Page 57 of Iron

“You have a cold?” I ask, sliding my hand over the back of his neck. He feels ok to my touch.

“Just sleepy. Can we just go to bed?”

“Sure, baby, I’ll stick this in the fridge for later.”

We fall asleep with him curled around me, snuggled close, our legs tangled together, and I know I’ll have drool on my chest in the morning.

I awaken at three AM to the sounds of TJ retching in the bathroom. When I stumble to the door, my heart sinks. He is curled around the toilet, body hunched in pain as a spasm grips him. I run a washcloth under the cold water and kneel next to him, wiping it over his face. He is boiling hot.

“Oh, baby,” I croon, “let’s get your temperature.” I dig through his toiletry bag for the thermometer Caleb insisted he start carrying after Illinois, his excuse for it being ‘in case Gavin gets old-man sick,’ and press it to his forehead when he stops heaving long enough to let me.

103.4.

“Shit.” I don’t bother hiding the worry in my voice. “TJ, baby, when did you start feeling like this?”

“Fine yesterday,” he mumbles, hot forehead pressed against my shoulder, shivering despite the heat radiating off him. “Just tired. Throat a little scratchy. Now it is like knives are in there. Puked everything up. Other end, too.”

Throat like knives, vomiting and diarrhea. My heart sinks. I hand him a cup of mouthwash. He swishes and spits it into the toilet.

“Ready to go back to bed?”

He nods against me, sniffling sadly.

I pick him up in a princess hold and carry him back to the bed, propping pillows behind him. There’s a rapid test in the bag, and I silently thank Caleb again for being the most paranoid, over-prepared caddie in professional golf. Two lines appear before the timer even finishes.

COVID.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, phone in hand, doing math I don’t want to do. My flight to Atlanta leaves in twenty-eight hours, practice rounds starting tomorrow afternoon and Wednesday before Thursday’s first round. Every year of my career has built toward this exact week: top thirty, real contention, the Cup actually within reach for the first time in twenty years.

And I don’t care.

TJ’s watching me do the math. He can read my face.

“Go,” he rasps, miserable, eyes glassy with fever and pain. “Caleb can handle this. He’d love to boss me around when I can’t defend myself.”

“I know he can.” I brush his sweat-damp hair off his forehead gently, already decided, knowing I had actually decided the moment I found him on the bathroom floor. “That’s not the point.”

“Gavin. The Tour Championship. You’ve wanted this for twenty years.”

“I’ve wanted a lot of things for twenty years.” I press the cold washcloth back against his neck, watch some of the tension in his face ease at the relief of it. “This isn’t about whether someone else could take care of you. It’s about where I want to be. And I want to be here.”

“You’ll regret it.” His voice cracks, more scared than argumentative now. “I don’t want you to resent me for this.”

“TJ.” I take his face in both hands, carefully, steadily, making sure he actually hears me over the fever. “I already told you. Six years ago, I let someone choose a career over me, and I called it cowardice. I am not doing that to you. I’m not doing it to myself. Not ever. Not for a check, not for a Cup, not for anything.” I press a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “This is where I want to be. Where I have wanted to be for the past month and where I am going to stay from now on.”

He doesn’t have the strength to argue further, just nods, eyes wet, and lets me settle him back against the pillows. He sips some water, then passes the glass to me and slides down under the sheet.

I text Stephen first.

ME: TJ has COVID. Not making Atlanta.

The reply comes fast.

STEPHEN: Alright. Hope he recovers soon.

Then my agent. I’m anticipating the conversation we’ll need to have about what withdrawing this late means for my standing, my reputation. We will need to deal with whatever narrative the golf press spins about a top-thirty player skipping the biggest week of the season to take care of his boyfriend.

I don’t care. I turn my phone face-down on the nightstand and focus on the only thing that matters right now: TJ’s breathing, ragged and shallow, his body curled toward mine even in fever-sleep, reaching for me. I climb onto the bed and let him curl his body around my arm, face mashed on my delt.