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Marius doesn't say anything for a second, just studies Gavin like he's trying to work out how Gavin got to be the one standing here calm and certain, my hand in his, while Marius is still doing the careful math of who's watching and what it costs him to be seen anywhere near this conversation. Whatever he finds, he clearly doesn't like it.

I want to say something. I've got a dozen things loaded and ready, all of them sharp, all of them satisfying. But watching Marius’ face right now, I don't think I need to say any of them. I think he's already saying the worst thing to himself, right here in front of us, and nothing I add is going to land harder than that.

“Next time, stay away from us, Marius. Both of us,” Gavin says, putting his hand to my lower back and guiding me outside.

“You okay?” Gavin asks once we're alone again.

“Yeah.” I lace my fingers tighter through his. “I should be asking you that, though.”

He smiles and squeezes my hand. “I am very good.”

“I think I actually feel sorry for him.”

“Don't feel too bad. He made his choice.”

“I know. Still.” I glance back once at Marius rejoining his wife with a smile that doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes. “Must be exhausting. Being so scared all the time.”

“It was,” Gavin says, quiet. “Let’s go home.”

42

GAVIN

Ben's course is quiet on a Tuesday morning, the first week of October. The aspens are in full glow, spectacular yellow and orange among the dark green pines. There are just a handful of members out early, the dew still heavy on the fairways. TJ's already stretching when I walk up with his golf bag, bouncing a little on his toes like a kid who's been let out of school early.

“You look like you're about to run a marathon, not hit a bucket of balls.”

“I haven’t been allowed to do this for five weeks, Gavin. Let me have it.”

“Caleb's not coming?”

“Caleb's doing re-registration stuff this week. Besides.” He grins, slinging his bag over one shoulder before I can grab it for him. “I've got you.”

“You've got me carrying your clubs like a rental caddie.”

“You offered.”

“I did offer.” I take the bag from him anyway, because he still gets winded faster than he wants to admit, and he lets me, which tells me more about how tired he actually is than anything he'd say out loud. “One week till Oklahoma. This is easy-does-it. Nothing stressful, nothing that leaves you flat on your back tonight.”

“I know the drill.”

“I mean it, TJ.”

“I know, Gavin. Casual. Loose. I got it.” He waves me off, already walking toward the first tee, moving easier than he has in weeks, some color finally back in his face. “Such a Daddy. You’re worse than my father.”

I grin. “Your father would agree with me.”

We work our way through the back nine slowly, no scorecard, just TJ hitting a few clean shots and grinning at himself like he'd been worried whether he could still do it. I carry his bag, hand him clubs, let him take his time between shots without pushing him, and it's easy in a way I didn't expect it to be, just being out here with him, no tournament pressure, no cameras, nothing at stake except getting him moving again.

By the time we reach thirteen, he's loosened up enough that he's talking through his whole pre-shot routine out loud, mostly to hear himself think, and I'm only half listening because I'm too busy watching the way the morning light catches him.

I know this hole. Recognized it the moment we walked up, actually. The exact stretch of fairway where the tee shot leaves you close enough to the group ahead that you end up standing practically shoulder to shoulder waiting your turn. Months ago, at that first tournament we played together, I stood right here and thought about kissing him for the first time. Didn't do it. Wasn't the time, wasn't even close to the time, but I remember it so clearly. This specific six feet of grass and how loud the thought was in my head. How he looked up at me and challenged me.

TJ's lining up his shot when he catches me looking at the fairway instead of watching him swing.

“What.”

“Nothing.”