Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jim threw the papers on the kitchen table. "Where the fuck are we going to get $300,000? What is insurance for, anyway?"

Winona put her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, Jimmy."

"Jesus Christ, Ma, don't be sorry." He scrubbed a hand through his hair and whipped around to start pacing the room. "Fucking doctors. First six months of chemo and surgery and now this."

She sighed. "Chris did say—"

Jim spun around and slammed a hand down on the table. "No. All right? No. We are not taking handouts, not even from Chris. I don't care how good a friend he was to Dad, he doesn't owe us anything and I don't wanna owe him anything, either. We are going to figure out a way to do this on our own."

"Jim," she said, "be reasonable. They're going to take the fucking farm if we don't pay this!"

Jim stopped pacing. "Just... let me think of something," he said. "Fuck!"

He went to the door, stomped his busted runners onto his feet, and pushed his way outside, letting the screen door bang behind him. The sun was low in the sky and the air was cooling down; he took a deep breath and set off for the barn.

He'd been out there maybe half an hour when he heard footsteps thumping up the old ladder. Chris emerged, squinting in the breeze blowing across the barn roof. Jim spared him one look before winding up again. The rock went sailing off into the sunlight as he followed through. He didn't even look to see where it had landed before grabbing another.

"Your mom said you were up here," Chris said, sitting on the edge of the skylight as Jim lined up again. "You do this a lot?"

"Drinking's not conducive to thinking," Jim said, swinging viciously.

Chris squinted at the rock as it flew in a long arc across the field. "Where'd you learn to golf, anyway?"

"You mean, where'd I learn to hit golf balls?" Jim let the head of the rusty old driver hit the roof with a clunk, wiped the sleeve of his t-shirt across his eyes. "Mike from the body shop showed me how while we were drinking one day after work. I won a six-pack off of him," he said with a smirk, dragging another rock into place with the head of the club.

"And now you golf off the roof of the barn with rocks?"

"Ran out of golf balls," Jim said, swinging again. He sliced it, frowning as it shot way to the side. It was more satisfying to hit them dead-on.

Chris was silent for a while, watching Jim hit two more.

"How far away is that fence?" he asked finally, as they heard the faint thump of one hitting a fencepost.

"Just about a quarter of a mile," said Jim.

"Pardon me?"

Jim set the club down again. "You heard me."

"You just drove that rock—not even a golf ball—a quarter of a mile."

"Yeah, off the roof of a barn, Chris." Jim rolled his eyes and set up to swing again.

"I've golfed for ten years and I don't think I could do that."

Jim shrugged.

"You ever try that on a golf course?"

"Nope. Don't think they let you on those in jeans." Jim had four rocks left. He grabbed another one.

There was more silence as he hit the rock; it was getting darker and briefly easier to see where they were going.

"Your mom said you won't let me help with the medical bills."

"Did she? Well, it's not that we don't appreciate the generosity."

"What is it then? I want to help."

Jim smacked another rock, starting to feel the strain in his arms. "I'm sure you do. I just don't like being in other peoples' debt."

"I'm not going to make you pay me back with interest or anything, Jim."

"Chris, you don't just fucking give people three hundred grand and go, 'oh, that's okay, don't worry about it'." He swung so hard at the next rock that he grunted a little; it was a solid hit and he distantly heard it ding the fence again.

"This isn't like a loan for a house or a car or something, Jim. The cancer nearly killed her. Winona's one of my dearest friends and I sincerely want you guys to have a break for once; I want you to be able to keep the house."

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"All right," Chris said. Jim dropped his last rock into place on the roof. "Any ideas of how else you're going to come up with the money?"

"Nope," said Jim.

"I've got one for you."

Jim hit the rock into the dusk, watching it sail through the air. He relaxed his shoulders with a sigh, letting the old golf club hang by his side. "Yeah?" he said. "What's that?"

***

"We're gonna go to the driving range before we hit the course," Chris said on the way into town. "Get you comfortable with actual clubs and balls and a flat course before we get into it. I'll give you a little rundown of the important rules, too."

"I hope no one I know sees me," Jim grumped, tugging at the collar of his borrowed shirt. The slacks were uncomfortable, too.

By the time they got to the driving range (still quiet, being early in the day) and Chris set down a bucket of balls, Jim was ready to bolt. "This is a stupid fucking idea."

"Rule number one: the golf course is a place of manners and decorum. That means you have to watch your language."

Jim stared. "Even stupider. No wonder only old men actually play this game."

"Not true." Chris pocketed some balls and moved to the adjacent driving tee. "Come on; let's get warmed up."

It was awkward, moving in stiff pants, swinging an unfamiliar club (borrowed from Chris) at an actual, light golf ball. Jim seriously sliced three before he got into the groove. Then he hit half a bucket of balls, scattering them between the 300 and 350 yard markers.

When he turned around, Chris was staring. So was the range attendant.

"We warmed up?" he asked.

Chris' lips quirked upward. "Looks that way. Come on, let's get a round in."

Chris was a member at Blue Top Ridge, Riverside's only 18-hole golf course, which got him privileges as far as bringing Jim onto the course. Jim nodded awkwardly at their teenage caddy as they arrived at the first hole.

"This hole," Chris said, accepting a club from the caddy, "is a par 4, 402 yards and plays a little bit uphill. There's a bunker along the left," he pointed with his club, and Jim squinted in the sunlight, "but it's an easy start to the day. I'll start us off?"

Jim gestured graciously for him to go for it, and stood back with the caddy while Chris set up his drive. He took what seemed like forever to line up before swinging, and then peered after it, shielding his eyes with his hand. He looked ridiculous, and Jim had to bite back a grin.

"Good lie, I think, Mr. Pike," the caddy piped up. "Nice seat on the fairway."

"Thanks, Greg. All right, Jim, have at it."

Jim carefully placed his ball on the tee, setting it low to the ground. After half a bucket on the range, it was easy as anything to swing his driver.

"Holy shit," Greg said.

Jim smirked.

"Jesus, Jim."

"The rule is that the farthest away plays first, right Chris?" Jim asked.

"Smartass. Get in the cart."

Chris' next shot put him on the green, where they finally caught up to Jim's ball.

"Here's where we see if you've got a short game," Chris said, as Greg handed over a putter.

"There's no windmills but I'll see what I can do."

They wound up tying on the first hole with birdies. "Good start, kiddo," said Chris.

"This game is still ridiculous."

"You've got seventeen holes left, Mr. Kirk," Greg grinned.

"Jesus. I'm driving the cart," Jim said.

***

"Well," said Chris, as they relaxed on the patio with a beer afterward, "you shot three under for the day. Not too shabby for a newbie."

"Beat your ass," Jim agreed. "And you've been doing this for ten years."

"You'll make a good partner for the pro-am next week," Chris grinned. "If you can keep your mouth shut."

"Hey!" Jim said. And then he processed all of what Chris had said. "You think I should enter a tournament right away?"

"You want to make money or not, kid? The purse for this thing is five grand."

"You don't say." Jim took a swig of his beer. "Well, which one of us is gonna be the amateur?"

"You were always too damn cocky."

Jim grinned.

***

Jim managed a four-under the following weekend and he and Chris won the tournament.

"You sure this kid's an amateur?" one of the officials joked as they handed over the money.

Chris laughed it off and gave the whole thing to Jim, minus the entry fee, over Jim's protests.

"This tournament was for you, not me. I'm fine with the bragging rights over all these old bastards," Chris said.

"Well, thanks," Jim said awkwardly, contemplating his money and his sunburn. "Now, where do I get fifty-nine more checks like this?" he asked with a tight grin.

"Play more golf," Chris said. "The prizes get better."

"You're crazy if you think I can make money off of this."

"I've been called worse. Look. The John Deere Classic is the closest stop on the PGA Tour. You can get into that one by qualifying, even as an amateur. I already looked into it; there's two rounds of qualifying for you, one right after the other. You clear both of those, you're in the Classic."

He'd already looked into it? Jim narrowed his eyes. "Why do I want to be in the John Deere Classic?"

"Besides the huge payout just at that event? If you win it, you're on the Tour."

Jim stared. "It's that easy?"

"To win a PGA Tour event? Well, I guess it depends on how well you can golf."

"No, but seriously. Three tournaments and I'm on the PGA Tour? Playing pro golf for money?"

Chris slapped him on the back. "They say we live in the land of opportunity. Now, the qualifiers are in July. You've got two months. Get golfing, and keep fleecing these old guys in the meantime. I suggest you get a course membership with your winnings from this tournament."

Jim blanched at the idea of parting with the money, but Chris just raised an eyebrow.

"Gotta spend money to make money. It's an investment."

"If you say so," Jim said, and went to the pro shop.

***

Spending his days off at the golf course instead of at the bar or in his bed sucked, but by the beginning of July, Jim was tanned, confident, and vilified by every competitive golfer in Riverside. He used some of his latest winnings to pick up his own set of clubs and replace Chris' hand-me-downs, and then, armed with a handicap of five, he drove to Milan, IL to compete in the John Deere Classic Pre-Qualifier. Winona and Chris insisted on coming with him.

"I thought you hated golf, Ma."

"Shut up, son. It's a mother's job to take an interest in her kids' activities. I can't help it if this is the first organized sport you've ever been interested in."

"Thanks," he said.

"Could have picked football, that's all I'm saying."

"And ruin my handsome face?" Jim said as they got out of the car at the golf course. He hoisted his bag over his shoulder. "We'd be paying my therapy bills, instead."

"Good luck out there, Jim."

Jim waved over his shoulder as he strode off to the clubhouse to register, leaving them to fend for themselves with the other spectators.

It was an easy 72 to make the cut for the actual Qualifier, even though Jim had never set eyes on the course before. A lot of other golfers were giving him looks all day, either nervous or appraising or both. He had to resist the urge to flip them all the bird; Rule Number One, as Chris had put it.

The two tournaments were three days apart (and only another week to the Classic after that), so they stayed the weekend in Milan and Jim played yet more golf. He golfed until he wanted to break his clubs, but only the best four golfers out of fifty would make the cut for the Classic and his clubs weren't cheap, so he sucked it up.

At the end of the Qualifier, he found himself staring at the leaderboard. "Holy shit," he said vacantly. "I just finished in fourth place at a PGA Tour qualifier."

"Congratulations," someone said from behind him. Jim turned around to face a big guy in his fifties, who was wearing plaid pants and had a hand extended to shake. "Who are you anyway, kid? Where did you come from?"

Jim looked at the hand. "I'm James T. Kirk," he said, shaking it, "and I came from a cornfield in Iowa to kick your ass at golf."

"I'm J.L. Lewis," the guy said, dropping Jim's hand, "and I doubt that."

Jim glanced at the leaderboard again; Lewis had finished second. "I guess we'll see about that next week," he said.

Lewis walked away as if he hadn't even heard.

Jim watched him go, peeling off his gloves.

***

He went home to Riverside that day, triumphant from making the cut, and celebrated over dinner with Winona and Chris that night.

"I'm taking a couple days off," he said promptly.

"You can't," Chris said.

Jim bristled.

"The Classic is next weekend. Four days of golf, Jim, if you make the cuts. You can't afford to take time off now."

"When did you become my coach?" Jim bitched.

"It's just not a good idea."

Jim glared. And then he took one day off, and spent it sleeping when he wasn't working down at the shop. The next day after work, though, he was back at Blue Top Ridge, hitting buckets on the driving range.

"Heard you're going to be in the John Deere Classic," Greg the caddy said when he walked back to the clubhouse.

"Yeah." Jim scratched the back of his neck.

"Good luck, Mr. Kirk," Greg grinned.

Jim blinked at him. "Thanks."

"Wanna go play a round?"

"Sure, Greg. Ten bucks a hole?" Jim grinned, finding his feet in the conversation again.

"No way, man. I'll take the bragging rights if I win, though."

"I bet you will." Jim picked up his bag and waited while Greg ran to grab his.

***

Jim headed to Silvis, IL on Wednesday night to start his first major tournament on Thursday. He split a hotel room with his mom and spent the night tossing and turning. Thursday dawned clear and sunny as they headed to TPC at Deere Run; it was already crowded.

"Good luck, kiddo," his mom said, degrading him with a kiss on the cheek. "Chris should be here; I'm going to call him and meet up with him."

"Take it easy, Ma. Stay in the shade." She was still kind of gaunt-looking, remission or no.

"I'll even wear sunscreen," she reassured him. "Now go. Take everyone's money."

The registration process was long and tedious but Jim made it to his warm-up time without much incident. People around him seemed to be whispering a lot; he kept his head down.

"How many times have you played this course?" one guy asked, on the way to the tee-off time for their group.

"Never," Jim said.

"Excuse me?"

"I've never played here," Jim said.

The guy scoffed. "Good luck making the cut today, then, kid. This is the longest par 71 you're ever gonna see."

A grin curled across Jim's face. "Oh yeah?" He felt good about his odds, then.

"Scared yet?"

"I'm petrified," Jim said blandly.

His tee-off was ten minutes later; with a deep breath, he hammered a perfect drive up the middle.

"That was an impressive 353 yard drive from Jim Kirk," the announcer said. The crowd clapped. Jim smirked as he strolled out of the tee box.

"This is gonna be a tough course, I can tell," he told his new friend on the way by.

The guy just stared after him.

"Next to tee off, past winner Mike Byrd."

The guy startled and then gestured for his caddy, making his way to the tee box. Jim chuckled.

***

The first two rounds were easy enough once Jim had relaxed, and he made the cut. When Day 3 started, though, and he walked onto the course, he was abruptly reminded that the whole tournament was being broadcast live on the Golf Channel or whatever. A smiling man with a microphone was leading a cameraman toward him across the grass; Jim looked around quickly. They were definitely coming for him.

"Jim Kirk, right?" the guy with the mic asked.

"Yeah?"

"We need two minutes from you. Smile."

Jim blinked.

"Rolling," the cameraman said.

"Another gorgeous day is getting started at TPC at Deere Run," the microphone guy said, "and the field is narrowing for our remaining golfers in the John Deere Classic. I'm here right now with Jim Kirk, a first-time amateur who seems determined to play the dark horse this weekend. Jim," he said, wheeling suddenly on Jim, the microphone threatening, "how long have you been playing golf?"

"A-about a month," Jim said.

The guy squinted at him. "A month?"

"Yeah, about that long. I mean, actually playing. I used to hit balls a lot, but never on a golf course."

"Is that how you developed your powerful drive?"

"I guess."

"Jim, while the effectiveness of your long game is clear to anyone, especially on a long course like this, your short game seems to be hurting your chances of really making a push for the top of the leaderboard. What's your strategy here?"

Jim contemplated the microphone for a second. "Well, I was thinking I'd try to get a hole-in-one, and cut out my short game completely."

The guy laughed. "Thanks, Jim." He turned back to the camera. "I'm Jerry Fairfax, live from the John Deere Classic."

"And cut," the cameraman said.

Jerry Fairfax relaxed, letting his mic drop. "You're a piece of work, Kirk."

"Thanks, Jerry." Jim gave him a friendly slap on the back before strolling out to the first hole.

When Jim managed a hole-in-one on the 14th hole that day, he made sure to salute Jerry Fairfax where he sat in the media booth.

***

"Three rounds and you're still in it," Chris said that night over a late dinner. "I can't believe it, Jim."

"Thanks for your confidence," Jim said into his water glass.

"Hey, no. I told you you could do it and I meant it. I just can't believe I'm actually here, watching it happen."

"I was on TV this morning," Jim said idly.

"Jim, honey, you were on TV all day. They just interviewed you this morning," his mom said, taking a bite of salad.

"What?"

Chris grinned. "The cameras have started following you. You didn't notice?"

"No," Jim said uncomfortably. "Isn't there someone more important they could be stalking?"

"Not at this tournament. The British Open's next week and a lot of the bigger names will be at that one."

"Hm." Jim chewed his food, wondering how life had gotten surreal so fast. Then he said, "You know...."

Chris and Winona both looked up expectantly.

He fidgeted in his chair. "We were talking about me winning. But even for third place, the payout after taxes would just about cover your medical bills, Ma." He didn't know why he was looking for her approval when the plan was just to get enough money, but Jim felt in over his head now. He hadn't really expected to show up at this tournament and actually play well enough against all the pros to make the money. He'd reached the point of just waiting to see when his good luck ran out. It would eventually.

But Winona just laughed. "Jim! Don't worry about me. Don't play for me, or the paycheck. Play for you. I'm already proud."

"But the money-"

"It's just money," she said. "If you playing golf was really the only way to get money, we'd be up shit creek. Just go out and play, finish what you started here, and what happens, happens." She took a drink. "I won't object to you kicking some ass, though. Some of those guys have been giving you nasty looks."

"I'm glad it's not all in my head," said Jim. "So much for decorum."

***

Jerry Fairfax was lying in wait for Jim when he walked onto the course on Sunday morning.

"That was an impressive 65 from you yesterday, Jim," Jerry said, thrusting the mic at him.

"Thanks, Jerry. Did you like my hole-in-one? I dedicated that to you." Jim kept walking, forcing Jerry and the cameraman to keep up.

"Definitely an impressive push on a risk-reward hole. It seems to have put you in a good position for today. Are you ready to play another eighteen holes?"

