Page 12 of Iron

“Yes, sir.” I salute him, and he rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile hiding underneath it.

Five under. On the leaderboard. Maybe near the top. And somewhere on the same course today, Gavin posted his own number, one I haven’t let myself check yet.

I pull my phone out as I walk off the green.

Four under.

I beat him. For one day, on one leaderboard that actually matters, I beat him.

10

GAVIN

I’m comfortably mid-pack, which doesn’t give me anything to actually think about. Which is a problem because it leaves too much room to think about other things instead.

I am keeping far away from the course while he and Stephen play the round, camped out in my hotel room and watching the action live on TV. He looks almost green himself on the first tee box, and I can see Stephen calming him down.

The TV coverage moves away to somewhere deep into the afternoon wave, the cameras following the leaders. Some new rookie from Texas who finishes seven under, a veteran making a run at the top five. Nothing about TJ.

I pull up the live leaderboard on my phone, scrolling past names until I find his. Four under through eleven. He’s doing ok, Stephen is handling him well. Twenty minutes later, he’s four under through fourteen. I don’t examine how many times I refresh a page that will not update any faster just because I want it to.

The TV broadcast cuts to a par three on the back nine, some signature hole with water framing the green. For one moment of luck, the group walking up happens to be TJ’s. I sit up straight and lean forward. The camera shot is a wide angle, just three tiny figures crossing a bridge, no commentary, no graphic with his name on it, gone again in four seconds for a replay of somebody else’s eagle putt.

It’s nothing. A blur of a rookie I already know is playing well, information I already had off the leaderboard. I still find myself replaying those four seconds twice more, trying to read something into the set of his shoulders, the way he walks.

My phone buzzes. Final round update: Todd Harrington IV finishes with a sixty-six, five under par, tied for third. He beat me. On a Tour debut, on a course he’d never seen before this week. Playing with a caddie who isn’t his. Something that feels uncomfortably like pride sits in my chest, which is completely ridiculous. I have zero claim to him and every reason to keep my distance.

The broadcast wraps with a highlight package, sixty seconds of the day’s best shots stitched together. There he is again, three full seconds this time, his approach on eighteen spinning back to twelve feet, the commentator’s voice mentioning his name almost as an afterthought before moving on to somebody more famous.

“Nice bit of golf from Todd Harrington’s son, a name we’ll probably be hearing more of.” ‘Todd Harrington’s son’ rankles, like TJ doesn’t even get his own name.

I mute the TV before the next clip starts and sit there in the quiet. My phone is still in my hand, the leaderboard still open. His name still sits there, three lines below mine like it’s daring me to do something about it.

I pour a measure of bourbon and change the channel. Sons of Anarchy. Perfect. Gunfire and engine noise fill the room instead of golf commentary.

My phone screen dims and turns off.

11

TJ

I’m eating a protein bar on the clubhouse deck, trying to hit all of my macros before the round, sitting with Stephen while we go over his notes on the front nine one more time, when I feel it. A prickle on the back of my neck. The one that means someone is looking. Not just any someone. I look up.

Gavin is across the deck, already showered from his morning round, a glass of something amber in his hand, talking to another player I don’t recognize. And he’s looking right at me.

Not just a glance. A stare. My protein bar goes forgotten in my hand. My whole body goes hot, my cock filling. His eyes drag down, just for a moment, just enough that I feel it everywhere. My cheeks are burning and something in my chest kicks so hard I actually forget to breathe.

Then he just… looks away. Turns his shoulder back into his conversation like I’m nothing, like that Sunday on Ben’s deck never happened, like four seconds ago never happened.

I sit there feeling stupid and gutted, staring at his gorgeous back. My lunch threatens to come back up.

“You good?” Stephen asks, not looking up from the yardage book on the table between us. How did he know? Did I make a noise?

“Fine.” My voice comes out wrong, tight.

He looks up at me, then follows my line of sight across the deck. Why am I still looking at Gavin’s back like a lovesick teenager? Stephen sees exactly what I’m looking at and goes very still in the way I’m realizing means he’s deciding whether to say something.

“That is not fine,” he says.