Page 79 of Iron

Caleb's full-on crying now too, dabbing at his own eyes with a second napkin, laughing at himself even as he does it. “This is the best lunch I've ever had. This is better than the ring, honestly. No offense, ring.”

“None taken,” I say, laughing wet and messy, looking between the two of them, the two people who've somehow ended up holding my whole life steady all at once. “None taken at all.”

Patriot National doesn't look like anything special from the entrance road, just flat Oklahoma scrub and a long drive lined with young oaks that haven't caught up to the rest of the landscaping yet. Then the clubhouse comes into view, and behind it the course opens up wide and serious, fairways cut through red dirt and native grass, the kind of layout that means business the moment you see it.

“Seven thousand one hundred and twenty yards,” Gavin says, reading off the practice round packet like it's a menu he's deciding whether to order from. “Par seventy-one.”

“You gonna narrate the whole round or actually caddie?”

“I'm building context, TJ. It's part of the job.”

“You've caddied for me twice, and you're already annoying about it.”

“I learned from the best.” He grins at me, hefts my bag onto his shoulder like it weighs nothing, even though I know for a fact it's heavier than his own used to be. “Where do you want to start? Front or back?”

“Front. I want to see eighteen before Sunday, not walk into it blind.”

We start on one, and it's immediately clear this course isn't messing around. Wide fairways that look forgiving until you actually stand on the tee and realize the bunkers are positioned exactly where your eye wants to aim. Greens that roll fast, faster than anything I've played in weeks, the kind of speed that punishes anybody who gets lazy on a three-foot putt.

“This is not a Miles Ferry course,” I say, after my third putt rolls eight feet past the hole. “This is a US Open trying to disguise itself.”

“It's a Finals course. They want separation. They want the top thirty to actually earn it.”

“Cool. Love that. This’ll be fun.”

Gavin paces off the yardage to the pin instead of answering, jots something down in the little notebook he's started carrying, the same brand Caleb and Stephen used to use, and I catch him doing it and feel something warm settle behind my ribs. He didn't have to learn Caleb's system. He could've built his own. Instead, he copied it exactly, right down to the shorthand, because he knew it's what I'm used to reading under pressure.

“You're staring,” he says, not looking up from the notebook.

“I'm allowed to stare. You're my caddie now. Occupational hazard.”

“Occupational hazard is you three-putting on a wet green, not you staring at my handwriting.”

“I like your handwriting.”

“You like everything about me. It's a little concerning.”

“Don't let it go to your head.”

“Too late, fiancé.”

We keep moving through the front nine, slow, methodical, him pacing distances and calling out wind while I hit shot after shot trying to get a feel for how the ball reacts on this grass, how the greens break different from anywhere I've played all year. By the time we reach the turn, my legs are reminding me I was in a sick bed a month ago, a dull ache setting in that I'm doing my best to ignore.

Gavin sees it before I say anything.

“You need a break.”

“I'm fine.”

“TJ.”

“Ok. A short break.”

“Good. And you're drinking the whole bottle of electrolyte water I've been carrying, not just sipping it to make me feel better. And eat the trail mix.”

Thirty minutes, a bottle of electrolyte water and a bag of trail mix later, I get to my feet. “I've got nine more holes and four days until this actually matters.”

He studies me a moment, the same look he gave me at the mattress store, at the diner, the one that means he's deciding whether to push or let it go. He lets it go, but not without a condition.