"I've played fifty-four already this weekend; what's a few more?" Jim said magnanimously.

"What's your plan, Jim? What are you here to accomplish?"

Jim stopped for a second, looking straight at Jerry. "I guess you'll all have to watch and see," he said.

"I guess so," Jerry said after an awkward pause. He turned back to the camera as Jim sneaked away. "This is Jerry Fairfax...."

Jim accepted a water bottle from a volunteer and kicked back to watch the first guys starting. His tee time was in half an hour.

***

If Jim hadn't pissed off every present member of the PGA Tour over the course of the past three days, he was certainly finishing the job in the fourth round. His short game still wasn't stellar but his drives made up for it.

"You're tearing up the field," a girl from CBS Sports said after he finished the 5th with a birdie. "I don't think I've seen a drive so long, hard and accurate on the Tour."

Jim winked. "I bet you haven't."

She blushed and cut to commercial. Jim followed up his birdie with a lucky eagle on the next hole, holding his putter over his head in a victory pose on the green afterward.

"Take it easy, Kirk," Byrd said, strolling by with his caddy. He was sitting in first.

"Watch yourself," Jim countered. "I'm coming after you."

"Whatever you say."

Byrd pulled a double bogey on the 14th after missing the green, closing the field; Jim got within two strokes of him. He held his position but didn't close in any more on 15 and 16, as Byrd tried to make up for his slip. They faced down the 17th hole together.

"Long hole, Kirk," Byrd said.

It was 550 yards. "I'm on the green in two, easy. How about you, champ?"

"You're a cocky little son of a bitch, aren't you?" Byrd said in an undertone.

Jim landed on the green in two and sank a birdie to Byrd's par, bumping himself up into a tie for second and putting him only one stroke behind.

"This is a tense match," one of the announcers said helpfully as they walked to the last hole. "This newcomer Kirk is making a daring assault on the lead that no other players seem up to matching today. Johnson's the only other one in attacking distance and he has a terrible track record on 18 so far this weekend."

"I agree, Steve, but Kirk's going to need to show some accuracy instead of power on his drive on a dogleg like this one. His short game's going to be put to the test by Byrd here."

Jim shook his head as they arrived at the tee box.

"This is where you learn that golf requires finesse and delicacy," Byrd said as he lined up for his drive.

Jim watched as he shot his ball into a neat fairway landing, right on the bend. The crowd applauded.

"Finesse and delicacy, huh?" Jim teed up and shook the tension out of his shoulders.

"You're using your driver? This is a shot for a wood," Byrd scoffed.

"I like my driver," Jim said, and swung.

"He's putting it over the trees!" one of the people in the crowd exclaimed.

Everyone watched as Jim's ball dropped out of sight over the treetops.

"You're in the sticks," Byrd said. "Nice tournament, pal."

"It's not over yet," Jim said, snatching up his driver and stuffing it into his bag.

The other two in their group teed off, landing on the dogleg with Byrd, and then Jim gave Byrd a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Let's take a walk."

"Gonna go look for your ball?" Byrd asked when they reached the dogleg.

"Nah," Jim said. "It'll keep. You get to play first anyway."

Byrd hit the bunker to the right of the green. The crowd's collective intake of breath nearly made Jim burst out laughing.

"All right, hotshot," Byrd said. "Let's go see how many trees you can cut down with a 9-iron."

Jim's ball wasn't in the trees, though. It was lying in the rough, just on the other side of them.

"We can't take a laser reading through the trees," said the announcer, "but that seems to be about a 375 yard drive from Jim Kirk!"

The crowd clapped loudly.

"Let's see how many birds I can cut down with a 9-iron," Jim said, and pitched his ball onto the edge of the green.

Byrd gave him a furious look. "You didn't even need to do that! You're just showing off!"

"Is it working?" Jim asked.

Byrd walked away.

The bunker was steep-sided; everyone watched as Byrd made his attempt to get out. Sand flew everywhere when he made contact; Jim watched as the ball flew up... straight up. The spectators gasped as it hit the very edge of the trap and rolled back down the slope into the sand.

It took another shot to get him out of the trap, and then he was still in the rough outside the green. Tension radiated from Byrd as he took his next shot. It landed two feet from the pin.

When Jim's turn came, a hush settled. He had to make par to win; he had two shots left and 30 feet to the hole.

"Here's where Kirk's short game will either sink or swim," the announcer said.

Jim tightened his grip on the putter, picturing the announcer's neck instead.

"Pretend it's mini-golf," he muttered to himself. "Off two fake trees and through the windmill."

His first putt overshot the hole by three feet. His second made it in.

"And Jim Kirk wins the John Deere Classic in a major upset, shooting a 66 for the day!" said the announcer, to applause and cheering from the crowd.

Byrd tapped in his ball for second place and then shook Jim's hand with obvious reluctance.

Jim got $773,000 (before taxes) which he handed to Winona, a trophy with a deer on it, and a PGA Tour membership. He had a great time telling Jerry Fairfax all about it.

***

Things got kind of hectic for Jim after that. He flew to Reno for the Reno-Tahoe Open, finished third for a $200,000 paycheck, and had a nice chat with Jerry Fairfax about life, putting and the sad state of men's golf fashion on national TV. He'd barely gotten back home to his mother to see what she was up to and consider going to the Greenbrier Classic when the phone started ringing off the hook.

"Who was that?" his mom asked, peeking out from the kitchen as he dumbly hung up the phone the first time.

"A rep from Titleist," he said, staring at the wall.

"What did they want?"

"To sponsor me."

She came out of the kitchen. "And you said?"

"I said I'd get back to her." He held up a post-it note. "I got a phone number." He turned it to stare at the digits in wonder.

When PING, Puma, and Adidas called, his mom took messages for him and said, "Jim, you need an agent."

"Where the hell do I find one of those?"

In the end, he called Chris in a panic. Chris agreed to handle everything for him.

"But I need a fee, Jim."

"Fine. Whatever. What do you want?"

Chris paused, possibly rolling his eyes on the other end of the phone. "How about five percent? That's low but reasonable."

"Five sounds great," Jim said. He had no idea if it actually sounded great or not, which was probably why he needed an agent. "I've got phone numbers for Adidas, PING, Puma, Titleist, and uh, Callaway. Call them for me."

By the end of the Greenbrier Classic (tied for second place), Jim found himself holding an endorsement deal from Adidas and looking at condos for rent in Florida so that he could get in some winter training, and possibly some mojitos.

***

No way was Jim getting into the playoff season, joining the PGA so late in the year, but he had one more major tournament before he could go to his new condo in Orlando and start drinking mojitos. He rolled into Greensboro, North Carolina feeling like tumbleweeds should be blowing past while dramatic music played.

In reality, the Wyndham Championship was the last PGA event for FedEx Cup points and one of the busiest of the season, so there wasn't a lot of anticipatory stillness from the crowds. Even Jerry Fairfax from the Golf Channel wasn't lying in wait for another verbal sparring match with Jim. Jim raised a bemused eyebrow as he left the registration desk and went to warm up.

Jerry wound up catching him about twenty minutes before his tee time on the first day.

"I missed you, buddy," Jim said with a grin, adjusting his hat over his eyes as Jerry went through sound checks.

"I think my heart just skipped a beat," Jerry said, launching smoothly from there into his introduction for the camera.

"So, Jim," he said, while Jim tried to look pleasant and attentive. "You've had a good run for a late-season starter in the Tour."

"Thanks, Jerry. That means a lot, coming from you."

Jerry was still winning the game by not letting Jim rile him up. "No more wins, though."

"You know, that's true, but I've been saving it up. I can smell it in the air today." Jim took a deep breath, puffing his chest out. "Right alongside that fresh-cut grass and water hazard crispness, just a faint hint of victory."

Jerry actually smiled. "You know Spock Grayson's playing this weekend, right? You haven't faced him down yet, and I'll be frank, Jim; I don't like your odds against that powerhouse."

Jim blinked but recovered fast, maybe fast enough for the camera not to catch it. "Well, I'll be frank with you, Jerry: I don't believe in failure. I'll see you at the awards presentation."

Jerry did his lead-out before rolling his eyes. "You've got some swagger, Kirk."

"The ladies call me Tripod," Jim said with a wink.

He left Jerry sputtering as he went to get ready to tee off.

***

Jim's first day playing the Wyndham Championship at Sedgefield was a respectable one, a 67 that tied him for 23rd on the leaderboard. He was the only person in his group playing worth a damn and maintained some spectators the whole day. His drives put him consistently near or on the green, which was really all he could ask, given how many more shots it took him to finish a hole from there.

On day two, he found himself playing with the lauded Spock Grayson, for a much larger crowd.

"I don't know who you are," Jim said, extending his hand for a handshake before they teed off the first hole, "but I googled you last night and the internet, at least, seems to think you're a tank."

Spock was Jim's height but seemed taller, because he was lanky and forbidding even while decked out from head to toe in black Nike golf gear. He seemed reluctant to shake Jim's hand, but did so anyway, as quickly as possible. "You must be Jim Kirk," he said. "I have not had the... pleasure... of playing with you before today. I avoid the northeastern courses when possible because I find them too cold to endure."

And that was apparently all he had to say to Jim, because he turned away.

"The richest man in golf," Jim said to himself, "is a delicate southern flower." He smirked and went to tee off.

***

For a member of the PGA Tour, Jim had to admit that he didn't know shit about golf, which really made his ability to put the little ball in the little hole that much more impressive. But even he could see, watching Spock play, that the motherfucker had game; Spock swung a golf club like it was just an extension of his arm. And on top of that, he led Jim by two strokes the entire day.

Jim made up for their gap in skills by annoying Spock for the entire round.

"We should have a driving competition on the range, after," Jim said on the fourth, after watching Spock crank out a 297-yard drive. "I'll probably win, though, so I won't put money on it."

Spock ignored him.

"Do you have, like, a swimming pool full of money at your house?" Jim asked after finishing his sixth with a par. "I would, if I had that kind of bank."

Spock ignored him.

"Do you think they're following you, or me?" Jim said at the tee on eight, gesturing broadly at the crowd of spectators.

Spock raised an eyebrow, and then ignored him.

"Hey, is your underwear Nike, too?" Jim asked at the start of the eleventh.

Spock ignored him. Jim grinned as he went to tee off.

"Who's that hot chick in all the Puma gear?" Jim asked as they were strolling down the fairway on the fifteenth. She was in the front of the crowd; he'd seen Spock talking to her at intervals all day. Jim longed for golf groupies if they all looked like that.

Spock ignored him for another few steps, and then turned his head slightly to answer. "She is a friend of mine."

"Uh huh," said Jim, completely skeptical. "Big golf fan, is she?"

Spock looked back at the course in front of him. "Her identity is not the business of those who do not already know her."

"Well, that's fucking cryptic," Jim complained, hiking his bag up on his shoulder.

But the mystery of Puma Girl's identity was solved on the seventeenth when they were held up by some poor crazed bastard ahead of them, hacking his way out of a sand trap. The CBS Sports commentator took advantage of the lull by swooping down on Puma Girl with a microphone, which Jim watched with interest. While he tended to startle easily when that happened to him, she just smiled calmly as if she'd been expecting it. He sidled closer to hear them talk.

"Thanks for chatting with us," the commentator said.

"My pleasure, Nancy," Puma Girl smiled.

"So, you've been following Spock Grayson today. Any thoughts on his game so far this weekend?"

"Well, it's a typical second round for him, I think. He likes to save his focus for after the cut, so he can really put the pressure on. The course is nice and springy, so I bet we'll see some low scores out of him yet."

"He never fails to come through at the finish, does he?" Nancy agreed. "And how about you? You've had a strong showing on the LPGA circuit this year. How do you feel about your chances in the Championship?"

"I'm playing a couple of the Asian tournaments before the Championship comes around but I have to say that with the work I've been doing on my drives this year, I'm looking forward to winning it." Puma Girl grinned, tugging on her visor.

"Well, I, for one, look forward to watching you win it," said Nancy. "One more question, Nyota: what do you have to say about the rumours you'll be playing some PGA tournaments next season?"

Puma Girl—Nyota—winked. "I can't say anything for sure right now, but you might see me at an invitational or two. I've got my eye on the Sony Open."

Jim was entranced. When Nancy signed off, he made his way over to Nyota and stuck out a hand.

"Jim Kirk," he said. "You're a golfer?"

She looked at his extended hand and then his face. "Are you?" she answered. Her look was challenging.

Jim clutched dramatically at his chest. "You wound me! You're Nyota and play the ladies' tour; I overheard."

"Well, there you go. You're the dumbass who's been trying—and failing—to throw Spock off his game all day. And you don't get to call me Nyota."

"Oh?" Jim asked, leaning in. "What do I get to call you?"

"If you have to talk to me at all," she said sweetly, "you can call me ma'am."

"Kinky," Jim breathed.

She looked over his shoulder. "You're delaying the game, Kirk."

He turned around; the schmuck in the bunker had finally dug himself out, and their group was playing. Jim jogged up to the tee box, grabbing his driver out of his bag. Spock gave him the eyebrow on the way by, and he could faintly hear Nyota laughing behind him.

Jim blew her a kiss when he made the cut after the end of the round; she rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I'll buy you a drink when I win!" he called to her.

Some more Google research that night revealed that Spock and Nyota Uhura were—of course—like the president and first lady of golfing. "Well, why wouldn't they be; it figures," Jim muttered to himself as he stripped down for bed.

***

It rained very early the next morning, turning the ground throughout the course from 'springy' to something closer to 'saggy'. Fairway lies were disgusting, which made Jim glad he usually skipped the fairway part of the game; he rocketed up the leaderboard. He didn't play with Spock or see Uhura for the rest of the weekend, which meant when he crept past Spock in the standings and won the tournament by one stroke, he missed whatever their initial reactions were to his victory.

It felt pretty good to grin at them as he accepted the trophy and check, though. Spock was expressionless, clapping like a drone with his second-place check propped against his leg. Uhura narrowed her eyes at Jim, shaking her head slowly.

Jim sidled over to them after the photo-op was done. "So, about that drink," he said to her, "I was going to drink some champagne out of this big silver cup they gave me, if that works for you, too."

Her ponytail swished as she turned to stalk away. Jim laughed; Spock raised an eyebrow at him.

"You enjoy tormenting her."

"Hot girls who hate my guts are the best kind," Jim said.

"A completely illogical sentiment." Spock extended his hand for Jim to shake. "Congratulations on your victory. Will you continue to play the Tour next season?"

"Sure," Jim said. "My card's good for two years after this win, and it beats working in the garage back home."

"Indeed," said Spock. "I suppose that we will see each other at some early-season tournament, then." And then he picked up his cardboard check and walked away with two reporters trailing after him.

"I think I look forward to it," Jim said, watching Spock fend off Jerry Fairfax's microphone as he made his way to the clubhouse.

***

When Jim made it (went home, it occurred to him dazedly) to Orlando, there was already crap in his mailbox. He found his kitchen, weaving around boxes as he dropped his suitcase in the doorway and keys on the counter, and threw his mail pile on the marble-topped island. There were envelopes in there, not just grocery flyers and magazine subscription cards. He stared at the pile for a while, and then started going through it with a sigh.

Of course, someone besides his mother and Chris had his new address: the Tour, and apparently also most of the golf courses in the area. Besides three invitations from local courses (two of them embossed) to come and play golf for free, he found an envelope from the Tour with registration forms for all five of the Fall Series tournaments.

"Jesus," said Jim, wishing he'd bought beer on the way home. Then he looked up from the Tour letter, taking in the boxes and crap everywhere, and debated the merits of going back out to pick some up anyway.

As if waiting for the ideal moment to overwhelm him completely, Jim's cell phone began ringing. He dug it out of his pocket; it was his mother.

"Oh, good. I thought you might be home and free to talk by now," she said.

Jim resisted the urge to look out the window. "Are you stalking me?"

"No, but we did watch you on TV this weekend, when you were on it. Congratulations on winning."

Jim shifted the phone, holding it against his ear with his shoulder and sweeping up the empty envelopes from the counter. "Thanks, Ma." He looked around with his double-handful of paper; no trash can. Mouthing swear words, he dumped the pile in the sink.

"How's the new place?" she asked.

"Still standing when I got here." Jim leaned a hip against the counter, feeling the marble edge dig into his skin. "I'm working on a new decorating trend based mostly on cardboard."

"Well, hurry up and unpack when you're not out working on your putting, so I can come and visit," she said. "I'm thinking I might become a snowbird, now that my son can support me in the manner to which I'm accustomed."

"You're accustomed to mucking out barns, not drinking in hammocks," Jim said.

"Don't make light of my adaptability, Jimmy," she said smartly. "Well, I'll let you go; I'm sure you're tired."

"Thanks," said Jim, who as if on command felt his eyelids drooping.

"I love you. Take care, and give me a call soon. I think Chris has to talk to you about some things with your Adidas contract."

"Okay," he said. "Love you too. Bye."

Jim took a last look at the envelopes and junk mail in the sink and then went to pass out on his new couch; he couldn't even be bothered to look for sheets for the mattress upstairs.

