Page 9 of Iron

“I don’t want a project. A…” I choke the word out, “Boy.”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t look at it that way. Love is love, right?”

I sit back, taking a deep swallow of tea. “This guy has disaster written all over him. Something in him is so damned fragile. I don’t do fragile, Bill. I don’t take care of a guy.”

Bill tuts, munching a chip. “Gavin McClain, you are a big softy and you know it. You are all big and muscle-y and tough, but we know. You would be great taking care of a boy.”

Gregory nods, sipping, watching me over the rim of his champagne flute. “You act all toppy,” he waves his hand towards me, “but I know you’ll bottom for the right guy. That party at Tomas’s?”

“God, Gregory, I was drunk,” I groan.

He giggles. “Maybe, but you were loving it.”

I snort, then laugh, shaking my head. “I just need to stick to the bathhouses, no angst.”

“No love, either, darlin’,” Bill says softly. “Give him a chance.”

“What’s for lunch, boys?” the waiter pipes in. “Fish ’n' chips today!”

“Hell, yeah,” Gregory exclaims.

Bill shakes his head. “Fucking cholesterol level. Give me the Skinny Bitch Salmon.”

“Eat The Meat Steak Salad for me,” I answer, glad for the interruption.

7

TJ

Illinois in June sucks. Hot and muggy. At least the course is gorgeous. I catch glimpses of Gavin at the player’s dinner, on the driving range warming up, but he looks walled up, totally unapproachable. So I don’t. Clearly, he wants nothing to do with me. Nada. Zippo. Got it. Nothing happened, nothing will. Move the fuck on already. Play golf.

Caleb is having a blast. Geoff gave him lessons on all the things that a pro caddie has to know and do, and he has taken to it like he was born to golf. Yardage books, cleaning clubs, making sure we both drink enough, eat enough, Caleb is one bossy bitch. When he slides on the official caddie bib with HARRINGTON on it, he cackles that he owns my ass.

And I need him. Gavin’s rejection stings, and I need to focus. The pressure to do well here is huge, and sometimes I feel like I’ll collapse under the weight. I’ve analyzed that afternoon on Sunday and Gavin walking away, and I totally understand that I don’t understand. At all. I know we connected. And yet, here we are. Barely nodding hello in the club dining room.

Monday, Caleb and I walk the course together, talking about pin placements, trying out a few clubs, and he makes copious notes in his yardage book. He and I worked through all of my clubs, and he has a stat sheet we can refer to if we aren’t sure which one to use. His pockets are stuffed with additional notepads and index cards… he is a veritable encyclopedia on the course. We walk each hole, measuring distances as I play each one.

I can’t stand another evening in the clubhouse with Gavin across the room, not wanting me. We hit a nearby burger joint, laughing our way through triple cheeseburgers and chili cheese fries. I am not hitting my macros that Geoff gave me, but I don’t fucking care. I need comfort food.

Tuesday, I have dinner with my father’s agent. He’s ready to sign me up and has a few sponsors that are thinking about putting logos on my gear. We’ll see. I’m not so sure about some of them, too conservative. I need to be true to myself.

Caleb heads out on his own with a few other caddies who seem charmed by his out and proud attitude.

Wednesday morning, we are supposed to be chilling at the clubhouse, people watch, but Caleb is late. I bang on his door and it takes him a full five minutes to open it, and my stomach falls out of my fucking gut as he just about pitches into my arms.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, then collapses at my feet, heaving.

8

GAVIN

TJ doesn’t make it to breakfast on Wednesday. I hear about it secondhand from a volunteer in the locker room, something about Caleb getting bad shellfish at the hotel restaurant the night before, an ambulance called out this morning, IV fluids, the whole miserable ordeal. I spot TJ standing on the clubhouse deck, leaning on the railing, looking like a man standing on the edge of a cliff. The first real Tour start of his career, twenty-three hours out and his caddie’s flat on his back in a hospital bed instead of walking the course with him.

I find Stephen at the equipment tent, doing his morning check on my clubs.

“You hear about TJ’s guy?” I ask.

“Heard. Food poisoning. Brutal timing.” Stephen doesn't look up from the seven-iron he’s wiping down. “Kid’s gonna have to scramble for a local looper. Happens.”