Page 78 of Iron

“TJ. I know the Finals are coming up. I know how much you need someone out there who actually knows you. I'm not gonna just bail on you a week before…”

“Caleb. You should take it.” I mean it, even though it costs something to say it plain like that. “This is your whole life, the thing you actually wanted before I dragged you out onto tour with me. You're not bailing on anything. You're just going where you're supposed to be going.”

“But who's gonna caddie for you?”

“I will.”

Both of us turn to look at Gavin, who says it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like he's been sitting on the offer the whole meal waiting for the right moment to drop it.

“You have your own season,” I say. “You can't just…”

“I withdrew from the Cup already. My season's basically done for the year besides some appearances I can move around.” He shrugs, like it's the easiest decision he's made all week, easier even than the ring. “I know your swing better than almost anyone at this point. I know your habits, your tells, when you're about to overthink a putt. I can read a yardage book. I think I'll manage.”

“Gavin, that’s…” I don't even know how to finish the sentence, throat suddenly tight in a way I wasn't expecting at a clubhouse lunch table. “That's a lot. You'd really do that? Just. Carry my bag? A former World Number 1 lugging my clubs around Oklahoma?”

“I'd carry your bag to the moon if you asked me to, TJ.”

That's what does it. I feel my eyes go hot and stupid, and I blink hard, but it doesn't help, and Caleb's already reaching across the table for a napkin to hand me before I even ask for one, grinning through his own watery eyes.

“I can hire someone. Ben probably has some good ones.”

“I want to,” he replies, staring straight into my eyes. No qualms, no hesitation.

“Yeah, okay,” I manage, voice cracking right down the middle. “Yeah. Okay. You're my caddie.”

“I'm your caddie.”

“You're gonna wear the bib and everything?”

“I'll wear the bib.”

“You're gonna have my name on your back?”

“Damn right I will.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to pay for stuff,” I state. “And I’ll decide which events to enter. And pay the fees. And decide the practice plans. And I have final club choice.”

“Can we still use the charter plane? I really hate flying commercial.”

My mouth flaps a few times before I manage. “I set the schedule, though. No more sponsorships.”

“You set the schedule. I’m just your caddie.”

“If this goes south, I’m hiring someone else. Stephen maybe.”

This makes him laugh.

“Deal.”

“People are going to say we are co-dependent,” I muse.

“Fuck ‘em,” he replies.

“More of the spoiled rich kid bit,” I add.

“Again, fuck ‘em,” he growls. “You have shown you can play, can win, can beat them all. Hell, even me. You’ve beaten me.”

“Ok, then,” I agree, my eyes blurring. “You’re my caddie.”