***

Jim's accomplishments over the next several months were numerous and varied: he found a grocery store near his house and managed to put actual food in his fridge, as well as unpacking things to cook it with; he played a round of golf every day, passing his time between Grand Cypress and Bay Hill; he tackled the piles of moving boxes all over the main floor of the house, getting it all unpacked by the end of September (he didn't pretend he was working all that speedily at it).

He also wound up playing three Fall Series tournaments; the ones in Mississippi, Georgia and Florida. They weren't challenging events, given that they existed mostly for Tour players who hadn't qualified for the FedEx Cup to have a crack at winning another year or two on their Tour cards before the end of the season. But, on the other hand, they gave Jim a chance to get out to some new courses and collect some more checks before January, and so he gladly went out for some top-ten finishes to round out his season. There were a couple of bigger names out for the event, but no one outstanding (certainly no Spock Grayson, who had incidentally won the FedEx Cup for like the third time in a row), so the media coverage was scant; not even Jerry Fairfax bothered to show up to cover any before the Children's Miracle Network Classic in Orlando, and that was probably mostly because it was the last Tour event of the year.

Winona and Chris came down for most of December; Jim and Chris took advantage of the situation and had a sit-down with reps from Adidas, discussing Jim's endorsements for the following Tour season. Jim was nonchalant until everyone else at the table reminded him that starting from the beginning of the season would mean a lot more media attention for him, if he played well. His nonchalance after that was completely faked, although he hoped only Chris noticed.

Despite all the stuff he was looking after, though, things were quiet for Jim during the off-season while he tried to settle into his new home and new routine. Then he scored an invitation to a Christmas tournament at the snooty private club Isleworth, just outside of town. He took Chris and his mom with him to case the place and drink all the champagne, and no sooner had they managed to get past the over-committed security at the door of the clubhouse than Chris said, "Hey, I think that's Spock Grayson."

Jim, who had been staring up at a chandelier, froze.

"Oh my god," Winona said, "yes it is. Jim, you've played with him, haven't you?"

Jim turned and followed his mother's unsubtle pointing to see Spock standing near an elaborate staircase with champagne in his hand. To top it off, he was standing with Uhura and an older man who looked like he might eat the heads of people who annoyed him. Spock turned, probably at the sound of his name, and looked right at Jim. His eyes widened for a second, betraying his surprise, and Jim found himself grinning. He marched right over.

"I didn't know you played here," Jim said, beaming at Spock, Uhura and the head-eating man in turn.

"I am a member," said Spock.

"What are you doing here?" Uhura demanded, as if Jim had gatecrashed past the ridiculous bouncers.

Jim grinned wider at her, suspecting it would piss her off more; it seemed to be working. "I got an invite to the tournament," he said. "I'm guessing it's a 'welcome to the neighbourhood, please consider paying an exorbitant amount for a membership' thing."

"You live in the area," Spock said, his voice flat. Possibly in disbelief, possibly because he just didn't care. Jim really couldn't be sure, so he just nodded.

"I've been playing Bay Hill and Grand Cypress," he volunteered.

Uhura rolled her eyes.

"Bay Hill is adequate, but I have no positive feelings toward the green conditions at Grand Cypress," said Spock.

"Does that explain my shitty scores there?" Jim asked.

"I think your complete lack of a short game is to blame, regardless of the greens," said Uhura.

Instead of answering her, Jim stuck out a hand to the head-eater. "Jim Kirk," he said.

The man gave his extended hand a distasteful look, and finally reached out to give it one brusque shake before dropping it again.

"This is my father, Sarek," said Spock. "He taught me how to golf as a young child."

"Oh? What's your opinion on my short game, then?" Jim asked Sarek.

Sarek stared at him for a second. "I agree with Nyota."

Jim paused. "Okay," he said. "Well. Good chat. I think I should get back to my mom and my agent, though, so I'll talk to you guys later." He pointed vaguely behind him, backing up a step already.

"His agent?" he heard Uhura ask as he turned to flee.

Isleworth was a tough course, and Jim was frankly a little flustered from the meet-and-greet with Spock's entourage, so he didn't play as well as he would have liked. He finished in the money though, slightly ahead of Uhura, and took home a small check for his troubles. At least his mom and Chris seemed to have a good time, drinking for free and watching him golf in person for a change.

January came quickly after that; Jim started his season with the first Tour stop, the Sony Open in Hawaii. It was his first time in Hawaii, and he walked out of the airport into a delicious, warm breeze that seemed to chase away the last of that muggy Florida feeling. A leggy airport greeter walked up, smiling, and dropped a lei around his neck. "Aloha," she said with a wink.

Jim looked up at the sky. "I love golf."

Uhura was at the tournament on a sponsor's exemption, as threatened; Jim saw her at the course on Tuesday as he was heading in to practice. She was giving an interview for the Golf Channel, and he walked right behind the camera, giving her a jaunty tip of his hat. It was satisfying to watch her restrain herself from glaring at him; her smile froze for a second.

She cornered him later, on the second hole.

"I hope they got your good side," Jim said.

"So help me, Jim Kirk, if you are a pain in my ass this weekend—"

He cut her off. "Wouldn't dream of it. This your first PGA event?"

She crossed her arms. "Yes."

"Well, good luck. I hope you make the cut."

Uhura narrowed her eyes. "Thank you," she said, sounding a little uncertain.

"Is Spock here this weekend?"

"He never plays this one," she said, and walked away.

"Hawaii in January must be too cold, too," he told the empty fairway.

***

On Thursday, when the actual tournament started, Jim discovered that Uhura had lied by omission. Spock wasn't playing, but he was a spectator, standing in the area roped off for VIPs. It looked to Jim like he was standing next to one of the guys from the TV show Lost; Jim watched in consternation as the guy turned and asked Spock for an autograph, and Spock obliged. But then, Jim realized, this was Uhura's first PGA showing, and Spock was probably doing the dutiful boyfriend thing by showing up to support her. For all that it was 75 degrees at eight o'clock in the morning, Spock was wearing long sleeves. Jim shook his head and went to meet the guy he was teeing off with.

It was a good weekend; Jim was in the top fifteen after two rounds and saw from the leaderboard that Uhura had managed to make the cut too, although much lower down. It got kind of hot standing around in the sun when the morning mist burned off, though, and after Jim's sixth hole on the third day, he went to take a breather in the shade of a canopy. He did a double take when he saw who was standing beside him, working his way through a fruit plate; it just didn't seem like Jerry Fairfax when he didn't have a microphone and a cameraman with him.

"Kirk," Jerry acknowledged with a nod, before turning his attention back to Mike Byrd's tee-off.

"Hey, buddy," Jim said, grinning as he broke the seal on his water bottle. "Taking some time off?"

"I don't go on the air till five." Jerry turned to put his plate down on a folding table.

"You know," Jim said, staring down at Jerry's gleaming shoes, "I'm pretty sure white shoes are verboten in January."

"We're in Honolulu. All bets are off." Jerry turned around again and gave Jim a worryingly sly look. "Seen your spectators this weekend?"

"I don't look at 'em unless they have a nice rack," said Jim. "Nothing notable so far."

Jerry's look became a smirk. "Spock's been watching you."

"Spock's been watching Uhura, I'm pretty sure. Call yourself a reporter, Jerry? I know it's just golf, but still, there are standards."

"Uhura started today on the back nine and he was in the gallery at six while you were playing, smartass. He's checking out the competition; you must register as a threat to victory for him. Just thought I'd warn you, Kirk." He straightened his blazer and walked away, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be getting two minutes from you later! This is your warning!"

Since they weren't on camera, Jim flipped him the bird. He got a jaunty wave in return.

When Jim went to tee off on the seventh hole, he resisted the urge to look at the gallery; his grip was tight on his club as he swung. His shot pulled left, missing the green. "Fuck," he said under his breath, glaring at the sky. And then he couldn't stand it anymore, and looked up at the gallery as he walked out of the tee box.

Spock was talking to Jerry Fairfax. Jerry gave Jim another wave, and Spock looked up at him. Jim sighed and walked over while the last two guys in his group teed off.

"That was an unfortunate slice," said Spock.

"Might've looked up," Jim mumbled as an excuse. With a short glare at Jerry, he said, "Following anyone in particular?"

"I do not generally play in this event, as I find the course design annoying, but I do find it beneficial to watch other players as they begin the season," said Spock, deftly avoiding actually answering the question.

"I just thought if anyone, you'd be watching Uhura," said Jim nonchalantly.

Spock arched an eyebrow. "I will likely remain on the front nine to watch her finish her day. She does not require my presence for the entire seventy-two holes of the tournament," he said, exceedingly logically.

"Right," said Jim. "Of course." He glanced behind him and was glad to see the last of his foursome taking his swing. "Oh hey, I gotta go find where my damn ball went," he said, backing up. "I'll talk to you guys later."

Jim's ball was in the rough and he ended up with a bogey on the hole. He muttered a continual stream of swear words under his breath as he fished his ball out of the hole and shoved his putter back in his bag. He was relieved when Spock didn't follow him to the eighth hole. Jim didn't crack the top ten that day and Jerry apparently decided better of coming close enough to Jim for his two-minute interview that night.

***

The California leg of the Tour started off better for Jim; Spock skipped the Bob Hope Classic too, because he apparently hated putting up with D-List celebrities on the golf course. Jim golfed with a NASCAR driver and an actor from a show he thought he'd watched one episode of. It might have been torture, standing around in the California sun all weekend and watching Beverly Hills types hacking away at the ball, but then Jim saw Gaila in the gallery.

Gaila was a stunning redhead nearly coming out of her low-cut top, who went to school at UCLA, didn't know anything about golf, and was only there to try and get Jeffrey Donovan's autograph. And maybe sleep with him. She wasn't sure yet, she told Jim.

"Jeffrey Donovan can't fucking golf," said Jim. "Why would you want to sleep with him?"

"Well—what was your name?—Well, Jim, I don't really care about the golf part, just the fucking part." She smiled, and then looked him up and down.

Jim grinned back. "You know, I've been a professional golfer for about six months and so far I've won almost two million dollars in prize money."

She looked at him with new interest. "Really? So you're pretty good?" Her expression perked up. "Have you met Spock Grayson?"

"How the fuck do you know who he is?"

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows who he is. He's like the Michael Jordan of golf or something. And he's hot, which helps."

Jim took a deep, steadying breath. "Yeah, I know him," he mumbled.

She went up on her toes to peer around his shoulder. "I think it's time for you to go hit the ball."

Jim turned; the NASCAR driver had finally finished digging himself out of the rough. "Time to make the donuts," he said, grabbing his golf bag. The sun seemed to be assaulting him as he walked across the grass.

"Jim!" Gaila called, making him turn around again.

She beamed at him. "What are you doing later?"

"I've got nothing planned," he said.

She arched an eyebrow. "Maybe I'll come get your autograph."

"It's a date!" he called back, walking backwards down the fairway.

They met up for dinner after he finished his round and went back to his hotel room.

"So what are you doing at UCLA?" Jim asked, looking down the bed at her as she unzipped his pants.

"Ph.D in physics," she said with a grin.

"What, seriously?"

Gaila shrugged. "Do you want to sit here all night and listen to me bitch about my dissertation, or do you want to have sex?"

Jim blinked at her and opened his mouth belatedly, but she was already going down on him. He let his head flop back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling as a groan escaped his lips.

***

Gaila showed up again the next weekend, at the Farmers Insurance Open in San Diego. She stood in the gallery and cheered the whole weekend, yelling shit like, "Hit the ball, Jim!" and bouncing up and down. When he finished fourth on Sunday, she squealed and jumped on him, nearly knocking him into Jerry Fairfax. Jim laughed and laughed and hugged her back; it was maybe the most fun he'd had at a golf tournament so far.

When she showed up again the next weekend at Northern Trust, wearing a tight t-shirt with a picture of Jim's face printed on it, Spock finally did more than raise his eyebrow.

"Who is the exuberant woman in the gallery?" he asked Jim, cornering him between the 9th and 10th on Thursday morning. "I recall her from last weekend, however the shirt is new."

Jim smiled with all his teeth. "She's my groupie. One of them."

"You have multiple 'groupies'?" asked Spock, looking vaguely disgusted as the word came out of his mouth.

"Well, not yet. But I'm gonna. Just watch." Jim turned to walk away but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Golf," said Spock, "is a refined sport with a distinguished history. It is not a sport for cheering masses of fans."

Jim looked down at Spock's hand on his arm, and then up at Spock's face, narrowing his eyes a little. "Yeah," he said, "I noticed that. No wonder nobody watches it. But don't worry, I've been thinking about that, too."

Spock's face was faintly horrified, and he dropped his hand from Jim's arm like he'd been burned. Jim walked away with a smug grin he couldn't keep down.

***

Gaila agreed with Jim's PR strategy and showed up the next week to Pebble Beach with four busty friends in tow, all in matching Jim Kirk Fan Club t-shirts.

"Who are all those women?" Jerry asked him on the air after the first round.

"Big fans of golf, I guess," Jim answered with a wink at the camera.

After he made the cut, they unfurled a banner for the entire third round. There was glitter on it. Jim smiled every time he saw it and shot a 65 that day; whenever Spock came within sight of Jim or his fan club, he glared.

Jim tied for second in that tournament (Spock won), and one of the blondes in the front row of the gallery whipped off her Jim Kirk t-shirt in celebration, in front of the winners' circle and several TV cameras. The censored footage made it onto both Youtube and SportsCenter, which Jim watched in his hotel room while Gaila gave him a congratulatory blowjob that night.

"Nicki loves golf," said Gaila thoughtfully, wiping her chin and looking up at the TV as Jim slid his hand up under her shirt. "Oh," she said, as he pushed her down onto the bed. "Look, Jim. We can't travel to any more tournaments for you. Tiff and I have to go to some conferences in the next month and Nicki, Vanessa and Theresa are trying to finish their dissertations."

Jim kissed his way down her stomach, shoving her shirt up to her breasts. "That's okay," he said, feeling her shiver under his lips. "I'm taking the next few weeks off, I think."

"Tired?" she asked.

"Not right now," he said, nuzzling her belly and making her chuckle. "But I need a break, I've been playing every weekend for the last five weeks. My next tournament will be back in Florida."

"I'll keep an eye on the TV, babe," she said, digging her fingers into his hair. Jim smiled a little into her stomach and closed his eyes, just for a second.

***

Jim got home to his condo to find a thick layer of dust on everything; the plant he'd gotten as a housewarming gift from the homeowners' association was brown and shriveled. He dropped his suitcase and propped his golf bag up against the stairs, rubbed at his eyes and then went to look up maid services in the phone book.

The mail took almost twenty minutes to get through; after dumping the stack of grocery flyers and junk mail into his brand new recycling bin, he sorted out his February bills from the January ones that he'd barely remembered to pay online just after getting to California, and finally cracked a beer before sorting through his financial statements. He wasn't really sure what to think about the seven-digit totals on his bank statements and brand new stock portfolio, so he just stared blankly at them both for a moment and then pushed them aside. The last notable thing in the pile was a thick, heavy envelope from the Isleworth Golf & Country Club; when Jim ripped it open, there was a letter on thick bond paper inviting him to join their membership ahead of the waiting list. He grabbed the envelope again and read the postmark—it had been sent a week ago.

"Seriously?" he asked the letter after reading it again, but no response was forthcoming so he threw it down on the counter and dug out a Chinese take-out menu from the drawer by the stove.

***

After two days of blissful sleep and a visit from Brenda of the Hurry Scurry Cleaning Service, Jim ventured out into the wilds of Orlando again for some practice at Grand Cypress. He managed half a bucket on the driving range before some of the course regulars saw him and started asking for photos, autographs and the secret to his driving power. Jim recognized two of them as regulars he'd talked to before Christmas a few times, but they hadn't been nearly as excited to lay eyes on him back then.

When it looked like he wasn't going to get any more peace and quiet on the range, he gave the rest of his bucket to a 19-year-old kid who'd been practicing beside him and set off for the clubhouse to grab a tee time. He managed to avoid the eyes of everyone except the girl who booked him in the clubhouse and refused a caddy, hoping not to have to talk to anyone while he played through eighteen holes as efficiently as he could.

That worked just fine until he finished the fifth hole on the new course and caught up to a foursome; he approached with a big smile to see if they'd let him play through and one of them recognized him.

"Jim Kirk, right?" said a guy in his forties who was wearing a truly unfortunate sweater vest over his golf shirt. Jim shook his hand tiredly and then watched in bewilderment as the guy went rooting through the pockets of his golf bag to pull out a notepad. "I'm Trent Conroy and I write for the sports section of the Orlando Sentinel," he said, looking eager. Jim leaned away and started debating the merits of running.

"Do you mind indulging me with a short interview?" Conroy asked.

"Uh," said Jim. The rest of Conroy's foursome was teeing off and basically ignoring them.

"Let's talk about how your short game has been so far this season," said Conroy, flipping over a page in his notepad.

It took Jim ten minutes to escape; he didn't bother finishing his round. When he got home, he found the letter from Isleworth (tucked away in the pristine office by Brenda the cleaning lady) and resolved to head out to the club the next day, to find out what their annual fee was for protecting his privacy and dignity.

