Page 6 of Iron

His breath catches. I actually hear it. Green eyes blown to black flick down to my mouth and back up so fast I could almost think I imagined it.

Almost.

“Is that a threat?” he says, swallowing.

“Depends,” I say, “on whether you like threats.”

Stephen clears his throat behind us, the same thing he did on thirteen, and this time I resent his interruption.

“Your line's ready, Gavin,” he says, too flat.

I step back. TJ exhales like he’s been holding his breath. Neither of us says anything else. The air between us has changed weight, heavier now, potent.

I take the driver from Stephen. My hands are not quite steady. Deep breaths. Focus, Gavin.

Boring wins tournaments. I don't feel like being boring.

I go for it. Not even waiting for it to land, I turn back to TJ with a smirk as I hand my driver to Stephen.

The pines don’t beat me. My drive clears them by a margin closer than I’d like to admit out loud, but I’m on the green in two like I wanted. TJ’s drive finds the fairway as well, following my path: three shots to get home, and he scores a birdie. I have an eagle. Fourteen under par stretches to sixteen. Three shots ahead of TJ now, not two.

He doesn’t say anything when my putt drops. Just watches the ball disappear and exhales through his nose, jaw tight.

Eighteen is a formality after that. Neither of us plays it particularly well. I think we’re both still mentally standing on the tee box on seventeen. But I finish two-under on the day’s last hole, and TJ finishes with a final birdie. When we shake hands on the green, his grip lingers, hangs on longer than it needs to, palm soft against mine, those eyes not meeting mine.

“Good round,” I say. And I mean it more than the words suggest.

“You won.” He says it flatly, still looking away from me.

“Barely.”

“Four shots isn’t barely,” he huffs, releasing my hand with a swallow.

Somewhere on seventeen, the round stopped being about the scorecard. There’s something else still here between us. “You settled in on the back nine. It… seemed closer than that.”

He looks at me then, really looks at me honestly. More real. “Yeah,” he says. “It did.”

Caleb appears at his elbow before either of us can figure out what to do with that, chattering about the clubhouse happy hour, and the potential fades away, hidden behind Caleb’s bright noise. I let Stephen take my bag and don’t watch TJ walk off toward the clubhouse.

I don't watch him. I just happen to still be looking in his direction when he glances back over his shoulder once, quick, like he's checking if I’m doing exactly what I’m doing.

Caught.

Neither of us smiles. Neither of us looks away first, either. He disappears into the clubhouse behind the chattering Caleb.

I’m not paired with TJ again during the remaining three days. I tell myself it’s fine and better that we aren’t. He’s twenty fucking years younger than me. Hell, I’ve played golf with his damned father, that loud Texan turning into a surprising LGBTQ ally.

While I’m not loudly out, my closest friends know I’m gay, which thankfully stopped them setting me up with women at every stop on the Tour. Coming out is never a single incident. It is a continuous stream of incidents, explanations, saying I’m sorry, but I play for the other team. I’ll never have kids, but if I did, I would hope they’d end up straight. So much easier for the straights.

I end up taking second place in this tournament, first going to a guy who’s been dominating the circuit. If I’m honest with myself, I was not quite as focused as I wanted to be. If I’d been more focused, I could have had first. To my surprise, TJ takes ninth. He is grinning ear-to-ear when they post the final standings on Sunday. I make my way through the crowd to shake his hand and pat his surprisingly meaty shoulder. While many of the heaviest hitters did not enter, it’s still a respectable showing.

I could have flown home to Florida this afternoon, but Ben is hosting a party to celebrate the first Pride Tournament. I use the shower in the clubhouse, changing out of my sweaty polo and shorts and into a light henley and jeans. Colorado gets cooler in the evenings in June, and I don’t want to freeze.

I’m slowly mingling, shaking hands, patting shoulders and backs. Wandering through the kitchen, I spot the coolers. I bend down to pull out a beer and see bright pink jeans in the side of my eye. Outside, TJ and Caleb stand at the railing of Ben and Geoff’s deck, heads together, seemingly deep in conversation. Caleb has topped his jeans with an equally eye-burning lime green tank top with a unicorn farting rainbow sparkles. Out and proud.

I stand with a beer in hand and move in the opposite direction and stop near Ben.

“Fun tournament, old man,” I tell him, shifting my beer to shake his hand and pull him in for a double-pat hug.