Page 10 of Iron

“What if he doesn’t have to?”

That gets his attention. He straightens, gives me that look he’s perfected over eleven years of working with me. I know exactly where you’re going with this, and I’m pretty sure I don’t like it.

“You want me caddying for the Harrington kid.”

“Got it in one.”

“Gavin.” It’s a warning and a question at once. “What about you?”

“I’ll get a local guy. I’ll be ok. He needs you more than I do. Not really open for discussion, Stephen.”

Stephen slides the club back into the bag slowly, thinking instead of just shutting it down. That’s a good sign. He studies me for a long moment, the kind of look that makes me feel sixteen years old and caught at something instead of forty-one.

“This about the kid,” he finally asks, “or about you not being able to sit still while he flounders out there alone?”

“Does it matter?” I don’t allow myself to squirm. This is totally about TJ. Absolutely.

“Might.” But he pulls his phone out, already pulling up the tee sheet.

Ten minutes and one phone call to the tournament office later - caddie emergency, reasonable accommodation - and Stephen is officially TJ’s caddie.

“Guess I’m looping for the kid,” he says, not quite managing to sound irritated about it.

I clap him on the shoulder. “Thank you. Go tell TJ before he spirals completely.”

Stephen huffs something that might be a laugh, checks my bag in and walks off toward the clubhouse, shaking his head. I watch him go. Something settles in my chest that I don’t want to look at too closely.

Wednesday afternoon is a whirlwind of activity. I talk with my new guy, Julio. He knows the course well enough. We walk the course together. He’ll do.

Stephen has all of Caleb’s notes, and he and TJ sit at a table shoulder-to-shoulder, poring over them. They walked the course. Twice. Stephen scribbles in notepads, grabbing bright purple and pink pens to make TJ-specific notes. Caleb’s piles are a treasure trove, and Stephen grills TJ on index cards, notepads, stat sheets, and Caleb’s yardage books until he has his own separate pile just for TJ.

“Caleb did good,” Stephen grunts, and TJ gives him a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

I order in dinner for the three of us, continuing until Stephen cuts us off, declaring he needs to hit the sack to walk the pin placement in the morning.

And now we are alone. TJ rises abruptly and heads towards the door, head down. Without looking back, he mutters, “Thanks for this. For Stephen.”

And leaves.

9

TJ

My hands are shaking. Like I’m fifteen again in my first high school round. There’s a gallery on the first tee, actual bleachers with maybe two hundred people settled in despite it being an early-afternoon start for a rookie. My father is probably in that stand, but he’s staying away from me. He knows my nerves and that he only makes it worse. Gavin is done with his morning round, also staying far away. Still. I don’t look for him in the stand. No, I do not.

Yesterday when Stephen told me he would be caddying for me, I almost hugged him. Something happened in my chest that I don't have a name for. A complicated knot of grateful and mad and something else softer underneath both of those that I refuse to look at directly. Gavin gave up his own caddie, the guy he’s worked with for eleven years, on the biggest event of my career. And he didn’t even tell me himself. He had Stephen do it. Of course he did. Consistent to the end.

“He got someone else?” I ask.

“Local looper. Guy’s fine. Knows the course. Gavin will be alright.”

His own caddie handed over with four words: not open for discussion.

I don’t know what to do with that. I can’t think about that right now. I don’t have time to figure it out. Not with a tee time that’s going to decide the rest of my life staring me down in six hours. Caleb would call me a drama queen.

But some small, stupid, hopeful part of me is already turning it over. He gave me Stephen. On today of all days. That has to mean something.

Doesn’t it?