***

Isleworth was as tough of a course as Jim remembered from his brief experience there at Christmas, but it was also pristine and people didn't offer him more than a nod of greeting when he was out on the course, so he figured he was getting what he paid for. He was paying enough to get it, that was for sure. He played a round a day and spent a lot of time on the range while golf stars and people who were just rich milled around, all keeping to themselves. There were a bunch of mansions lining the course, big, ostentatious places that were bright in the sun and sat behind manicured greenery that didn't quite hide the sparkle of their swimming pools. Jim wore sunglasses a lot and tried not to look at the houses.

For all that Spock Grayson apparently owned one of those stupid houses and that it seemed Jim had a knack for running into him immediately wherever they both ended up, it took almost a week for Jim to run into him at Isleworth.

Spock blinked at him as they approached each other on a pathway, shifting his golf bag on his shoulder. "Kirk," he said. He looked wary.

"I, uh, I got a membership here," Jim said, feeling inexplicably awkward. It wasn't like he owed the guy an explanation for his presence. Spock couldn't have him removed from the premises. At least he didn't think so.

"I see," said Spock.

"Couldn't play in peace at my usual haunts," said Jim.

Spock nodded. "The task of handling the media is a trial for many aspiring professional athletes."

Jim bristled at the 'aspiring'. He had enough years banked on his Tour card to retire when he used them up, if he kept getting payouts and endorsements. "Yeah, well, maybe someday I'll have more money than God and I can lock myself away from all the cameras, too," he said.

Spock stared at him silently for a moment. "Will you be at the Phoenix Open?" he asked finally.

"No," said Jim. "I'm taking a break till Honda." He found he was looking forward to it, too. If someone had told him last year that playing pro sports could feel like a day job, he'd have laughed until he cried.

Spock shifted his bag on his shoulder and nodded once before walking away. Jim turned to watch him go. Cold bastard.

***

It was the first Tuesday of March, the week of the Honda Classic, and Jim was just packing a bag to head off to Palm Beach Gardens when the doorbell rang. The FedEx guy on the other side looked tired and smiled wanly as Jim signed for a big, flat box. When Jim saw that the return address said 'Adidas' on it, he stopped right in his front hallway and ripped it open, tossing cardboard bits on the stairs. Inside, just as he'd hoped, were a stack of the new golf shirts he'd designed with his rep. Just in time to wear them on the weekend.

Jim grinned like he was ten and it was Christmas as he pulled the top shirt from the pile and shook the wrinkles out. "Awesome," he said as the sunshine caught the fabric, which had a sheen and was as gold as it could get without actually being metallic.

***

April was hot and muggy in Georgia, at least as bad as Florida in Jim's estimation. He smiled anyway against the sweat pouring down his spine as Jerry Fairfax squinted at him in the sun, on a bright lawn at Augusta National.

"Jim Kirk," he said, "how are you feeling about competing in your first Masters?"

"I'm feeling awesome, Jerry," said Jim, smiling with teeth for the Golf Channel camera. "Maybe a little hungry."

"Hungry for victory?" asked Jerry.

Jim blinked at him. "Sure," he said.

"Well, you've certainly been playing like it for the last month. Since you came off your break you tied for third at the Honda Classic, took a clean second at Puerto Rico, fifth at Transitions and then another second at the Arnold Palmer Invitational at Bay Hill, which I know is a course you've spent some practice time at."

Jim nodded as Jerry went through the list, not sure how else to respond. He'd skipped the tournament the week before in Houston just because he'd been ready to fall over from all the competition play.

"I'd say—and so would most experts—that performances like you've been putting out recently place you firmly in contention here at Augusta this weekend, assuming you can keep the short game under control. So what do you say, Jim, are you shooting for the green jacket?"

Jim looked right at the camera when he said, "Always."

"I also have to say," Jerry went on with nary an eye-roll, "that your new assortment of tournament wear has been catching eyes."

Jim grinned down at his shirt; today it was deep blue but still shiny. He was saving the gold for Sunday, just in case. "Aren't they great?"

"There's been a bit of a run on them in stores in the past week or so, I understand."

"Fantastic," said Jim. "Adidas makes good gear." He didn't even feel terribly pressured about making that statement, despite the first endorsement check he'd just received.

"Some of the bigger names in golf find them gaudy," said Jerry.

Jim leaned into the microphone. "I find some of the bigger names in golf boring," he said. "And I just want to make sure I'm visible when I'm in the top three on Sundays, you know?"

Jerry took the microphone away quickly but made it look smooth. "And there we have it. I'm Jerry Fairfax, coming to you live from the Masters at Augusta National."

"And we're out," said the camera guy.

"You stir up shit just to watch it fly," said Jerry as he sorted out his microphone and mopped sweat off his brow.

"And you keep letting me," said Jim.

“You’re not going to win this one,” said Jerry.

“Why not?” Jim bristled.

“Because Grayson’s going for a Grand Slam this year and he’ll be out for blood this weekend. You think you’ve seen him on his game before? Forget it. You haven’t seen anything.”

“We’ll see,” said Jim, waving as he walked away.

***

The Masters, as Jim quickly learned, were old-school; the spectators (sorry, patrons) wore nice clothes, no one was allowed a sign (he heard that his local fan club members—thanks to Gaila for putting the shirts online—had been barred from entry until they changed their clothes) and all the golfers were assigned a caddy by the club.

“Who are you?” Jim asked the guy who approached him on Thursday morning with his right hand extended. Jim ignored the handshake in favour of wrestling a glove on.

“Leonard McCoy,” said the guy, frowning and letting his hand fall back to his side. He looked to be in his mid-30s, same height as Jim, wearing a white jumpsuit and a green cap.

“Why are you dressed like that?” Jim demanded.

“I’m your caddy!” McCoy said, looking at him like he was insane.

Jim looked around. “Is this a joke? I don’t need a caddy.”

“Well, this is Augusta, so you get one. And it’s not a joke.” McCoy turned around and to Jim’s amazement and horror, ‘KIRK’ was emblazoned across the back of the jumpsuit in big, green letters.

Jim took a deep breath, assessing the situation. “Okay,” he said. “I tee off in half an hour. Might be nice not to carry my own bag all weekend for once.”

“I do more than just carry your bag, you know,” said McCoy with annoyance in his tone.

“Do you clean my balls, too?” asked Jim, waggling his eyebrows.

McCoy glared at him in silence long enough that Jim was sure he was being mentally strangled. Then, in a level voice, he said, “I know this course like the back of my hand. That comes in handy when you’re in a rough spot and need quick advice. And I hear your short game sucks, which could get you into trouble on this field,” he finished a little more tartly.

Jim straightened up. “Lay off my game,” he said, “and carry my clubs. How much am I supposed to tip you when we’re done here, anyway?”

“If you make the cut, a percentage of your winnings is the norm. Five’s the average, or ten if you make the top of the board. If you don’t make the cut—”

“I’m going to make the cut,” said Jim. “I tee off in half an hour. Just be there with the bag, man. I don’t like being caddied.”

***

Georgia was already too hot for April. Jim wilted in the heat as he trudged along short-clipped grass, McCoy following him doggedly with his bag. They settled into a nice routine on the first day: while waiting to tee off, Jim would peer down the length of the hole with sunglasses on so that he could actually see something. McCoy would suggest a club to use on each shot based on his lie and the conditions. Jim would ask for a different club, even if he privately agreed with McCoy, because the guy was clearly the insufferably right kind and agreement was weakness. Jim would get a middling to crap score on the hole because Augusta was long even for his drive and showed no mercy for his short game. Then they’d move on to the next hole.

Still, Jim managed an eagle off the fairway on 16 that lifted his mood a little (especially with the applause it got from the gallery). “What’s a Grand Slam?” he asked McCoy as he handed over his club at the end of the hole. “Besides a baseball thing. I keep hearing about it from the media guys.”

McCoy gave him the funny look Jim always got from people these days when he asked a probably stupid question about golf; apparently professionals were supposed to know things and Jim had missed some kind of knowledge quiz before getting his Tour card. “A Grand Slam is winning all four majors in one season,” he said. “The Masters, US Open, British Open and PGA Championship.”

“Oh,” said Jim. “Is it tough to do that?”

“Spock Grayson’s gunning for his first this season. He’s got a double career one for winning every major twice, but he’s never managed it in one season. Nobody in modern golf has.”

“Huh,” said Jim, waving absently at a mosquito. “You think he can do it?”

McCoy shrugged. “We’ll see, I guess. He’s ahead by three strokes in this one so far.”

***

Friday sucked more than Thursday had; Jim didn’t even carry off a good score on 16 to feel better about himself, but somehow he managed to scrape by the cut.

“Congratulations,” said McCoy at the end of the day, when Jim was busy fuming to himself at the edge of the trees before someone with a microphone and camera found him.

“For what?” said Jim.

“Making the cut at your first Masters?”

Jim blinked. Right. The majors were a big deal with a lot of big names out to play at once. “Thanks,” he managed. “I just, I could be doing better.”

“Yeah,” said McCoy. “You could.” And he tipped his green cap and walked away.

***

McCoy’s words had shaken Jim; that night in his hotel room he spent a long time staring at the ceiling and thinking, and when he blinked awake to his alarm clock the next morning he wasn’t sure when he’d actually fallen asleep. By the time he was showered and dressed, though (it was a gold shirt kind of day, he decided), he felt a strange sense of energy. It bordered on twitchiness.

“Let’s go play some fucking golf,” he muttered to himself as he left his hotel room.

And he did. The course cooperated with him for once, his drives put him in good spots to capitalize, and even McCoy just stood back grudgingly as Jim climbed his way up the leaderboard. He moved up fifteen places into tenth by the end of the day (twelve strokes out of the lead, because Spock was seven strokes up on everybody else).

He walked off of the course that evening feeling better about golfing than he had in a couple of months, but there wasn’t even Jerry to bother about it because all of the media was lining up to talk to Spock about his performance in the first three rounds. Whatever, Spock could have all the microphones in his face as far as Jim was concerned. Jim didn’t need the media attention like he needed to succeed.

***

That was supposed to be Jim’s epic comeback, his pivotal performance that brought him back to the top to challenge Spock’s lead on the final day of the tournament. Instead he was barely scraping by with par on the first half of Sunday while Spock just kept gaining strokes against the rest of the board. Jim had dropped to fifteenth.

“You can’t win ‘em all,” said McCoy as Jim stared down his last hole of the day. It was a longish par 4 but he thought he could make a birdie at least.

“Whatever,” said Jim, feeling a weight on his chest. His drive was a good one, fuelled by frustration, and landed at 372 yards in a decent lie. He took a deep breath while the gallery clapped and a guy who was tied for fourth teed off.

When he got to his ball, he looked down at it, nestled in the fairway grass, and then off at the hole, another 90 yards distant. He thought it was doable. “Gimme my 5-iron.”

The club McCoy handed him was not his 5-iron. Jim blinked at it.

“What is this?” he asked, turning around to stare at McCoy who looked way too placid.

McCoy didn’t look at the club. “It’s a 9-iron.”

“Oh good,” said Jim. “I was a little concerned you thought it was my five.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been golfing and caddying longer than you,” said McCoy. “I know the difference between a five and a nine.”

Jim held out the club, aware that people around them were starting to pay attention. “So, give me the five.”

“No,” said McCoy.

“No?” Jim asked. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, you don’t want your five. You want your nine.”

“Who’s playing this fucking game, you or me?” Jim demanded. Someone who heard the f-bomb made a shocked noise.

“You’ve spent four days doing a pretty terrible job playing it yourself, so I thought I’d give you a hand.”

“You’ve got some fucking balls on you, don’t you?”

McCoy scratched his forehead under the brim of his cap. “You’re not going to sink a 90-yard shot, no matter how much you wish in your heart. Best case, you put it on the green and then you have to hope you can actually make a putt. The nine will put you on the fringe and then you can probably sink it from there within par.”

Jim dodged around McCoy to his bag and yanked out his 5-iron, which dropped him two feet short of the hole. It took two putts to put it in (barely) and he made par by the skin of his teeth. McCoy took the putter from him without a word, and when he turned back around, Jim punched him in the face.

Flashbulbs went off as McCoy staggered, and when he got up and pulled his fingers away from his lip, he was bleeding. McCoy looked down at his red-smeared fingers for a moment.

“You little shit,” he said, and then he lunged at Jim.

It took several minutes for security to get onto the green through the drawing crowd of media and spectators and pull them apart. Jim was breathing raggedly and his eye felt sore enough that it was probably going to turn black. McCoy didn’t look much better, and there were grass stains on his caddy jumpsuit.

“Seven years I’ve been caddying at this goddamn course,” McCoy growled.

“Fuck off,” Jim spat as they were dragged off to the clubhouse.

***

Apparently there was no precedent in the PGA for engaging in fisticuffs with one’s caddy in the middle of a golf course during a major tournament, or at least that was what the lawyers told Jim as he held an ice bag to his eye.

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” said Jim. “How much retainer do you guys get, anyway?”

The lawyers cleared their throats and shuffled papers around, and finally the Tour just issued him a warning and a $50 000 fine, saying that if it happened again he was gone. Jim assumed the rash of media coverage it gained the PGA that had nothing to do with Spock’s commanding victory was a factor in letting him stay. McCoy apparently got fired by Augusta for that little stunt, so Jim had a moment of regret and wrote him a check for ten grand (ten percent of his winnings). He got it back in the mail in two pieces with a note asking him to go fuck himself.

When SportsCenter asked Jim for an interview, though, that threw him off a little. He accepted it (Adidas called him three times to make sure he accepted it) but he was still thrown.

The SportsCenter anchors, Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov, were both shorter in real life than they looked behind the anchor desk.

“I’ve always wondered,” said Jim as they shook hands an hour before airtime, “do you guys wear pants behind the desk?”

“Never,” said Pavel. “I like a little breeze.”

Jim was pretty sure this would be the best interview of all time.

They wore pants for this interview, though, because they all sat in chairs on a set that looked like a manlier version of Regis and Kelly. Jim played nervously with his tie and clip-on microphone and watched perspiration slide down the outsides of his water glass, while the makeup people hovered around them doing last-second touch-ups and the camera crew prepared to roll live.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hikaru, when Pavel paused in a long, profanity-laced tirade about basketball to have his earpiece double-checked. “We’ll stick to the questions we agreed to with your agent on the phone.”

“You know, Chris isn’t even speaking to me right now,” said Jim. “He just wrote me an email to confirm all the details.”

“He wanted us to ask a lot of invasive questions about your childhood on the air,” said Hikaru, looking supremely unconcerned. “I talked him down to just discussing your pre-golf career.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jim.

“Maybe you should get an agent who doesn’t know so many personal details about your life,” suggested Pavel. “At least then when they feel that you should suffer for your actions, they have less ammunition.” Jim opened his mouth to respond but then they were counting down to air.

“Good evening,” said Hikaru to Camera 2. “I’m Hikaru Sulu with Pavel Chekov, bringing you those stories plus a SportsCenter exclusive interview with PGA Tour golfer Jim Kirk. Jim, you made international sports headlines at the Masters Tournament last week when you got in a fistfight with your caddy, Leonard McCoy, right in the middle of the green on the 18th hole. Speculation over the past week has suggested that your unexpectedly poor performance on the links was to blame for the blowout. Can you tell us what really happened?”

Jim decided it was easy after all to stick to his rehearsed answer. “Mr. McCoy and I had a clash of personalities.”

“All weekend?” Hikaru asked.

“It was a really impressive clash,” said Jim.

“Must have been,” said Hikaru. “We’ve got some video from the altercation; here it is.”

Jim got to watch on a small monitor near Camera 3 as the clip played; it was surreal to see himself on TV, throwing McCoy a right hook when he turned around and then summarily getting tackled to the ground. The clip ended shortly after he’d regained the upper hand and was holding McCoy by the neck, about to give him another punch in the face.

“I guess now’s as good a time as any to ask why you got into professional golf in the first place, Jim,” said Pavel. “Looks like you had a real future in MMA fighting.”

Jim reached for his water glass, feeling a kind of preternatural calm settle over him. He was pretty good at being the centre of attention, after all. “I was a mechanic,” he said. “I got recruited into golf because I needed money to pay some medical bills. I’ve always been pretty good at fighting, too, though.”

Pavel grinned. “Now, the Tour issued you a fine and a warning for that stunt, but a lot of players and officials are calling for you to be thrown out of the Tour completely.”

“Like who?” asked Jim abruptly.

“Spock Grayson’s been speaking out pretty strongly for you to be barred from PGA-affiliated events,” said Hikaru. “We had him on the show on Monday, actually.”

Jim took a second to compose his answer, wanting to get it right. “I came into the sport knowing almost nothing about it,” he said. “Because golf is really boring. Who watches golf? Old people and stoners who’ve run out of cartoons. It’s something they put on TV at a restaurant or whatever just to have the TV playing something inoffensive but not too interesting. Nobody gets excited about golf. Not even about people who are really good at it, like Spock Grayson.

“But golf is a sport like any other sport, and it’s slow but hey, so’s baseball. People hit things with other things in baseball, too, and otherwise there’s still a lot of standing around and waiting for something to happen. But people care about baseball. Maybe if I can shake things up a little and get people talking about it more, people will start to care about golf, too.”

“You know, we looked into it,” said Hikaru, “and you seem to be the first pro golfer to have an unofficial fan club.”

