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“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” He glances back toward the table, toward Geoff still wearing half a plate of fish. “That's the answer I hoped you'd give, if I'm honest.” He clears his throat, like he's caught himself getting sentimental, and leans on the rail. “Anyway. I'm not second-guessing it.”

Ben looks down into the pond, considering something before he says it. “You know how the coverage is gonna go if you don't get ahead of it, though? Nobody's gonna know you skipped it to take care of your boyfriend. They're gonna run with 'Gavin McClain withdraws, no explanation,' and fill in whatever story sells the most clicks.”

“I don't love the idea of turning this into a press release.”

“I'm not saying press release. I'm saying one interview, your terms, your words. You get to decide what the story is instead of some blog doing it for you.” He shrugs, easy, not pushing. “Your call entirely. Just didn't want you finding out the hard way that silence doesn't stay silent for long in this sport.”

I think about that for a bit, about what version of this story I'd actually want out there, and realize I don't hate the idea of the real one. A guy taking care of someone he's serious about. That should be the one people hear.

“I'll think about it,” I say.

“That's all I'm asking.” He straightens up, and the seriousness drops out of his voice as fast as it came in, back to normal Ben. “Different subject. You two doing the IPGA Charity Gala at the end of the month?”

“That's coming up already?”

“A week and a half. Black tie, silent auction, all the usual.” He glances toward the table where TJ's laughing at something, color a little better than it was an hour ago. “Geoff and I are going. Figured I'd ask before you heard about it secondhand.”

“I'm planning on it. If TJ's up for it.” I look over at him too, at the way he's leaning into the conversation instead of just enduring it, the first real sign of himself I've seen since we landed. “Depends on how he's doing by then.”

“He'll want to go,” Ben says with the certainty of a man who's known TJ a lot longer than I have. “Kid never turns down a reason to get dressed up.”

“We'll see.”

“You bringing him as your date, or are we all still pretending that's not what's happening?”

“Ben.”

“Just asking the important questions.” He grins, claps my shoulder again, and nods toward the fish fry line. “Go eat something before Jasmine finishes it all.”

The studio's smaller than I expected, just two oversized chairs angled toward each other under too many lights, a coffee table between us with waters neither of us will drink. TJ sits beside me instead of in his own chair, which nobody arranged but nobody argues with either. He dressed in a rainbow polo that's doing exactly what he wants it to do without him having to say a single word about it.

The reporter's name is Aaron Cole, slender, polished, the kind of tailored blazer that says he stopped needing a caddie bib a long time ago. Former tour pro himself, a few seasons on the Miles Ferry before knees or ambition or both gave out, now a golf correspondent people actually trust because he's been on the other side of the microphone.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says once the crew gives the signal. “I know it's not something you do often.”

“I don't.” I settle back into the chair, TJ's leg against mine, steady. I rest my hand on his knee, casual, a statement without words. “But I'd rather tell it myself than watch other people tell it wrong.”

“Let's start simple. You withdrew from the Tour Championship four weeks ago. No statement at the time. Why now?”

“Because silence doesn't stay silence for long in this sport, and I'd rather control the story than let someone else write it for me.” I glance at TJ, just briefly, and he gives me a small nod, the kind that says, go ahead. “TJ came down with COVID. Bad case, worse than either of us expected going in. I decided my priority was him. Not the Cup.”

Aaron doesn't push right away, lets the silence sit there a moment, professional enough to know when a pause is doing more work than a follow-up question would.

“That's a significant sacrifice, at your career stage. A lot of guys wouldn't make that call.”

“When I saw that thermometer and the man I love on the bathroom floor? Not a hard choice. The Cup simply does not compare.”

That gets the faintest twitch of a smile out of Aaron, something that looks like respect more than surprise.

“TJ.” He turns the attention over, easy, unhurried. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better. Getting there.” TJ's voice is steady, doesn't overextend itself. “Grateful.”

“You two met on tour. Veteran and rookie. This wasn't exactly the plan going in, was it?”

TJ glances at me, a small smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “No. It wasn't the plan.”

“Any regrets about how it's turned out?”