Page 13 of Iron

“It’s nothing.” I jam the rest of the protein bar in my mouth so I have an excuse not to keep talking, ignoring my gag reflex.

He doesn’t push, just goes back to his notes like he’s dropping it. A minute later, without looking up, he says low, “You’re about to tee off in forty minutes with your head spinning. I need to know if that’s going to be a problem before we walk out there.”

“It won’t be a problem,” I mumble around the goop in my mouth.

“TJ.” His voice is kind but stern. Concerned.

I set down the empty wrapper, swallowing, my hands not quite steady. I take a deep breath. Blow it out loudly. “It’s fine. He’s fine. I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.”

“That is four fines in eight words.” Stephen looks at me straight on, the look that means he knows more than he’s saying. “You want to tell me what happened between you two, or you want to just carry it out onto the course with you and let it screw up your round?”

I don’t answer right away. Across the deck, Gavin laughs at something the other guy says. Easy, unbothered, like he didn’t just spend four seconds looking at me like I was something he wanted to devour.

“Nothing happened,” I finally say, and it’s technically true, which drives an ice pick into my heart. Fuck, that hurts, dammit. “Nothing. I…” I swallow and finish it. “I misjudged. Nothing happened.”

Stephen studies me for a long moment, then closes the yardage book. “Okay. Nothing happened. Let’s go hit some golf balls and stop thinking about a man who isn’t on your card this week.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. I stand up, sling my hat back on, and do not look across that deck again on my way out.

The first tee doesn’t rattle me the way it did Thursday. No shaking hands this time, no churning guts threatening to spew on my feet. But my fucking mind won’t let go of those four seconds on the clubhouse deck. I keep seeing those gray eyes boring into me, then turning away, and it costs me on the first swing, a hook that sails left into the rough instead of splitting the fairway like it should.

“Walk it off,” Stephen says, already moving.

It doesn’t get better right away. My second shot from the rough comes up short of the green, and I three-putt for a bogey. Yesterday’s rhythm is gone, fucked up by my own head.

“Where are you?” Stephen asks on the second tee, not unkindly, just matter-of-fact.

“Here,” I grunt.

“You're not.” He hands me my club, anyway. “You’re still on that deck. I need you here, on this tee box, on this shot. Nowhere else. Right. Here.”

I nod, but it takes two more holes before I actually manage it. Somewhere around the fourth, chasing a par save on a tricky up-and-down, I finally stop hearing the low hum of he looked at me, he looked away running under everything and just play the shot in front of me. The putt drops. Par.

“There you are,” Stephen says, and it hits me the same way it did Thursday. It’s gruff, plain, and exactly what I need instead of what would be easy to say. It’s real. I’m here.

From there, things steady. I don’t catch fire the way I did the first day, no string of birdies, but I stop bleeding bogeys. A birdie on seven. A tough par save on nine that has Stephen actually smiling. By the turn at the ninth, I’ve clawed back to even for the day, which after that shitty start feels like a genuine accomplishment instead of a disappointment.

“You ok to keep going?” Stephen asks as we make the turn at nine, handing me an electrolytes bottle and a bag of trail mix.

“Yeah.” And now it’s actually true. “I'm fine.”

On the back nine, I get closer to Thursday’s rhythm. Not the same magic, but I’m steady, playing smart golf, the kind Stephen expects. Play the numbers. Respect the hole. Force nothing.

I birdie eleven. Birdie fourteen, a long putt that has a small pocket of the gallery actually cheering for a name they didn’t know two days ago. With my birdie on eighteen, I’m three under for the day, which paired with Thursday’s sixty-six should be more than enough to survive the cut with room to spare.

Walking off eighteen, I let myself finally check the board. Gavin’s number from this morning is up there already, three under for his round, too. I’m still ahead of him, though, even with my shitty start today.

I don’t know what to do with the small, gloating spark of satisfaction that gives me. I decide not to examine it too closely, the same way I decided not to look at him again on the deck.

“Two solid rounds,” Stephen says as we walk off the last green, my scorecard signed, the tournament officially half over. “You’ve made the cut with shots to spare. On your first Tour game. How’s that feel?”

“Feels good.” It does. It really does.

“Good enough to stop staring across clubhouse decks?”

“Shut up, Stephen.”

He laughs, actually laughs, and claps a hand on my shoulder as we head toward the equipment tent. For the first time since that damned Sunday night on Ben’s deck, the pain of Gavin walking away doesn’t feel as sharp. It’s not gone. Just quieter, tucked behind two good rounds. Rounds that I outplayed him.