“There are t-shirts,” offered Jim. “A woman named Gaila makes them.”

“Her website’s reportedly sold two thousand since the weekend,” said Pavel.

Jim wasn’t sure if there was an appropriate response to that. He certainly wasn’t coming up with anything.

“If you’re trying to change the future of golf, Jim,” said Pavel into the dead air, “you seem to be on the right track. Let’s see if you can stay in the PGA long enough to shift it permanently. And how about Leonard McCoy, the most famous caddy in the game? He’s out of a job now.”

Jim grinned at the camera and knew exactly what to say to that, at least. “He can come see me. If he wants a job, I’ve got an opening for a regular caddy.”

“So the personality clash is solved with just a few bruises?” asked Pavel.

“He’s a good caddy,” said Jim.

***

Verizon Heritage in South Carolina was the weekend after the Masters, but since Chris had sent a terse email telling Jim he wasn’t allowed to play that one so they could let the news cycle die, he took the weekend off. The thought of going out to play at empty Isleworth with a bunch of rich amateurs rankled but by Friday afternoon, Jim was twitchy and tired of channel-surfing on the giant TV he’d turned on three times since buying it.

So after grabbing some dinner and leaving his kitchen kind of a disaster for the maid to deal with, he put on some jeans and a nice shirt and went out to look for the Orlando bar scene.

Jim was pretty sure he’d found it by the third club, where for the first time in his life he’d approached and been waved past velvet ropes by the doorman. Inside was a throng of rich party kids and in ten minutes he had two blondes and a redhead, none older than 24, dancing all up on him and putting the girls back home in Iowa to shame.

“You’re that golf guy, aren’t you?” asked the redhead when he bought her a drink. She somehow reminded him a little of Gaila, even though this girl couldn’t hold a candle to her.

“Yes,” he said, tossing a bill on the bar as her hand slid up his chest to his shoulder. “Yes, I am.”

***

Jim woke up on Sunday afternoon with a complete lack of conviction that his weekend out had been worth it for the damage to his wallet and his liver, but when—Tiffany? Teresa? He was going to lay his money on Tiffany—yawned awake, smiled at him and kissed his cheek before sauntering nude to his bathroom, he wavered.

Then he emerged from a shower to her sitting up in his bed and holding out her iPhone, going, “Hey, we made TMZ,” and as Jim flicked through the images of him at the bar (he now had paparazzi following him, apparently he’d arrived), he decided it was at least a draw. Maybe a win after some pancakes.

***

New Orleans was muggy the next weekend but even oppressive heat couldn’t dull Jim’s good mood. Spock pointedly avoided him all weekend and Jim thought it was adorable how he could hold a grudge. It was like Jim had punched him in the face instead of Leonard McCoy. Deciding that he might as well embrace the glaring, Jim paid extra attention to his Louisiana fan club representatives (all fifteen of them), and even more if Spock was anywhere in sight. They returned the favour by loudly cheering Jim all weekend, and his game was so good that he beat Spock by a stroke to win the tournament.

That probably didn’t do anything for Spock’s attitude.

“Jim,” said Jerry, approaching with his cameraman once Jim had accepted his cardboard check.

“Jerry,” Jim returned graciously. “I like your pants.” They were green plaid. Jerry ignored his compliment.

“How’s this win feel for you, coming off all of the media attention after the Masters?” Jerry stuck the microphone in Jim’s face.

Jim gave it a second of thought. “It feels good,” he said. “You know, I thought that it was just nice to succeed even if the press wasn’t paying attention to my performance, but,” he grinned, “having both at once is awesome.”

“All the best for the rest of your season, Jim,” said Jerry, almost looking sincere. He did his sign-off and then, when the camera light was off, said, “You know, you could win a few more, maybe get me a promotion by association.”

“You’re cheering for me now, Jerry? I’m touched. Let’s get you a t-shirt.”

“Don’t push it,” said Jerry. “I just like the effect you have on TV. The Golf Channel’s gotten a ratings bump, and it wasn’t from Grayson winning yet another Masters.”

“Stick around,” said Jim, hefting his comically large check. “You’ll go far with me.”

***

By the Tuesday after Jim’s win in New Orleans, all that anyone associated with golf was talking about was the Players Championship, which Jim supposed was because it had the highest prize pot in the game. He wouldn’t be playing in it because his Official World Golf Ranking wasn’t high enough to score an automatic entry (looking up his ranking had been educational, both in learning what the hell it was for—mostly easy tournament entries—and how he was doing. Jim was confident he’d crack the top 50 before the end of the season, once he’d sat and calculated how to do that. Then he’d calculated how the hell Spock had made it into first place by a ten-point lead over the second-best pro golfer on the planet and had needed a drink).

In theory, Jim could have gotten an invitation anyway, regardless of his ranking, but he figured none was coming his way since the thing at the Masters. He also wondered how long that was going to stick with him, since sports news had long since moved onto something about LeBron James.

But no matter; even if everyone was thinking about the Players, that was still over a week away, and Jim had the Quail Hollow Championship in Charlotte, NC to play in the meantime.

Bright and early Thursday morning, he was hauling his bag onto the golf course among gathering crowds, trying not to admit to himself that he didn’t feel on top of his game. It was hot and sticky to the point where Jim was pondering the merits of moving to Canada and joining the Canadian Tour; he suspected that Canadians didn’t have a word for ‘humidity’, and they all seemed so nice. He also had vague regrets about his life choices the day before, moving from practice on the links straight to investigating the Charlotte bar scene. Maybe it might have been smarter to go to bed before three in the morning, preferably alone, before setting out to play a tournament. Possibly.

“They turn the sun up too much today?” came a drawl from behind him as he passed the gallery behind the first-hole tee box.

Jim turned on his heel and dropped his Oakleys down his nose, trying manfully not to tear up at the brightness of everything. “Pardon?” he croaked, and then realized he was looking at Leonard McCoy.

Who was smirking.

“Hi,” said Jim. He glanced around and shoved his sunglasses back up his nose before closing the distance between himself and McCoy. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, aiming for nonchalant.

Off McCoy’s look, he’d missed. “I had a hankering to watch some professional golfers. Seen any around?”

Jim grinned. You had to appreciate assholery of that calibre. “Not lately,” he said. “Maybe the money next week will draw them out of hiding.”

“Maybe they got a guarantee you won’t be there.”

“Maybe,” Jim conceded.

McCoy looked him up and down. Jim had gone for a midnight blue shirt that morning, mostly because the other colours had seemed too angry for his hangover to contend with. “What, Adidas doesn’t pay for your sunglasses, too?”

Jim felt a little self-conscious at that. “No. Then again, I’m not really supposed to be wearing them on the course or doing interviews, when people might see me.” But then a thought occurred to him and he frowned. “My rep’s been making noises at my agent about my developing or endorsing some aftershave or cologne or something, though. Possibly I also signed an NDA about that, so don’t go spreading that around.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” McCoy said tartly. “I’m sure we don’t want anyone getting word that Adidas wants to make more money off of people wishing they were you. It’s already sad enough.”

Jim felt inexplicably heartwarmed by the insults. “Look,” he said suddenly, before he could lose his nerve, “they seem to think I should go hit some golf balls down the course now, so you go watch the grown-ups play while I fuck around and win the tournament with a hangover, and sometime this weekend we’ll get a drink or five.”

“You’re buying,” said McCoy, apparently sealing the deal.

“Sure,” Jim shrugged. “I mean, I have a job.”

It seemed like even odds whether he’d get attacked for that, but McCoy burst out laughing and Jim backed off grinning, figuring he was safe. For now. And later he’d just ply the guy with liquor to keep him sedate.

***

They went for dinner Friday night, after Jim made the cut (tied for third and climbing), some seafood place. On the second mojito, Jim breached the subject of what he’d said on SportsCenter.

“That was a legit job offer, you know,” he said.

“No shit,” said McCoy as he lowered his glass. “You can’t take back things you said on national TV.” But he didn’t take the bait and say whether he’d accept or not. On drink number three (the glasses on the table starting to look like fallen soldiers, and didn’t the waitresses here know to clear shit away? Were they leaving the table full of empty mojito glasses as a shame tactic?) McCoy started talking about himself.

“…And I’d just barely finished my residency and was about four months into a sports medicine fellowship with the Braves when Jocelyn decided she’d had enough of being married to a doctor, and she took our kid and left me.” McCoy swigged his mojito and the ice in the glass rattled. “That was nine years ago. Jojo’s ten now.”

Jim didn’t know what to say to that besides, ‘Sucks, dude,’ so he seized on the doctor thing. “Sports medicine?”

“Primary care,” agreed McCoy. “I did everything, especially on a fellowship, but orthopedics were my specialty. Bones and shit,” he clarified.

“Does that training serve you well as a professional caddy?” Jim asked, glad McCoy had taken the bait and stopped talking about his divorce and his kid.

McCoy gave him the finger and then flagged down the waitress for another round. “I only lasted another few months with the Braves, and then my fellowship ran out. Couldn’t find work and it was either I could go into family practice at some clinic or… whatever. I was depressed as fuck. Then a buddy from med school who was a plastic surgeon already invited me out for a round of golf, just to get me off my couch, and I fell into caddying. The money’s pretty good when you deal with the pros and get to work at the majors, and most of the time it’s not as stressful as bein’ a doctor was.”

Most of the time. Jim felt a little guilty at the idea that he’d helped take a job away from a guy who literally had nothing else going on.

“What did you do before golf?” McCoy asked.

“Fixed cars,” said Jim without thinking much about it.

“That’s it?”

“On the weekends I drank and got into fights,” said Jim.

“Oh, so the main difference is now you have money.”

“Pretty much.”

McCoy nodded.

“What do people call you?” Jim asked suddenly. This guy wasn’t really a last-name-identifier kind of guy and it was already starting to feel like Jim knew him too well for that.

“All kinds of things. The repeatable ones are Leonard, Len and Lenny.”

Jim didn’t know whether to laugh or make faces at that. “You got saddled with the worst fucking name, dude.”

McCoy glared. “I’m the third Leonard McCoy after my dad and granddad, I’ll have you know.”

Wasn’t that charmingly Southern. “Well, it’s still not working.” Then he had it. “I’m gonna call you Bones,” he said with a grin.

Bones stared at him for a long moment, then grabbed at his glass again. “I hope you blow out some joint on the course someday and I get the privilege of administerin’ your PT.”

Jim’s grin spread wider on his face and he bounced his knee under the table as he said, “That could be a perk of your employment with me.”

Bones stared some more, then shrugged like he was smartly acknowledging defeat. “I also want the rights to coach you. You don’t have a trainer and you damn well need one.”

“Done,” said Jim happily.

“How much you payin’ me for this pleasure?”

“Talk to my agent,” said Jim, ordering one more round for good luck.

***

Jim woke up Saturday morning bright and early, to his mom’s assigned ringtone blaring out of his phone.

“Mrgh,” he said, rolling over in the hotel bed, tangling his legs in the sheets and nearly dumping himself on the floor as he flailed for the phone.

“H’lo,” he managed, and then double-checked he had it right way up. He did. Awesome. Jim: 1; Mojito hangover: 0.

“Did I wake you up?” Winona asked.

“No. Nope,” he said, dragging himself into a sitting position and rubbing the heel of his palm over his eye.

“That’s good,” she said, “because don’t you tee off in like two hours?”

He squinted at the alarm clock and she was totally right, goddammit. Hadn’t he set the alarm last night? “It’s cool, Ma, I’ve got it locked down.”

“Uh huh.”

“Why are you calling me at seven in the morning? Is something wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, just, I was folding laundry in the living room and you’re on the sports network’s morning show.”

Jim thought about that. “I’ve never been on any morning show.” He was sure he’d remember something like that happening.

“I mean they’re talking about you, Jim. They’ve got photos of you from the last couple nights in whatever the hell city you’re in—”

“Charlotte,” Jim interjected.

“Yeah, that brunette could be a Charlotte, but she looks more like a Candy to me, if you know what I mean. And then they’ve got photos of you hanging out and drinking an amazing amount with that asshole you got in a fight with at the Masters, to my everlasting shame, and talking about how your attitude’s keeping you out of the big tournament next weekend.”

“Players,” said Jim tiredly, staring at the tan hotel comforter.

“You should hear the pun they made about that one.”

“I could turn on the TV, it’s right in front of me,” Jim offered.

“I just,” Winona started, and Jim’s heart started to break preemptively at her helpless tone. “Jim, you’re partying this much? That it’s a news item? I only turned the goddamn TV on to get the NFL highlights from last night and here’s my youngest child all over the TV like he’s one of those goddamn Kardashian girls.” She paused. “Please tell me you haven’t met any Kardashian girls.”

“I haven’t,” Jim promised, looking at his reflection in the dark TV across the room.

“I haven’t had enough coffee yet this morning for revelations like that,” Winona threatened.

“I swear, Mother, I swear on Dad’s grave that if I ever knock up a Kardashian I’ll kill myself before you get the chance to do it for me.”

She actually huffed out a laugh and then said quietly, “I was really hoping you’d gotten the partying out of your system when you cleaned up your act a couple years ago. I hoped that having money and attention wouldn’t bring that person back out, because he wasn’t the Jim I raised.”

Jim flashed back on all the drugs and bar fights and nights spent in the ER or the county jail (or being moved from one to the other), and then he released his death-grip on the blankets. His skin itched. “It’s not like that,” he said, hoping she had the faith in him to believe him when he said it. “It’s just… it’s been an adjustment. But it’s not like that.”

They sat and listened to each other breathe for a few minutes. Finally he could hear faint rustling and was willing to bet she’d started folding laundry again. “I love you, kiddo,” she said finally. “Kick some ass today.”

“Love you too, Ma,” said Jim.

“You should call me more. I should come visit. You’re too far away all the time.”

“Yeah,” said Jim, to all of it.

“Now go get your ass in the shower or you’ll be late for work.”

Jim laughed as he hung up and tossed the phone on top of the covers.

***

He lost out the tournament that weekend by a stroke and as Jerry Fairfax came at him for a quick interview, Bones nodded at him and his giant fake check for second place and said, “You got a spare bedroom, right?”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jim.

“It’s that or an advance,” Bones shrugged. “I got two months left on my lease in Augusta.”

“I let Chris pay people for me,” Jim insisted. He wasn’t sure he did but that was the line he was sticking to. “Send him an email or something, I don’t know. Did I give you his card?”

Bones smirked and glanced over his shoulder at Jerry, who had a definite gleam in his eye. “Yeah, I got it,” he said, waving lazily and wandering off before Jerry could reach him.

***

Bones showed up on Jim’s doorstep at ten in the morning on Tuesday with a duffel bag and a bottle of Gordon’s.

“Gin?” Jim asked, blinking at him.

Bones shouldered past him in the doorway and Jim trailed after him as he found his way to the kitchen. “Mama raised me to be a gracious guest.”

“I don’t drink gin,” said Jim.

“Good time to start,” said Bones, setting the bottle on the counter. He looked Jim up and down and said, “Go get another hour of sleep. I’ll find my own way around.”

Jim wavered for a moment before following his advice and going back to bed. There didn’t seem to be any point in resisting, it just meant that he got trampled harder.

Case in point, it was almost precisely an hour later that Bones banged on his bedroom door and commanded him to get ready to go golfing. Jim turned over in bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering why he’d made these choices.

***

Isleworth was winding up for the day when they got there; Bones dragged Jim to the driving range and they hit a bucket each for what Bones called a ‘warm-up’ and ‘to get all the brute force hits out of Jim’s system’. Jim wondered what kind of psycho he’d hired as a caddy-coach-trainer-physician, and watched Bones covertly between lazily whacking ball after ball up the range.

Bones was a mid-range driver, clustering his shots around the 250-yard markers; Jim supposed maybe he must have had good form or something. At least, he hit the ball like most of the guys on the Tour did. As far as Jim could tell, anyway.

The next stop on their trail of tears was the putting practice green, which Jim frankly had never set foot on before.

An hour later, he thought he knew exactly why.

“It has to be a miracle that you ever made it as a professional golfer,” Bones said.

Jim sat right down on the grass. “Praise Jesus or whatever.”

“Get your arse off my bloody green, you grass-crushing menace!” yelled someone behind him.

Bones did a double-take and Jim craned his head around to see who the hell that could be. An angry-looking guy with bristly red hair was striding toward them. He wore a black staff shirt and Dockers so grass-stained they were more green than tan.

“Hi,” said Jim, shading his eyes as he squinted up at the guy from his sprawl.

“Are you damn well deaf?” the guy demanded. He was Scottish, which was just the best thing to happen to Jim all week.

“No, I heard you coming from the clubhouse, I think,” said Jim brightly. He stuck out his hand, angling it up. “Jim Kirk.”

“Fuck’s sake, I heard you played here now but I didn’t believe it,” said the guy, and he shook Jim’s hand as if he didn’t even notice he was doing it.

“I choose to take that as a compliment of some kind,” said Jim after a minute. “That’s Bones,” he said, pointing. “What’s your name?”

“Montgomery Scott. Most call me Scotty.”

“Of course they do,” said Jim, delighted beyond the telling of it. Scotty the Scottish golf course employee. With red hair. He wanted to pinch himself.

