Page 55 of Iron

“Mmm, that sounds nice,” I reply.

He lifts me against his body, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me into the bathroom and sets me on the vanity while he runs the water.

“No Epsom salts, I would have brought some if I’d planned for this,” he says.

We sink into the water together, him first, then me between his legs, reclining on his chest. The hot water stings for a bit. I’m stretched more than ever before, but I feel more smug about it rather than pained.

“How’s your head, baby?” he rumbles under my ear as he brings handfuls of water onto my shoulders. “Any triggers?”

I think for a bit, not wanting to give him a quick answer.

“I think I’m really ok,” I finally reply.

“Can you talk with your therapist over a video call, maybe? They might help with anything you aren’t letting yourself think about.”

I kiss his chest.

“Yeah,” I say, kissing again. “Clearly there’s stuff in there still. I don’t want it coming up again.”

“It’s never going to just go away. That’s not how trauma works,” he says, running a hand over my hip.

I can’t help but moan a little at his touch.

“Mmm, that feels good,” I tell him.

“That’s all you’re getting, babe,” he chuckles.

We sit nestled together in the tub until the water starts to cool. He dries us both off, and I fall asleep with him wrapped around me, big spoon. Safe. Loved.

*****

Gavin presses a last kiss to my lips on Tuesday morning with a promise to see me in Kansas City on Sunday and a demand that I eat, hit all the macros that Geoff worked up for me.

The high from our lovemaking lasts me all week. I eat right, not arguing with Caleb when he shoves ice cream at me. I even sleep better. Going into Sunday, I’m back at the top of the leaderboard, tied with some grinder named Marcus Aldrich who's been steady and boring and impossible to shake all day. We are both at sixty-four total heading into round four.

We head towards the eighteenth hole at seven under. It’s a long par four, water hugging the left side all the way to the green.

Caleb hands me my driver without a word, which is louder than anything he could say.

“Birdie wins,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Par forces a playoff.”

“Then let's get a birdie,” Caleb says, simple, steady, none of his usual flourish. He's been like this all day, dialed all the way in, no jokes about my face, no chatter, just precise numbers and quiet confidence exactly when I need it most.

I stripe my drive down the center, three hundred and five yards, perfect position. Aldrich matches me almost shot for shot, same fairway, but twenty yards back. I can take him.

“One-fifty-two to the pin,” Caleb says, already pulling my eight-iron. “Back flag, firm green. You’ve hit this shot a hundred times this week alone.”

I have. I trust it.

The swing feels clean, controlled. I know before it lands that it’s good, tracking the flag the whole way, landing soft, spinning back to eight feet.

The gallery around the green comes alive.

Aldrich’s approach lands safely on the green too, thirty feet away, a two-putt for par likely, nothing dramatic. He is just trying to survive to a playoff I don’t plan to give him.

He two-putts. I’m up.

Caleb and I walk up together. For the first time all day, I let myself actually feel the weight of the moment: eight feet, one putt, an entire season compressed into this single read.