Page 83 of Wedge

“No promises.”

The course plays soft and forgiving compared to everything we saw at Final Stage, palms lining the fairways and ocean breeze instead of biting cold, and Adrian’s noticeably looser on the range Tuesday, laughing more, chatting with players he only knew by reputation a few months ago. TJ and Gavin are a few groups over most days, easy to spot, TJ’s swing smooth and unbothered in a way that makes it look like he’s barely trying.

“He’s making it look stupid easy,” Adrian says, watching TJ stripe one down the middle from two holes over.

“He’s had longer to get comfortable out here. You will too.”

“Feels like everybody already belongs and I’m just visiting.”

“You belong. You’ve got the same card as everyone else in this field.” I squeeze his shoulder. “Rookie nerves are normal. Doesn’t mean you’re wrong to be here.”

He settles into it by Thursday, first tee jitters mostly manageable, a solid if unspectacular seventy that keeps him safely inside the cut line with little drama. Friday’s better, a clean sixty-eight that has him climbing the leaderboard into respectable rookie territory. Nothing flashy, just solid golf translating well to a new stage.

TJ, meanwhile, is quietly climbing into real contention, tied for eighth after two rounds, and Gavin’s practically vibrating with barely contained pride every time we cross paths near the scoring tent.

“He’s not even trying that hard,” Gavin says, grinning, watching TJ sign his card Friday evening. “That’s the annoying part. Makes it look effortless.”

“Adrian says the same thing.”

“Everybody says the same thing. It’s infuriating and also incredibly attractive, which is a hell of a combination to live with.” Gavin shakes his head, fond exasperation written all over him. “How’s the rookie handling it?”

“Nervous. Getting less nervous by the day.” I glance over to where Adrian’s doing a quick interview with a local reporter, more comfortable in front of a camera than he was even a month ago. Hat off, mohawk front and center. “He’s finding his feet.”

“Good. It’s a lot, that first year. Glad he’s got someone steady next to him for it.”

“Same to TJ.”

Gavin grins, watching TJ jog over to join us, still buzzing from a good round. “We’re a couple of lucky old men, aren’t we?”

“You’re old, not me.”

“Don’t start that again.”

Saturday and Sunday roll on easy, warm, low-stakes in the way only a rookie’s first real tournament can be, no cut-line panic, no must-make putts, just Adrian getting comfortable playing golf for money in front of actual galleries for the first time. He finishes the week solidly mid-pack, nothing that’ll make headlines, but good enough to bank a real paycheck and real experience.

TJ finishes tied for ninth, a genuinely strong result, and that night the four of us end up on a beach a mile from the hotel, feet in the sand, drinks in hand, the whole trip feeling less like the start of a grueling new career and more like the beginning of something good.

“To rookie seasons,” Gavin says, raising his glass.

“To old men caddying for young studs,” TJ adds, grinning at both of us.

“To Hawaii,” Adrian finishes, raising his club soda and clinking glasses all around, sunset spreading gold and pink across the water, the whole enormous, terrifying, wonderful shape of the year ahead finally feeling like something he can actually hold.

TJ and Gavin peel off not long after the toast, some excuse about grabbing another round from the hotel bar, and I catch the look Gavin gives me on the way past, small, knowing, like he saw something in my face before I even said a word to him about it.

Then it’s just us, feet in the cooling sand, the sky gone from gold to something deeper, stars starting to show up over the water.

“You’ve been quiet,” Adrian says, leaning into my side.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“Christmas. Ben’s house. You on the floor with those kids in all that noise.” I take a breath, my heart doing something loud and uneven. “I stood in that kitchen with Geoff and knew I wanted that. Not someday. Now. With you.”

Adrian goes still beside me. “Stephen.”

“Let me get through this, or I’ll lose my nerve.” I laugh, a little shaky, and reach into my pocket, where a small box has been riding for three weeks, waiting for the right moment. Terrified it would never come. Terrified it already had, and I’d missed it. “You walked into my life scared of being touched. I promised myself I’d earn every inch of your trust instead of taking it. I’ve waited for a lot of things in my life, baby. Chow lines. Deployments. Tee times. You’re the only thing that was ever worth every minute.” I swallow. “I’ve spent this whole year taking care of you, on the course and off it, and I never once got tired of it. I don’t want that to be a summer thing, or a Q-School thing, or a favor for Ben. I want the job. Permanently.”