Page 11 of Iron

My name gets called over the PA, snapping my focus into the tee box. “From Denver, Colorado, Todd Harrington the Fourth,” and I hear a ripple of applause that’s polite more than excited.

Stephen sets my bag down at the tee marker, calm and steady, like this is just any Thursday. “One-oh-two-five is playing,” he says, low, just for me. “Wind’s quartering left to right, nothing dramatic. Fairway’s generous here. Don’t overthink it.”

“Right. Generous fairway.” I can’t feel my legs. If I throw up, will I get my feet?

“TJ,” Stephen says, short and sharp, making me look at him. Not Caleb’s sweet, supportive chirp, but solid. “You’ve hit this shot a thousand times. Just this week alone. Don’t look at the audience. Just hit the ball.”

“That obvious, huh?” I reply, shaking out my hands.

“First one’s always the hardest.” He pulls my driver and hands it over, grip-first. “Deep breath. Focus. Then swing.” He inhales deeply. I copy him.

I take the club. My right palm is damp against the grip, and I wipe it on my pants before taking my stance, feeling every single person in that fucking grandstand watching me do it.

Focus, TJ. Breathe.

I move through my setup routine, and Stephen steps back, off to the side. Step forward, not quite to the ball. Roll shoulders, shake them loose. Practice swing. Step all the way up, settle. One look down the fairway. Shift feet if needed. Focus on the ball.

And swing.

And now? I can breathe. Contact was clean and the ball rockets into the wide fairway, wide enough that a slight push right by the wind doesn’t cost me anything. Three hundred plus yards, dead center. I did it. The applause is genuine this time, and something in my chest finally unclenches.

“There he is,” Stephen says, stuffing my driver into the bag and hefting it onto his shoulder. His words are gruff, but my stupid vision blurs up at how much they mean, how well they land. Nobody’s ever said something like that to me and made it sound like fact instead of encouragement.

I follow him down the fairway and, for the first time since that night on Ben’s deck, I forget to think about Gavin McClain for a whole thirty seconds.

Eighteen is a long par four, with water lurking down the entire right side of the fairway. Stephen warned me to respect this one: don’t get greedy, and I’m listening to every word today.

“Two-eighty-five to carry the water if you cut the corner,” Stephen says. “You don’t need to cut the corner. Play it safe, middle of the fairway, you’re looking at a mid-iron in. Plenty of green.”

“Boring wins tournaments,” I quote.

He almost smiles. Almost. “Damn right it does.”

I’m not shaking anymore. My legs are steadier than the first tee, and I stopped feeling like I was going to toss my breakfast somewhere around the fourth hole. Four birdies, no bogeys, and somewhere around the twelfth hole, the crowd noise stopped being pressure and started being background.

I lay up off the tee, keeping it on the fairway, and it lands exactly where Stephen said to. We walk down together, Stephen by my side, and for a moment I think about how different this feels from the front nine at the Pride Tournament. How I couldn’t hit a putt straight with Gavin ten feet away and now I can’t miss with two hundred strangers watching. Funny how nerves work.

“You’re thinking about something,” Stephen says. Not a question.

“Just golf.”

“Uh, huh.”

I don’t answer. He hands me an eight-iron for the approach, and I trust it the same way I’ve trusted every single club he’s put in my hand today. The shot lands twelve feet from the pin, soft, spinning back a foot.

“Nice,” Stephen says, already walking toward the green.

The putt is a slight left-to-right break, nothing Stephen needs to read for me. I take my time, remembering to breathe, and roll it in dead center.

Birdie. Five under for the round.

The applause is genuine now, and I actually hear it instead of tuning it out. I pull my cap off and give a small wave to the grandstand because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I do not look for a face that isn’t anywhere near this course right now.

Stephen claps me on the shoulder as I bend down to grab my ball. “Five under, day one. Not bad for a rookie who was about to barf three hours ago.”

“Was not.”

“Sure.” He starts toward the scoring tent, bag over his shoulder, settling it on the small of his back, and glances back at me. “Go sign your card. Then find your dad. I saw him in the stand. Then call Caleb, tell him he can stop worrying and just rest.”