“What do you do here besides verbally abuse people, Scotty?” Bones asked politely. Jim could tell they’d be best friends.

“I’m the fucking greenskeeper.” He nudged Jim in the thigh with his foot. “You gonna get your arse off my grass or what, laddie?”

Jim dragged himself back to his feet. “You keep your greens very difficult, Scotty.”

“I keep them immaculately, thank you very much, and I won’t hear a word against them.” He gestured angrily at the ground. “Most advanced grass hybrid in Florida. Created it myself.”

Jim blinked down at the grass—it was green, and short—and nodded appreciatively. “It’s nice grass. It does shit for my putting, is it supposed to?”

“Don’t blame the plants for your shortcomings,” said Bones.

“This is all ridiculous talk,” said Scotty. “You’ve just gotta learn how to read the green.”

And then he and Bones got to talking at each other, and Jim wanted to sit back down again but didn’t want to get yelled at or kicked harder, either of which might happen. Instead, he let them order him around the putting green while he kept missing shots, and another hour and a half went by that way. Scotty apparently had a lot of free time on Tuesdays.

Jim had just missed another putt and was ready to start hitting balls at the swans when he saw feet in his peripheral vision.

The feet were attached to Spock Grayson. He was dressed in casual Nike clothes—probably if you looked in his closet there was not a single non-Nike article in there, and Jim stopped picturing Spock’s bedroom because it was in a house probably visible from where he was standing—and carrying what looked like a gym bag. Jim supposed he’d been at the gym attached to the clubhouse.

They watched each other for a moment. Spock broke the silence. “You are looking up slightly too soon in your swing,” he said. “Keep your head down.” And then he walked away.

Jim stared after him.

“Jim,” Bones said in his ear suddenly, and Jim didn’t jump but he did clutch his putter very hard, “pick your jaw up off the ground.”

“You can’t even see his arse anymore, I doubt,” added Scotty. “Stop trying to look at it.”

Jim shook himself. “You’re both assholes. Why do I keep attracting assholes to my company?”

“Like attracts like,” suggested Bones unhelpfully.

While Bones and Scotty laughed about how funny they were, Jim pushed away thoughts of how he was going to be stuck with them until he killed them both and attempted another putt, keeping his head down. It went in.

He walked over to the hole and looked down at the ball in the bottom of it, wondering what had just transpired.

***

They didn’t see each other until two weeks later in Texas, when they were in the same group for the Texas Open. Jim spent quite a while before their tee-off Thursday morning watching Spock pace around and dodge Jerry Fairfax at the same time. Spock didn’t quite look bored, or irritated, or hungry or tired or anxious to play. He had that normal, blank look on his face. But he was still pacing around and they were going to be playing eighteen holes together that day, so Jim felt emboldened and with ten minutes to go before their tee time, he made his move.

He’d been thinking all week about the putting practice incident, in every spare moment that he wasn’t on a golf course thinking about a swing and that Bones wasn’t nagging him (and that neither of them was getting drunk with Scotty, who liked drinking almost as much as talking about landscaping). He’d dissected every aspect of their interaction that day and he’d decided there was only one explanation for Spock’s actions: he was playing mind games.

Two could do that, and Jim would like to see the day someone outsmarted or intimidated him successfully. Jim would let Spock know that he wasn’t going to take that shit lying down, that he made a more formidable opponent than Spock could dream of.

He insinuated himself next to Spock once his pacing hit a lull and said, “Hey, congratulations on winning Players last week.”

Spock blinked as though he hadn’t known Jim was there until he spoke. “Thank you,” he said after a moment. “The competition was satisfactory and I was pleased with my own performance this year.” Then, after a slight pause, he went on, “I look forward to your joining the field there next season.”

Jim would not be out-polited. “Well, it’s nice to hear you have that kind of faith in my abilities.”

Spock shrugged lightly. “At your current pace, it is a near-certainty that you will be in the top 50 next year and will earn an exemption. On that subject, how is your putting progressing?”

Jim bit back a huff. “Better, I guess,” he managed. In reality, it was… well, it was a little better, yeah. “Thanks for the tip.”

“I did not mean to assert myself over your new coaching asset, but I could not help offering an opinion.”

“I don’t think he gave a shit,” said Jim. Bones was surprisingly more or less incapable of giving a shit, once his guard was down. “Anyway, you certainly have the experience. A fresh eye on the game can be nice.”

“Indeed,” said Spock, and then his attention was distracted by the first guy in their group advancing to the tee box. “Good luck this weekend, Jim,” he said with a nod before walking off to his bag.

“You too,” Jim called after him, and stood there frowning as Bones sidled up, sporting a new Adidas hat.

“You guys going steady now?” he asked idly.

“Fuck off and die,” said Jim, clapping him on the back before walking away. He had to swerve around Jerry, who was trying to get a last sound-bite before they got started.

That conversation had not gone the way Jim wanted it to but he felt a plan forming. If he couldn’t slip under Spock’s guard with the cool-and-aloof game (he admitted he might be beat there) or by irritating him to death, then he’d go with his old standard: charm.

***

Jim spent the Texas stretch of the Tour season chatting idly with Spock every time they came within speaking distance of each other. The trick was to pretend he was trying to pick up challenging prey in a bar (in the times before the line, ‘I’m Jim Kirk, professional athlete and millionaire’ was able to work its magic) and slip his tricks in the mix subtly: a smile with a flash of teeth here, a chuckle at a witty observation there, a dash of sidling into personal space and just a pinch of earnest eye-contact for flavour. All this while staying away from cameras and ignoring Bones’ comments, of which there were many. Jim would not have discounted the notion that Bones was texting Scotty back in Florida about what Jim was up to, possibly with photos and video.

Spock Grayson, aloof professional, was maybe the toughest target Jim had ever tried to get to like him but Jim was resilient if he was anything—his mom liked to claim he got it from her, as long as they weren’t fighting—and he had faith in the payoff.

It came on as subtly as Jim himself had but before he knew it, it was June and they were at the US Open in Pebble Beach, and Spock was initiating a conversation as Jim and Bones walked onto the course Thursday morning.

“Good morning, Jim. We are playing in the same group today,” he said.

Jim caught a glimpse of Bones rolling his eyes as he walked away from them. He shifted his Oakleys up onto his forehead. “Awesome,” he said. “Who else?”

“An amateur and a leading player from the Japanese tour.”

“That sounds like a thrilling day,” said Jim, trying to sound like he meant it. The last Japanese tour golfer he’d played a round with hadn’t spoken more than basic English (mostly golf terms). “I can’t wait.”

Spock raised an eyebrow and Jim thought his lack of enthusiasm might be kind of obvious. They made their way toward the throng of golfers together.

“I heard they tweaked the course for this weekend,” said Jim. Not that it mattered, because he’d never played Pebble Beach anyway, but it was a conversation starter.

Spock nodded. “It should be a challenging tournament, as this open always is. It will not forgive a weak short game,” he said, casting Jim a sideways glance.

Jim puffed out his chest a little. “I fear nothing.”

That didn’t get a laugh out of Spock, not that anything would. Instead he seemed to be looking around them at the crowds. Jim followed his lead.

“Isn’t that your dad over there?” he asked suddenly, pointing at a man who looked so disgusted with everything around him that he had to be Sarek.

“Yes,” said Spock. “While he does not attend all of the tournaments I play, he is usually present for the majors, and especially the US Open.”

Jim’s puzzlement must have shown on his face because Spock clarified, “Father’s Day is on Sunday.”

Was it? Shit. Jim nodded, trying to look cool. “Of course. Right.”

Spock twitched. “You have only your mother left, do you not? I apologize, Jim, for forgetting this.”

And if there was one thing—one thing that Jim disliked more than his family business getting around and having to deal with the ‘oh, you have no dad’ sympathy, it was the fact that now he was famous and more people knew about it. “It’s fine,” he said maybe a little sharply. “I never kn—” he cut off that line of defense because it only ever made shit worse. “It’s fine,” he said again. “Really.”

But that just made him put two and two together about what he could expect from this weekend: media attention for participating in his second major after the disaster of the first one; playing the final day on Father’s Day, assuming he made the cut; and media talking to him on Sunday who were undoubtedly aware that his dad was dead. Jim didn’t realize he’d stopped in his tracks until Spock got a few steps ahead and turned back to him.

Jim stared straight ahead at nothing for a moment while Spock watched him with an expression devoid of pity or anything else.

“Players ended on Mother’s Day,” said Spock after a long moment. “I had to endure three media representatives attempting to ask me if I thought my mother would be proud of my success.”

Jim looked up at Spock carefully.

“Climbing accident when I was fifteen,” said Spock simply. “My mother was a fearless woman.”

Jim shook himself out of a daze. “I have no idea what my dad was like,” he said, “except from what people have told me.”

The pat on Jim’s back was so brief he might have imagined it. “I believe that a good parent’s greatest desire is that their children live for themselves and no one else.”

“But did we have good parents?” Jim asked before he could stop himself.

“I feel,” said Spock, looking up at the clear blue sky, “that our remaining parents may have done a sufficient job with what they were left to make up for any lack in the others.”

Jim hummed thoughtfully but was distracted from any more debate on the subject, because Bones was ten feet away making kissy faces at him.

***

Spock won the US Open by a ridiculous eleven strokes; Jim finished a distant fifth and tried not to smile at the media circus surrounding Spock while he dodged two sports editorialists from the LA Times, who seemed to be trying to set him up for a puff piece about role models in sports or something equally terrible. He managed to pass behind the Golf Channel’s camera and give Jerry a thumbs-up while Spock was giving him one-word answers about his mental game. Jerry, a professional to the end, managed to communicate his hatred for Jim without actually moving any muscles out of his smiling-for-the-camera pose. He and Spock had a lot in common that way.

Jim wasn’t sure Spock needed to play mind-games with him when he could so easily finish sixteen strokes over Jim in a tournament even while giving him pro tips on putting and dealing with the media. Which made the whole thing even more bizarre. Jim left the tournament with his payout and Bones, outmanoeuvring a few more people with microphones, and resolved to figure out how he was going to get under Spock’s defenses.

Which was all well and good in theory, but in practice the Tour was shifting north for the heat of a northeastern summer, which as far as Spock was concerned was an oxymoron. Jim played Travelers and the AT&T National by himself and told himself he didn’t miss the back-and-forth. He had back-and-forth with Bones to replace it, anyway, and that kept him on his toes plenty.

“All set for John Deere, Jim?” Bones asked as they rolled back into Orlando with Jim’s first-place check from AT&T.

“I guess,” said Jim, who’d mostly been thinking about a shower and a nap and a beer, and trying to decide which order he wanted them in. Considering he’d won the John Deere Classic—fuck, a whole year ago—with zero professional golf experience, he didn’t exactly have what you’d call anxiety over it.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your mom and Chris,” said Bones.

Jim dropped his bag on his bed while Bones leaned against the wall in the hallway. Dammit. “Okay, you’re not coming.”

“What?” Bones demanded.

“You’re not coming,” said Jim again, pushing past him to go to the kitchen. Beer first.

“You’re not taking your caddy to a golf tournament?”

“You don’t caddy me at most of these,” said Jim dismissively as he went downstairs, Bones on his heels. “Enjoy your week off.”

“I don’t need a week off.”

“Sure you do. Go hang out with Scotty or something.”

“Are you visiting your mom before or after?”

Jim accepted the minor change of topic. “After, for a few days, before I go play Canada.”

“Got your passport for that?”

“Chris did it, thanks Mom.” Jim grabbed a beer and slammed the fridge door shut as he twisted the cap off. He took a blissful drink of it and then said, “I should probably call her.”

She picked up after two rings; Jim leaned on the kitchen island while Bones wandered into the living room and collapsed on the couch.

“Hi, Ma,” he said.

“You’re coming to visit, right?” she asked.

He rolled his eyes but grinned a little. “Yeah. After the tournament I’ll come out to the farm.”

“Good. I’ll get the spare bedroom made up for Leonard.”

Jim bit back a curse. “He’s not coming along to this one,” he started.

“Yes, he is,” she said serenely. “Chris needs to talk with him. So Chris and I are going out to watch you play and then you’re both coming back to Riverside.”

Jim wondered how they could psychically team up and play him like that without actual coordination of tactics. He suspected that there was communication going on without his knowledge but he wouldn’t put it past them to be that creepy. “I guess we’ll see you Thursday, then,” he said brightly, glaring at the wall that Bones’ head was on the other side of and imagining terrible things.

Winona laughed a little as she hung up.

***

“I think it was the sixteenth on Saturday that really fucked him over,” said Winona.

“I think it was his attitude to date,” Chris countered.

“He played all right,” said Bones.

Jim stared into his scotch. Three hours in Riverside and he was gonna lose it.

“I did win second place,” he pointed out.

“Well, of course you did, Jimmy, but that just means there’s room for improvement,” said Winona over her glass.

Jim slouched back in his chair and decided to accept the reality that he was now on the defensive. “I didn’t need the win. I’ve probably added enough years to my Tour card to take me to the grave—”

“That might not be many years, the way you live,” Winona pointed out.

“—And I saw poor Mike Byrd who has two kids and a wife and hasn’t won all season and my heart bled for him, so I let him win. It was charity,” said Jim.

They all stared at him for a minute.

“It was your putting,” said Bones.

Jim knocked back the rest of his scotch.

***

Unfortunately, the week they spent at the farm was a long one. Naturally, Bones and Winona got on like a house on fire; it turned out that deep down under his black husk of a soul, Bones had some of that Southern charm that he probably kept for emergencies, and he used it mercilessly on Winona. She made apple pie from scratch on the third day of their visit. Jim could not recall the last time his mother had made pie.

“This is really good,” he blurted out after the first bite, not really thinking.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” she demanded.

Jim grabbed at his coffee as a stalling tactic. “Uh,” he said. “I just…. I didn’t know you still baked.”

“I bake for people who appreciate it,” she said.

“Great pie, ma’am,” said Bones through a mouthful. “Reminds me of my mama’s.”

Winona beamed.

***

The flight to Toronto was quick, which Jim appreciated because it didn’t give him any opportunities to break down and speak to Bones.

“God, this airport is the fucking worst,” Bones bitched about ten minutes after getting off the plane and through Customs.

“At least it’s not in Iowa,” said Jim before he could stop himself.

But Bones just rolled his eyes as they made their way doggedly through the terminal at Pearson Airport, looking for escape. “Pretty sure that couldn’t have been—what the hell is a ‘go train’? Christ, Canada is weird—couldn’t have been the longest week of your life.”

“How would you know?” said Jim, because it had been. He hadn’t been fully sure he liked Florida until he’d gone back to Iowa and the farm. Jim had spent an entire afternoon up on the roof of the barn with a case of beer, not hitting rocks at the distant fence but just staring out at the fields while Chris, Bones and his mother had plotted to ruin his life and sanity. Going into town had been worse, though. He hadn’t realized what it meant to be a local celebrity but it seemed like they’d been just short of organizing him a parade. They all used to talk about how he’d end up in jail or dead and now they wanted his autograph. His main escape had been keeping up with golf news; Spock had gone to Scotland (and he bitched about cold climates) to win the British Open and the little pang Jim had felt at seeing his picture with the trophy had him abandoning the computer to go drink on top of the barn some more.

“You’re a goddamn drama queen,” said Bones, dragging him toward a cab stand. “Anyway, it was a productive time for me, Chris and I got a lot of shit hammered out.”

“Oh god,” said Jim, “like what?”

“Terms of my employment. New training program for you. Oh, and Callaway’s got some new woods and putters they want you to try out.”

Jim froze at the door to the cab. “Training program?”

“Get in the damn cab. We need to get to the hotel and then out to the course.”

***

There were another two weeks of lesser ‘northern’ tournaments before Jim saw Spock again, at the PGA in Wisconsin.

“You know, technically Wisconsin is pretty far north,” said Jim on Friday morning, before the start of the second round. It was his first chance to see Spock outside the media throng.

“Yes, Jim, I too have seen maps of the United States.” Spock got a look in his eyes that Jim suspected might be humour. “I must make exceptions to my locational preferences for the majors.”

“The Tour not getting your strongly worded letters?” Jim asked, feeling one corner of his mouth pull upwards.

“I understand that next year’s will be in Atlanta, so perhaps they have,” said Spock as he fastened his glove on.

Jim wiped his forearm across his brow; the morning was burning off fast and he wasn’t looking forward to playing the rest of the weekend in a cloudless Wisconsin August; he was pretty sure that he’d drunk a swimming pool’s worth of water during the first round. “You know, I played Turning Stone last week in New York and the coolest it got all weekend was 95 degrees. I wouldn’t quite call that frigid.”

Spock just shook his head like he was sad for Jim. “You had an excellent round yesterday,” he said after a moment.

Jim had shot five under par for the day. “Yep,” he said, and then grinned. “Beat you.” By one stroke, but they weren’t playing horseshoes or hand-grenades, were they?

“The tournament will continue until Sunday, Jim.” Spock flexed his hand inside his glove before deeming it acceptable. “However, it was of course a promising start.”

Jim squinted at Spock, trying to figure his angle. Most people didn’t play mind games with banter. “How are you feeling about the Grand Slam happening this weekend?”

