Page 42 of Iron

“It really isn’t, though,” someone calls from the back, and a ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, not unkind, just true.

Gavin huffs something between a laugh and a groan, finally putting a small, respectable amount of distance between us, professional again, or trying to be. “Ask me about my second shot on sixteen. That’s a much better story.”

“Oh, I disagree,” I mutter, just for him, and he shoots me a look that promises retaliation later.

The reporter, to her credit, actually does pivot, asking about the round itself, the pressure of the back nine, and what it means to win at this stage of his career. Gavin answers all of it with the composed, practiced ease that comes from twenty years of doing exactly this. But every few sentences his eyes flick back to me, standing just outside the scrum, and every time they do, that smile creeps back in, the one that has nothing to do with golf at all.

By the time the interviews wrap and the crowd thins, my phone’s buzzing nonstop in my pocket, and I don’t need to check it to know exactly what’s waiting for me.

Caleb, probably in all caps. My father, undoubtedly ecstatic. The internet, absolutely losing its mind. I should have left social media turned off. But I had no idea I’d fling myself into Gavin’s arms on national television today.

I don’t check any of it yet. I just walk over, slide my hand into Gavin’s in front of whoever’s still watching, and let him pull me in against his side as we head for the clubhouse together.

Whatever comes next, headlines, questions, a thousand strangers with opinions about our age gap or our timeline or our right to have any of this, we’ll deal with it.

Right now, there’s just this. His hand in mine. His win. Us. Proud, not hiding from anyone.

32

GAVIN

The email from my agent is as expected. Just like Ben experienced, some sponsors are letting us know they won't be renewing. Quiet language about “brand alignment“ and “shifting marketing priorities“ that means exactly what it sounds like it means. A couple of new ones are interested in coming on board instead, one of them a menswear brand that's clearly hoping to capitalize on whatever visibility this whole thing has given us.

He also relays some of the fallout he felt we should know about, careful about it, the way people get careful when they're bracing you for something. Those include something from an IPGA official warning us not to engage in PDA on The Tour courses. I reply that I’ll hold TJ’s hand if I want to, but will keep kisses off the fairways. I’ll pay the damned fines if they insist.

As I predicted, #CradleRobbingVeteran and #SpoiledBratFindsSugarDaddy are trending, along with some mashup of our names that some corner of the internet decided we needed. #GavinAndTJ is slightly ahead of #Tavin. I stay far away from all of it, have for years, long before TJ, because I learned a long time ago that reading what strangers think about your life doesn't actually change anything except your mood.

TJ laughs it off, or claims to, posting photos of us around town with #GayGolfersFTW and a string of increasingly ridiculous captions, like the noise doesn't touch him at all. A few other athletes post their own support underneath his: a WNBA player, a figure skater I vaguely recognize, small gestures that mean more to him than he lets on. I catch him staring at his phone longer than usual one night, though, scrolling instead of typing, and when I ask what's wrong, he says nothing's wrong, just some golf forum guys calling it a distraction, unprofessional, like our relationship is a scheduling conflict. I tell him not to read the socials. He tells me the same thing right back, and neither of us actually stops.

A tabloid runs a piece using a photo from back in June, before either of us said anything publicly, framing it like evidence of something that needed catching. TJ finds it before I do, shows it to me at breakfast with his jaw tight in a way I recognize from the diner, from the gala, and I feel the old instinct kick in hard, the one that wants to go quiet, go private, pull both of us out of view until it blows over.

“You're doing the thing,” TJ says, watching me read it.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you disappear a little. Where you get quiet and start thinking about how to make us smaller.” He sets his coffee down, steady, more patient with me than I probably deserve. “We don't have to hide anymore, Gavin. That's kind of the whole point of all this.”

He's right, and I know he's right, and it still takes me a minute to actually believe it, because thirty years of instinct doesn't undo itself just because I want it to.

One photographer follows us around Greensboro more aggressively than the rest, camped outside restaurants, catching us leaving the hotel, close enough one afternoon that TJ actually snaps at him on the sidewalk before I can stop him.

That’s the push that finally gets us on the plane to Florida a few days early, an actual break before the grind starts back up, somewhere neither of us has a following. TJ falls asleep on the flight down with his head on my shoulder, phone finally, blessedly, dark in his lap, and I let myself hope, for a few hours at least, that we're actually about to get some peace.

Niki’s on a Tuesday night is quieter than the chaos of a Friday, string lights dimmed low, half the regular crowd. Bill, Gregory, and Netra are all here, crammed around our usual table the moment they heard TJ was in town, two open chairs waiting for us.

I guide him to the table with my hand firmly at his spine and he shivers and smiles back at me. To combat the July Florida heat, he’s donned sparkly purple cotton shorts that he may have borrowed from Caleb or may have bought at one of the shops on Wilton Drive and a sexy white tank top that let his nipples show. I will not get a hard-on at Niki’s.

“So this is him,” Netra says, looking TJ up and down with the frank, appraising once-over she gives everyone she’s deciding whether to approve of, or not. “The infamous TJ Harrington.”

“Infamous is a strong word,” TJ says, easily, already grinning, not remotely intimidated by her the way most people are on first meeting.

“I follow the Tour. You are basically a golf folk hero at this point.” She points her drink at me. “Winning a tournament with your boyfriend live on camera, the cutest scandal of the year.”

TJ flushes, delighted, glancing at me. “Boyfriend. That's official now?”

“Been official.” I pull out the chair next to mine and he drops into it, close enough that our knees knock together under the table. I drape my arm around the back of his chair, making it clear to the cruising men eyeing him that he is very, very taken. “You’ve just been slow catching up.”

“Rude.”