Page 41 of Iron

“I’m just saying, babe, if you tee off with that face, everybody in the gallery is gonna know exactly what kind of Saturday night you had.”

“Nobody can tell that from my face.”

“Teej. Baby. Your face is doing a whole one-act play right now, and it is rated X.” He grins, delighted with himself, and hands me my driver. “Go play golf. Think about golf. Little white balls, not hairy brown ones. Golf, golf, golf.”

I laugh, actually laugh, and it loosens something in my chest before I even hit my first shot. My drive splits the fairway, and from there the day settles into rhythm, steady, focused, exactly the kind of golf I’ve been chasing all season.

I play my round in something like a bubble, no leaderboard to chase in real time, no Gavin two groups ahead to sneak glances at, just my scorecard and the course in front of me. It’s strange, playing without him anywhere nearby, but it’s also freeing, nothing to measure myself against except my game.

No double eagle magic needed, just clean, patient golf. By sixteen I’ve put together the steadiest stretch of golf I’ve played all week, and Caleb’s practically vibrating beside me trying not to jinx it by saying anything out loud.

By eighteen I’m five under for the day, tournament total climbing to a number I let myself feel good about for once instead of immediately worrying it isn’t enough.

My approach on eighteen lands twelve feet from the pin. When the putt drops for one more birdie, the applause is genuine, loud, the kind that means something.

“Six under,” Stephen would’ve said, if he were here instead of somewhere out on the course with Gavin. Caleb says it instead, delighted, hugging me so hard he nearly knocks me over. “Six under, boo bear! Best round of your entire career!”

I sign my card in the scoring tent, hands steady, genuinely proud for the first time all season without a single asterisk attached to the feeling. Then I do the thing I’ve been dreading and craving in equal measure since I walked off eighteen.

I go find a spot to watch Gavin finish.

The leaderboard is up on the big screen by the clubhouse, and I watch his group work through the back nine in something like real time, my stomach in knots with every shot. He’s steady. Of course he is, that is who he is, but I can see the moments where he’s fighting for it, a tricky par save on fourteen, a birdie on sixteen that has me literally gripping the railing.

Tied for the lead through seventeen. My tournament total sitting one shot behind his.

He needs a par on eighteen to force a playoff. A birdie to win outright.

I watch him stripe his drive down the center from two hundred yards away, too far to make out his face, but I know exactly what he looks like right now, focused, controlled, the same look he had on that very first tee box in Denver when I didn’t know yet what he would come to mean to me.

His approach lands eighteen feet from the pin.

I don’t breathe again until the putt drops. In the hole.

For one full second the entire green goes silent, disbelieving, and then it erupts, a roar that rolls all the way back to where I’m standing at the railing, gripping it so hard my knuckles ache. Gavin McClain wins. Outright. No playoff needed.

I’m running before I’ve decided to run, my feet deciding for me, pushing through the crowd gathered near the ropes. By the time I reach the edge of the green, Gavin is already turning, scanning the gallery, searching for something, someone, and then his eyes find mine and his whole face breaks open into the widest smile I’ve ever seen on him.

I duck under the rope. Nobody stops me, or if they try, I don’t notice.

He meets me halfway, and then his arms are around me, lifting me half off my feet the way my father did after Illinois, except this time it’s not pride from a parent. It’s something else entirely. My chest feels like it might crack wide open from the size of it.

“You won,” I say into his shoulder, laughing, disbelieving. “You actually won!”

“I won!” He sets me down but doesn’t let go, hands braced on my shoulders, forehead nearly touching mine, both of us grinning like idiots in front of God and a very large gallery. And, I realize a half-second later, a lot of cameras. And here we are. Out there for all to see. No furtive phone cameras in a barbecue joint. This is live TV with a lot of people watching.

We don’t kiss. Some instinct in both of us holds that line. Not yet, not like this, not as the very first thing the world sees. But we don’t let go of each other either, and the smile on his face and the one I know is stretched across mine say plenty all on their own.

The reaction is immediate. I can hear it rippling through the gallery, phones raised, a low buzz of commentary that has nothing to do with his score. By the time the on-course reporter makes it through the crowd, microphone already extended, a small crowd of other reporters are trailing behind her like she’s found the real story of the day and everyone wants in.

“Gavin, incredible round. A Tour win at forty-one. Your best finish in years. Congratulations.” She barely pauses. “And, I just have to ask, what exactly are we looking at here?”

Gavin doesn’t let go of my shoulders. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t put distance between us the way he might have a month ago, six weeks ago, any version of himself before this week. He stands his ground and answers.

“We’re together,” he says, simple, steady, no hedging in it at all.

A ripple of noise goes through the gathered press, questions overlapping, how long, is this why, does this affect, and I feel my face heating, half thrilled and half wanting to disappear into the ground.

“That’s all we've got for you today,” I say, laughing despite myself, cutting through the noise before it can spiral. “Let’s talk about golf. Gavin McClain just won a Tour event. That’s the story.”