Spock looked at him. “I have no particular feelings on it. Nyota has spent the last two weeks avoiding the subject due to her belief in ‘jinxes’ but regardless, it does not trouble me.”

“But,” said Jim, pressing the opportunity for a reversal, “it would be your first one ever, right? And you’d be the first to ever do it in a season. Doesn’t that make you kind of, I don’t know. Tingly?” He wasn’t sure about his word choice, but whatever.

“This bears a resemblance to two interviews I had yesterday,” said Spock. “It will happen or it will not. If it does not, I may make another attempt next year. All the accomplishment will gain me is more media attention.”

“Yeah,” said Jim. “You don’t need more of that. Hey, is your money-filled pool still brimming?”

Spock stared off into the distance behind Jim’s right ear for a second. Jim realized it was probably the non-expressive person’s version of an eye-roll. “Good luck with the remaining three rounds, Jim,” he said. “Also, my swimming pool is filled only with water, although the upkeep may sometimes feel like I am throwing money directly into it.”

As Spock walked away, Jim wondered if that had been a joke. Had he just seen Spock acting… light-hearted? Was Spock in a good mood?

“Huh,” said Jim out loud. Then Bones appeared ten feet away and tapped his wrist. Jim shook himself all over and took off for his first hole of the day.

***

Jim would neither confirm nor deny any allegations that his mood that weekend was ‘buoyant’, even in the sweltering shirt-glued-to-back heat, but whether it was endorphins or his fancy new clubs or a sudden next-level ability to play golf, he stayed right at the top of the leaderboard with Spock all weekend and then won the whole championship by two strokes.

It took until midway through his third televised interview—ESPN—for him to realize what had happened.

“Uh,” he said, “sorry?”

The guy from ESPN made a face at the camera. “We’ll edit that. The question was, with your ongoing antagonism with Spock Grayson, how does it feel to take away the Grand Slam victory from him?”

Jim really hoped that CBS and NBC hadn’t also asked him that, but they probably had. He decided to switch to hoping he hadn’t said anything terrible. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t ‘take away’ anything. He’s a professional athlete. And so am I,” he amended. “I did what I always do, which is go out there and play the best I can, and I’m sure he did the same thing because I don’t think he’s capable of less. And today my best was two strokes better than his, but I certainly didn’t influence his game in any way. I’d like to see somebody try.”

The commentator raised an eyebrow. “No hard feelings, then?”

“None at all,” said Jim, and hoped to hell it was true. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spock talking to NBC and wondered who was going to end up talking to more media today. Probably in that, at least, they were going to tie.

Jim could hear the ESPN guy doing his lead-out (he also thought he could sense Jerry Fairfax, coiled and ready to spring) and only noticed he was staring at Spock when Spock looked right up at him and raised an eyebrow.

Jim realized a second thing in that moment: he was totally fucked.

***

Jim and Bones were flying back to Orlando Monday morning, which meant that they were about to spend Sunday night on the mean streets of Sheboygan, WI, drinking to Jim’s first win at a major. Jim checked his hair in the mirror of his hotel bathroom one more time before opening his door; he was distracted by thinking how he was going to mock Bones about being ready first, or at least that was going to be the excuse for why he made a startled noise at the sight of Spock standing in front of the door with his arm raised to knock.

“Motherfucker,” Jim breathed, clutching one hand to his chest and the other to the door of his room. “What are you doing here?”

Spock lowered his arm. “I meant to congratulate you this afternoon upon your victory, but by the time I disengaged myself from the press you had left the golf course.”

“Jerry’s interview had me heading for the hills as fast as I could,” Jim said by way of apology.

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Jerry? Fairfax?” He paused. “The man from the Golf Channel?”

Jim suddenly saw what life was like on the other side, and he craved it. “Yes,” he said. “That guy. We have… a special relationship. It’s based on terror, mostly.”

“I see,” said Spock, who obviously didn’t.

They stared at each other in silence.

It took a moment to sink in, but then Jim straightened like his mother’s spirit had just slapped him upside the head. “Come inside,” he said, stepping back from the doorway, and when Spock followed him inside his room instead of running away, Jim led the way over to the couch.

“How did you know this was my room?” Jim asked as he sagged into the cushions.

“We are staying in the same hotel,” said Spock, sitting down more carefully. “I simply asked the front desk. There are not many quality accommodations in this area.”

“I was going to get rooms at the La Quinta,” joked Jim, “but Bones threatened to nag me into next year. Since he already has a tendency to nag me into next week, I don’t really want to step that up.”

“He seems like an… interesting person,” said Spock.

Jim remembered why Spock had shown up at his door in the first place. “I feel kinda terrible about stealing the win today,” he ventured, “especially after our chat on Friday.”

Spock shrugged. “The rules dictate that someone must win, but not that it must be me. There are, as you told ESPN, ‘no hard feelings’.”

Jim’s face and neck went hot all at once. “Oh god,” he said. “They aired that? You saw it?”

“It is on today’s highlight reel,” said Spock. “So by now they will have aired your statement….” He trailed off and glanced upwards briefly. “…Approximately seven times.”

Jim bent over and put his head between his knees to stop the rushing noise in his ears. “I hate everything. Everything,” he said.

“As I have told you before, the media require a delicate touch,” said Spock. “While your trial by fire is certainly amusing, perhaps lessons are in order.”

Jim breathed in and out slowly until he was sure he wasn’t going to pass out. “Can we postpone the first one? Just that I’m going out to get drunk tonight. I mean, I guess you can come if you want, but no one’s going to learn anything about life.” Belatedly it occurred to him that yes, he was indeed asking Spock Grayson out for drinks. With him and Bones. Jim took another deep breath.

“I will have to graciously decline your offer tonight,” said Spock, and Jim heard him stand up. “But I will see you soon, I am sure.”

Jim raised his head and managed a smile as Spock left. That had gone well, he thought cautiously.

At least until Spock opened the door and walked past Bones, who stood and watched him walk down the hall for quite a while before coming inside Jim’s room and shutting the door behind him.

“Wow,” said Bones.

“Nothing happened,” Jim said loudly. “He came to congratulate me on my win. Like a good sport or whatever.” Jim stood up. “I don’t know, fuck, let’s go to a bar.”

“That was really sweet, that just now,” said Bones, trailing Jim out of the room. Jim vowed that he was going to be buying the first two, maybe three rounds.

***

Jim’s first surprise upon showing up at the Wyndham Championship the next week was that Spock wasn’t playing. His second surprise was that Spock was there anyway.

“What is he doing?” he hissed at Bones.

Bones looked over the top of his sunglasses. “Standing in the gallery.”

“But why?” Jim hissed.

“I suppose because it’s a good place to watch golf from,” said Bones.

Jim marched over to the gallery.

“Hello, Jim,” said Spock.

“Why aren’t you playing?” Jim asked.

“Some years I choose not to play this tournament, as it is the last one eligible for Fedex Cup points. I enjoy a weekend off before the Cup begins and others enjoy a field with fewer strong competitors while they attempt to secure their qualifying points. It is a positive situation for everyone.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, and as he did he realized that he and Spock had first met a year ago this weekend. And Jim had spent the whole weekend both learning who Spock was in golf and antagonizing him for fun. He couldn’t qualify the feelings he was having about this and so he tried to cover his discomfort by saying, “You played last year.”

“I lost the US Open and did not play as many tournaments in general last year,” said Spock. “I benefited from the practice of playing this tournament.”

“Okay,” said Jim, “so you get a weekend off, that’s good. But why are you spending it at the tournament anyway?”

Spock’s head tilted a little. “It takes away the temptation to practice that I might feel at home. And I may survey the competition here.”

Jim turned that answer over in his mind and decided it made enough sense to carry on with. “Oh,” he said. “Okay.”

Bones began pulling on Jim’s shoulder to get him away and to the places he needed to be, but Jim felt an unwillingness to leave. He resisted Bones’ manhandling for just a moment, keeping eye contact with Spock.

***

It was a good first round; Jim finished at the top of the leaderboard and felt good enough to use words like ‘momentum’ during his breakdown of the day with Bones, as they walked past Sedgefield’s clubhouse to find their rental car. Spock was standing near the entrance to the parking lot as though he was waiting for someone.

When Spock looked up at them and Bones sighed, Jim wondered if Spock was waiting for them.

“You played quite well today,” said Spock when they got close enough to talk.

“Thanks,” said Jim.

“He watched you play six holes today,” Bones muttered in Jim’s ear. Jim blinked.

“Well, uh,” said Jim, “I don’t know if you had plans tonight but Bones and I were just about to figure out where to get dinner.”

Jim could feel the instant waves of irritation radiating off of Bones. “You want to join us?” he carried on bravely.

“It would certainly assist in keeping the media from thinking we wish each other ill,” said Spock, which was probably a ‘yes’. They all took the same car to some southern place Bones recommended, where they spent an hour eating good food and talking shop and managing not to be too awkward, which Jim thought was nice. They dropped Spock back off at the Sedgefield parking lot to pick up his car, and Bones shook his head at Jim all the way back to the hotel. Jim didn’t care, it had been a pretty good day by his standards.

***

Jim spent half the second round of the tournament seeing Spock standing in the gallery watching him, and the other half trying not to look at the gallery. He played okay anyway, though, so he decided to forgive Spock his mind-games and let Jerry have two minutes about the first two rounds and his expectations for the rest of the weekend.

“You’ve already qualified for the Cup this year,” said Jerry.

“Yeah,” said Jim. “I know.”

“Nervous? It’s big money and big names.”

“I don’t get nervous,” said Jim.

Which was a fucking lie, of course, because while Jim only felt confused when Bones ditched him to go ‘talk to an old friend at the clubhouse’, when he reached the parking lot and saw Spock there again, the nervousness hit him like a freight train.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” said Spock. “Are you hungry?”

Jim had just played a round of golf and mostly only consumed water (he hated eating when he played), so honestly his stomach walls felt like they were sticking to each other. “I guess,” he said. “Did you want to get dinner again?”

Spock fell into step with him as Jim walked into the lot. “There is a reasonable sushi restaurant nearby. The nutritional benefits conferred by consumption of raw fish are highly beneficial during tournament play.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Jim, before he could think about it too hard. “You wanna drive, so I don’t strand Bones here?” And he texted Bones quickly before leaving with Spock (in his rental Audi, jesus) for sushi.

The restaurant was pretty nice, and Jim settled down with a Chinese beer, all set to talk about golf some more, but instead Spock asked his opinion on classical music.

Jim was fucking thrown. “I don’t know?” he said honestly. “I’ve liked some of what I’ve heard, but I have no idea what that might have been. Are you a fan of it?” He felt like he’d just been dropped in the middle of some conversational minefield. In the dark. The hell with music being a safe conversational topic for dinner.

Spock looked vaguely bemused. “I listen to a great deal of it. I have season tickets for the Orlando Philharmonic Orchestra and I also often attend the symphony in the event I find myself in a city that is less… culturally bereft.”

Jim grinned. “But all those cities are cold.”

“It is a concession I must occasionally make,” said Spock.

Jim settled back in his chair a little and decided to test the waters. “What other music do you like? I’m guessing you’re not, like, a Red Hot Chili Peppers kinda guy.”

Spock looked confused for a fraction of a second, which Jim should have expected. “I do not like contemporary American music,” he agreed. “My other musical interests are more what you might consider ‘world music’. I have a fascinating collection of Tuvan throat singing.”

Jim wondered if that was a joke and then decided it probably wasn’t. “Yeah, I’ll maybe stick to the Chili Peppers,” he said, taking a drink of his beer as a platter of sashimi arrived at the table. Three bites in, he ventured, “So what would you recommend if I wanted to dive into the thrilling world of classical composers?”

Spock looked thoughtful and lowered his chopsticks. “I believe that you are a Rachmaninoff kind of person,” he said finally.

“You might need to write that one down for me.”

“I believe I have some on my iPod; I will play it for you when we leave,” said Spock.

Jim stared at the piece of tuna pinched between his chopsticks and wondered if this was actually happening, if he was actually eating sushi and discussing music with Spock Grayson, or if he was going to look down and see that he was sitting here in his boxers and this was all a dream. Jim ate his tuna while carefully avoiding looking down at himself.

***

Bones managed to make it obvious all day Saturday that he was not asking Jim about his solo dinner with Spock the night before, and Jim couldn’t decide if he was relieved or if he wanted to punch Bones in the face again. Anyway, he had another good day and Spock kind of came and went from the gallery, not that Jim was noticing anything like that, and then once he’d finished the third round tied for fourth place, Bones just gave him a shoulder-slap goodbye and left him without another word.

“What?” Jim said to the universe in general, and then Spock appeared at his side.

“This is turning into a routine,” said Jim after a long moment.

“Is that a problem?” asked Spock.

Jim bit down the too-quick ‘no’ that wanted to come out of his mouth and just shrugged.

They went to some Caribbean place that was pretty okay and talked about random shit like they had the night before. Jim caught himself several times not feeling weird about it. When it came time to leave, Spock tossed down a black Amex instead of letting Jim pay half.

They walked out to Spock’s Audi and he hesitated at the driver’s side door and said, “It is early yet. Would you like to join me at my hotel for a drink?”

Jim nodded, anticipating an hour in the (either trendy or depressing or both) hotel bar, but they went back to Spock’s four-star accommodations, the valet took his car and they went up to Spock’s executive suite. Where there was, yes, an actual bar.

Jim looked around dazedly while Spock made him a gin and tonic; the place was the size of his condo, he was pretty sure. “Do you always stay in places like this?” he asked.

“My manager books my hotels,” Spock said, handing Jim his drink and leading the way to the sitting area, where there were black leather couches. That was probably a ‘yes’. Jim wondered if he could contractually make Bones book his hotels, and then wondered if that would even be smart.

“Must be nice to live the high life,” said Jim, taking a long drink.

“You can nearly afford the same,” said Spock, and then as Jim watched, he put his own drink (possibly just the tonic and no gin) down on the coffee table, got up from his chair and took Jim’s free hand to pull him to his feet.

Jim didn’t know if he was about to make a joke about being glad to leave if he was dismissed, or if his mind was just blank as Spock delicately plucked his glass from his hand and set it down, but as Spock laid a hand on Jim’s cheek to pull him in for a kiss, he was definitely thinking, ‘oh, it was that kind of drink he invited me up for’.

Jim’s eyes took a minute to open again when they separated, but before he could dive back in something occurred to him that made him feel like an idiot. He planted a hand in the middle of Spock’s chest to hold him back. “Wait wait wait. What about Uhura? I thought you and she were—”

Spock sighed and Jim felt the exhalation under his hand. “No,” he said. “We are not. We were together once but the relationship ended with our mutual agreement.”

“She dumped you,” guessed Jim.

Spock looked away for a second. “Yes. We had been living together for a year. Although I paid for it, she essentially bought my house.”

“How long ago was this?” Jim asked, fascinated. The news media hadn’t seemed to notice that any of this had happened, as far as he could tell.

“It has been nearly two years since we separated,” said Spock. “I have not dated seriously since. Do you have any more questions or are you finished?”

Jim blushed at the annoyed tone and dropped his hand. “I think I’m done. Uh. Where were we?”

“I believe,” Spock trailed off before kissing him again. Jim clutched at Spock’s strong shoulders and let himself be pushed down onto the couch. No ‘dating seriously’ in two years for Spock had probably meant not much of a sex life, it dawned on Jim, and he braced himself.

***

Jim took a cab back to his hotel in the morning and after texting him, met up with Bones in the lobby.

“Bones, the weirdest fucking thing in my entire life happened last night,” he said.

“Christ,” said Bones.

He barely remembered to check for eavesdroppers before he hissed, “I had sex with Spock.”

Bones made a face. “What was weird about it? Wait, I don’t want to know. Forget I asked.”

“It was pretty normal, well, pretty great sex, but nothing like, notable. Besides that it was with Spock. Which I think I mentioned. And I hoped you would pick up on faster,” said Jim as they left the building.

“Oh,” said Bones, “so that was the first time?”

“Yeah,” said Jim slowly.

“Three whole dates like normal, boring people, wow,” said Bones, at a low volume that maybe wasn’t meant for Jim to hear. “So, wait,” he said in a normal voice, “you didn’t see this coming?”

“Three dates?” Jim echoed, making the choice not to let that comment slide, and then, “No, Leonard, I did not ‘see this coming’.”

“You had dinner three times,” Bones pointed out. “And hell, Jim, I saw this coming. I lost a bet with Scotty over your timing. And there’s no need for a catty tone.”

Jim stopped in the middle of the hotel parking lot; Bones got three steps past him before noticing and turning around. “How did you know this was going to happen?” he demanded. Maybe he’d been slightly obvious about wanting to nail Spock, especially recently, but the idea that anyone could have predicted that Spock would not only be up for it but enough to initiate things—no, impossible.

Bones rolled his eyes and turned his back on Jim to head for the car. “You two have been eyeing each other like prey for weeks,” he said over his shoulder. “It was only a matter of time and how much patience either of you had. I’d have figured you’d pick up on how much attention he was paying you compared to everyone else on the planet and figure it out yourself, but I keep trying to see the best in you despite evidence.”

Jim didn’t know what to say to that, so he made a disgusted noise and didn’t speak to Bones all the way to the golf course.

