Page 48 of Iron

He glances around at the other players warming up nearby, then nods toward a quieter spot near the practice green, and I follow him, stomach tightening with every step.

“I like you, Gavin,” he says once we’re out of earshot. “I want to say that first, clearly, so there’s no confusion about where I’m starting from.”

“Appreciate that.” I wait.

“But I’m worried.” He crosses his arms, watching me steadily, the same sharp attention I imagine he used to level at TJ over a bad report card or a lie he half-believed. “TJ’s exhausted. I talked to him Friday night, and he is a man running on fumes. Golf’s hard enough on a rookie without adding a long-distance relationship with someone playing the biggest stretch of his own career at the same time.”

“I know he’s tired.”

“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like two people trying to do everything at full speed at once, and I’m worried one of you is going to break before the season does.” His voice isn’t angry, just direct, the directness that comes from genuinely caring rather than looking for a fight. “I’m not asking you to slow down your career. I’d never ask that. I’m asking you to actually see what this is costing him, and make sure you’re not the reason he burns out in year one.”

Something in my chest goes tight, defensive first, then honest right behind it.

“I see it,” I say quietly. “I see it on every call. I just don’t know what to do about it that doesn't involve one of us giving something up.”

“Maybe neither of you has to give anything up. Maybe you just have to actually talk about it instead of both pretending you’re fine because you don’t want to be the one who complains first.” Todd's expression softens slightly, some of the sharpness easing. “I raised that boy to push through anything. Doesn’t mean he should have to, not with someone who's supposed to be in his corner.”

“I am in his corner.”

“I believe that.” He nods, slow, considering. “I just need you to prove it's more than words when the season's grinding both of you down to nothing.”

I don't have a quick answer for that, and Todd doesn't seem to expect one. He claps me on the shoulder, firm, not unkind, and turns to head back toward the clubhouse.

“Go play good golf today,” he says over his shoulder. “But call my son tonight and actually ask him how he's doing. Not the version he tells everybody else.”

I watch him walk away, the ache in my chest from last night’s call settling into something heavier, more urgent.

He's right. I already know he's right.

I just don’t know yet how to fix something that isn't really broken, just worn thin by two people trying to hold on to too much at once.

I sit in my hotel room hours before our usual time to call and let myself actually ask the question I’ve been avoiding since Todd walked away from me on the range. For weeks, if I am honest. I should be honest with myself.

Do I really even want this anymore?

For twenty years, I’ve chased this exact shot at the Cup. I should want it. More than anything.

Instead, I keep doing the math. Three more weeks if I make the Championship. Three more weeks of TJ’s voice going thinner on every call, both of us performing ‘fine’ at each other because neither wants to be the one who admits it isn’t.

I try to picture actually winning it, lifting that trophy, and the image that comes isn’t triumph. It’s TJ, alone in some hotel room, watching it happen on a screen because I chose three more weeks of chasing a number over three more weeks of actually showing up for him. And yet, it is only three weeks. Small drop in the pond.

Marius chose his career over what we had, once. I spent six years calling that cowardice. Choosing golf over the man he supposedly loved.

What exactly am I doing right now, if not the same math with different variables?

That’s not fair to myself, probably. Nobody’s asking me to hide. Nobody’s asking me to choose. This isn’t what Marius did. But it’s still costing TJ. It’s still costing us, and I don’t know if the answer is walking away from a goal I’ve spent twenty years working toward, or something smaller. Actually being present for the time we do have, instead of treating the distance as the whole problem.

And there. I admit it out loud, if only to myself.

I love him.

I.

Love.

TJ Harrington.

I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.