell me he loves me, that he knows I can do this, and I take a deep breath, letting it out loudly, and commit to the shot. Par. Fifteen and sixteen hold, both of us grinding out pars under pressure that’s stopped being abstract and feels like something pressing us down.

Seventeen, a long par three, wind swirling unpredictably the way it has all week, and I feel the old tightness creep back in, every bad swing I’ve ever made standing right behind me, breathing on my neck.

“Same swing,” Stephen murmurs, low, just for me. “Pick the flag. Forget everything else exists.”

I do. Two putts, par, and I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since Thursday.

Eighteen, everything on the line, and I split the fairway clean, flag my approach to twelve feet, and stand over the birdie putt with the whole tournament sitting somewhere behind my sternum. The grandstand behind the green has gone completely silent. Jeremy’s already finished his hole for par, watching from the side of the green, and I can feel Stephen’s eyes on me even without looking. I make my vision narrow. Just the ball and the hole, twelve feet away.