Spock was there; he watched Jim play all day. Jim tried hard to focus on golf and not the memory of Spock’s tongue on his hot skin or the way he’d looked first thing in the morning, still mostly asleep. It seemed to be a futile effort but he finished third anyway, so he let it go.

***

Jim woke up late Monday morning in his own bed and looked at his phone. There in his contact list, when he hit the little S on the right-hand side, was Spock’s number. He stared at it, his thumb hovering in the air over the name.

Spock had come over to congratulate him on his finish the day before (which Jerry Fairfax hadn’t missed, needling Jim about them making up over the PGA Championship upset and leaving Jim trying not to let his brain supply him with jokes about hard feelings). Jim had thanked him awkwardly and then after a moment of terrible, mutual silence, had said something about having to pass on dinner because he had to be at the airport. He still wasn’t sure what implication he’d been going for but Spock had just nodded, stolen Jim’s phone out of his hand and input his own number.

“Have a safe flight,” he’d said when he handed it back. Their fingers had brushed and made heat race up Jim’s arm.

Jim let his thumb hover over Spock’s entry for a moment longer before sighing and putting his phone back down on the nightstand. He didn’t know why Spock had done that. He couldn’t tell if they were falling headfirst into a relationship or if Spock’s dry spell had just culminated in him deciding to fuck the first willing person who wouldn’t be scared of his money and fame (apparently that had been Jim), and now they were just friends with benefits.

Jim wondered if problems like this were the reason people had friends, to ask for advice. Then he remembered his friends were Bones and Scotty and he didn’t want to hear either of them give him advice on this, assuming they could stop laughing long enough to give him any.

Usually when Jim’s conquests left him their numbers, he’d just delete them or throw them away. The problem was that besides the certainty he’d see Spock again professionally, he actually wanted to call him. He just didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know if he should call today, although they’d both be off to New Jersey for the first tournament of the Fedex Cup by Wednesday anyway. Jim didn’t know how people did these things.

It took him another twenty minutes of lying in bed in the twisted agony of indecision, followed by a shower, to find the solution. He’d just go to Isleworth. He could run across Spock by chance and try to read the situation from there.

Jim was a genius.

***

Jim would have been a genius if simply showing up at Isleworth had meant that finding Spock might easily follow. Since the place was plenty big enough for that not to actually happen, the plan clearly had drawbacks. After an hour he did, however, run into Uhura, and he probably should have seen that one coming.

“Kirk,” she said, and Jim looked up from his ball at the thump of her golf bag on the platform of the driving range. She was in the next space and walked around the partition to his side, leaning back against the plexiglass and crossing her arms. “Haven’t got yourself kicked out of here yet?”

“Nope,” he said, straightening and leaning on his driver a little. “The clubhouse makes really great sandwiches, so I thought I’d try to stick around a while.”

“Hell, I’m impressed you’re even still in the Tour,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Jim graciously, and remembered a little belatedly that he would normally be hitting on her shamelessly. “Are you going to be gracing us with your presence again soon? I could watch you smack balls around all day.” It was weak but the best Jim could do when every time he looked at her, his brain went in circles of ‘I fucked your ex I fucked your ex I fucked your ex’. He was practically having to bite back the urge to ask her for tips.

Uhura snorted but was also giving him a strange look. “Maybe early next year again,” she said. “Right now I’m just finishing my LPGA season and gunning for the Vare Trophy.”

Jim nodded and made a mental note to google the Vare Trophy, and to maybe follow the LPGA a little more in future.

“Are you alright? You look like you might puke or something,” she said cautiously.

“I’m fine,” Jim assured her. “Just, you know, trying to gear up for playoffs.”

“Okay,” she said slowly, and went back to her side of the partition, apparently having had her fill of weirdness. Jim looked at the rest of his bucket of balls and decided he’d had enough range practice for one day.

He’d just returned the half-full bucket to the clubhouse and convinced them he didn’t want a refund when he saw someone stop beside him out of the corner of his eye. It was Spock.

“Hello, Jim,” he said. Jim thought he heard a warm note in Spock’s voice that hadn’t been there before, and his spine tingled.

“Hi,” he said, and they left the clubhouse together. Spock wasn’t carrying a golf bag.

“Were you practicing?” Spock asked. “Why did you not finish your bucket?”

“I… decided that my driving is probably the part of my game that needs the least work.”

“I see,” said Spock. His arm nearly brushed Jim’s as they walked. “And now what are your plans?”

“Trying to convince myself to go get some putting practice in,” said Jim, who hadn’t given it a moment of thought until the words came out of his mouth. “Unless you want to play a round?” He looked at Spock.

Spock arched an eyebrow. “I hesitate to encourage your delinquency in case your coach discovers I have done so.” He paused. “But that sounds like an agreeable way to spend the afternoon.”

They took a wooded path alongside the third hole to Spock’s house for him to retrieve his clubs (Jim waited in the foyer, because Spock’s house was so big it had a foyer, and stared at the Spanish tile and the ornamental fountain until Spock reappeared with his bag) and then played a round. After that, they had dinner in the clubhouse and then Spock took him back home, past the fountain in the foyer and through a wing and up a flight of stairs to his bedroom, where they undressed each other between the king-size bed and the enormous windows and Jim watched wavering moonlight reflections from the pool outside cast interesting shadows across Spock’s skin.

Jim woke up the next morning with a long arm thrown across his stomach and still wasn’t sure of much, but he was willing to revisit the genius thing.

***

The Fedex Cup, the post-season of the PGA Tour, comprised four tournaments, each with a steadily shrinking field of players until one guy at the end of the final one, the Tour Championship, took home a trophy and an extra ten million dollars. The Cup kicked off with the Barclays, which had a field of 120 top players that found Jim somewhere in the top half of the qualifier list.

Mostly, the Barclays sucked. Jim was willing to blame the fact that they were in New Jersey as much as anything else, but his game wouldn’t come together like it had been. His drives were short; his putts were the usual bullshit; he’d slice on one hole and hook on the next and Bones would make anguished faces because there was nothing consistently wrong enough in Jim’s swing to fix. He barely made the cut and didn’t advance much in the leaderboard from there. It was, as Jerry so eloquently put it, ‘his worst performance to date’. By the midpoint on Sunday, all Spock and Bones could think to say to him were reassurances that he was still high enough in the points race to play the next tournament and try to recover.

Jim spent the weekend when he wasn’t on the course drowning his sorrows in Spock, who quite handily always seemed to be there. Jim wasn’t sure why they had two hotel rooms between them except that someone might think it was unseemly or something. For his part, he just slept with his head pillowed on Spock’s chest or spooned up against him and tried not to overthink anything.

The next tournament was the Deutsche Bank Championship in Massachusetts, which was cooling off enough by Labour Day weekend to annoy Spock. The leaves on the trees around the course were just starting to think about turning and it was all very stately and picturesque as play began on Thursday.

Deutsche Bank was a first for Jim’s PGA Tour career: he didn’t make the cut.

He stood staring at the leaderboard for a long time on Friday night, looking at his name in 80th place and the line a few places above it that showed the cutoff. Bones joined him after a while.

“I don’t get to play tomorrow or Sunday,” Jim said sadly.

“No,” agreed Bones. He put a hand on Jim’s shoulder and left it there.

Jim turned to him. “I don’t get any money for playing this tournament and I only got to play half of it.”

“I know.”

“Just one more round and I would have figured out the course,” Jim tried.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” said Bones unsupportively. “You played like shit and it was painful to watch.”

Jim sighed and let himself be led away from the evidence of his shame. He detoured to the locker room to grab all of his gear before they left the course. “I’m out of the Cup, too, aren’t I?” he said.

Bones didn’t answer for a moment. “You needed a top-fifteen finish to stay in for the next one,” he said finally.

“Fuck,” said Jim.

“Want to go to a bar?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. I guess I should see what Spock’s up to.”

“I guess,” said Bones. “Are you going to watch the rest of the tournament?”

Jim sighed. Spock was in second place so far. “It would be supportive of me, wouldn’t it?” he said. He didn’t want to stay and watch 78 guys who weren’t him finish the tournament, even if he was sleeping with one of them.

“Probably,” said Bones.

“Do I have to?” Jim asked.

“It’s not like he normally has a fan club present,” said Bones. “I’m sure he’ll understand your torment. Well, intellectually. I don’t think he’s ever missed a cut in a pro tournament.”

“Fuck,” said Jim again, because it felt good.

Bones unlocked the car. “Gonna play any of the Fall Series?”

Jim tossed his crap in the trunk and got into the passenger side while he thought about it. “I certainly don’t need any exemptions on my card and I don’t need the purse money either,” he said, because he had enough exemption years on the Tour stacked up to become a millionaire retiree yet. “I’ll probably pass.”

***

With the season finally, blissfully over for Jim, October and November became a routine of daily practice (full rounds four days a week) and sitting around doing a lot of nothing. Spock talked about what a novelty it was to spend time in his own house for once, but it sounded like talking a big game to Jim because in November Nike dragged him off for a solid week to shoot some commercial spots.

By day two of Spock’s absence, Jim had developed what might have been a permanent knee-jiggle reflex and was determinedly not thinking about how pathetic it was to miss his boyf—to miss Spock so much after so little time. He dealt with it by hanging out with Bones and Scotty, instead.

“Nice drive,” said Scotty on the third hole of Isleworth, as the three of them squinted down the fairway at Bones’ ball. “Cheers,” he said, passing Bones the sports bottle full of bourbon they’d brought with them. At least they hadn’t rented a cart.

“Thanks,” said Bones, taking a swig from the bottle and clearing his throat as Jim stepped up to the tee box and sliced his drive. He glared after it and then stole the bottle out of Bones’ hand, breaking his own rule about drinking and golfing.

“That was just your shoulder,” said Bones pointedly.

Jim licked his lips and stuffed the bottle back into Scotty’s bag. “Is it officially a slump now?” he asked. “Have I bombed enough tournaments?”

“Probably,” said Scotty, and Bones shoved him hard in the arm, making him stumble and windmill his arms.

“Jim, you pathetic bastard,” Bones started, and to Jim this didn’t seem much more encouraging than Scotty had just been, “all the post-season rounds you’ve shot have kept you at a zero handicap even off the Spock tees.” ‘Spock tees’ were the twee name Isleworth had given the back tees on their course, which Jim pretended he played from for the challenge instead of for the sake of his ego. Bones crossed his arms and went on, “So obviously your entire game isn’t fucked. It’s a psychological block.”

Jim glared. “It doesn’t fucking matter if it’s all in my head, Bones, the results are the same! What are we gonna do, send me to a shrink?”

“That might be a good idea for reasons entirely unrelated to your game,” Bones shot back.

“Goddammit,” said Jim.

Bones turned to Scotty and as if Jim weren’t standing right there, asked, “How many days till Spock’s back from LA, again?”

“You know what?” Jim said. “Enjoy the rest of your round.” He grabbed his bag.

He’d forgive Bones his assholery later in exchange for a case of beer but Jim stalked off the course, fiercely enjoying ignoring Bones calling after him. He resisted the urge to look up at Spock’s house on the way past, instead basking in the thought of taking his golf bag home to his own house in Orlando, watching TV in his own living room, and sleeping in his own bed more than three consecutive nights for the first time since he’d bought the condo.

***

Spock got home early Sunday afternoon (Jim had idly asked him his flight times before he’d left). Jim spent hourly intervals, after Spock’s plane would have touched down and his driver would have taken him home, staring at his phone with fingers itching to dial.

“Fucking call him already,” Bones said after watching Jim watch his phone for almost ten minutes, turning down the football game specifically to give him shit.

“I can’t call him,” Jim retorted.

“Why the fuck not? You want to.”

“Because I’m not the clingy type,” Jim said.

Bones snorted. “You don’t even sound like you believe that crock. Anyway, it’s not clingy to call your boyfriend the day he gets home from a long business trip. That’s something that people in functional relationships do.”

“Don’t call him my boyfriend,” said Jim, glaring at the TV where Dallas was setting up a conversion. “He’s not.”

Bones’ eyeroll nearly had a sound. “Sorry, are you one of those people who prefers ‘partner’ or whatever?”

“No,” said Jim. “He’s not my anything. Our thing isn’t serious, it’s not really a relationship. So I can’t just call him.”

The silence stretched long enough that Jim looked over at Bones, who was staring with his mouth hanging open.

“What?” he snapped.

Bones blinked. “Where are you getting this idea?”

“Experience?” Jim tried.

“How can you not be actually in a relationship? You’re over there more than you’re over here!”

“It’s just,” Jim trailed off and then started again. “We’ve never talked about it.”

“Well, it’s just amazing that two emotionally retarded people haven’t clearly set out the terms of their relationship. Just astounding for sure. But Jim, you spend the whole night, right?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You two hang out to do things besides have sex. You get dinner and golf outside of tournaments and shit.”

“Yes,” said Jim, hearing his own voice come out sounding a little unsure.

Bones stared hard at him. “Neither one of you is seeing anyone else.”

Jim looked away briefly. “I’m not, anyway,” he agreed.

Bones sat back in his chair, looking like the cat who’d got the canary. “Right. I can see how it’s not actually a relationship when you spell it out so clear for me like that.”

Jim huffed and got up, stuffing his phone back into his jeans and heading out the back door to sit on the steps in the winter heat (about fifteen degrees cooler than summer heat). He was just glaring at a neighbour’s bamboo over the fence when his phone buzzed.

It was Spock.

“Hi,” Jim said, trying for casual.

“I am home,” said Spock.

“Good flight?” Jim asked, looking up at the sky.

“Passable.” Spock paused. “Do you have plans this evening?”

“Um. No.”

Spock’s voice took on that slight edge of pleasure that Jim could pick out eight times out of ten, now. “There is no food in my house, as I gave the housekeeper the week off. Would you like to come out with me for dinner?”

“Yeah,” said Jim before he could think about it. “What do you feel like?”

“I have been wanting Cuban food almost since my arrival in Los Angeles. Does that suit you?”

“Sure,” said Jim.

After hanging up, he avoided Bones all the way through getting ready and then heading out the front door.

***

The first day of December dawned unassumingly; Jim woke up at Spock’s house and as Spock slept on beside him, he shifted in the bed to stare out the window at the morning sun. It looked sticky, like it was going to rain later, and Jim was just having an irrational feeling of missing Iowan snowstorms when Spock stirred.

“Morning,” said Jim, rolling onto his back.

Spock returned the greeting as he pushed the covers off to stalk to the bathroom. Jim absently watched his ass as he left the room.

Instead of starting the shower, though, Spock shortly came back to bed and slid in close to Jim. Apparently it was a hedonistic kind of day, not that Jim could say he minded as he ran an absent hand down Spock’s side.

Spock hummed, eyes closed, and then said, “There is a new French restaurant in Orlando. Would you like to make reservations for tomorrow night?”

Jim looked up from kissing Spock’s collarbone. “Can’t,” he said. “I have a thing.”

“What is the thing?” Spock asked idly, his eyes still closed. His thumb was rubbing softly over the curve of Jim’s shoulder.

“My mom’s flying in tomorrow afternoon,” he said, turning his attention to the dip of skin between Spock’s pectorals.

The hand on Jim’s shoulder squeezed a little; Spock’s eyes were open. “Does your mother dislike French food?”

“Uh,” said Jim. He felt panic well up in him and couldn’t escape Spock’s gaze. He’d expected an ‘oh well’ kind of answer and an easy transition to lazy morning sex, not being put on the spot about his mom’s food tastes. “I think she probably likes it?”

“Then why can she not join us?” Spock asked in a tone that was way too reasonable for the rushing in Jim’s ears.

“Because,” said Jim faintly, reaching for a reason, but all he could come up with was what seemed like the obvious. “Then you’d be meeting my mom?”

Spock sat up and Jim was clearly not getting laid this morning.

“Jim, is there a reason I am not allowed to meet your mother?”

Jim pushed himself into a sitting position and dug a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t say ‘not allowed’,” he hedged. “Just, you want to meet her?”

“Why would I not want to meet her? Especially given the convenient timing if she is visiting you now?”

“Fuck,” said Jim, suddenly sure Bones was feeling smug and didn’t know why. “I didn’t think we had that kind of relationship.” Off Spock’s look, he hastily added, “Not that I know much about being in relationships.”

Spock was silent for a while as Jim stared down at his knees under the sheet, and then he said softly, “I have been told before that my communication skills are somewhat lacking.”

Jim could imagine who in Spock’s past might have said that to him.

Spock’s hand moved to Jim’s knee, the closest part of him in reach, and Jim looked up at his face again. “Jim,” Spock said, looking grave. “My intentions toward you have never been casual.”

Jim took that in for a minute. “Oh,” he said, and then felt kind of stupid.

Spock took his hand back. “If we have both misinterpreted our… interactions… then I will understand if you wish them to cease.”

“No,” said Jim with an urgency that startled himself a little. “I mean, no. I’m okay with non-casual.” He licked his lips and felt butterflies, which, given that he was sitting naked in Spock’s bed after already having spent the night (the fourth one in a week), might have been silly. “And, uh, I’d be glad for you to meet my mom. But she’s kind of nuts. And I haven’t told her about you and me.”

“I am undeterred,” said Spock, reaching out for Jim’s hand.

A thought struck Jim and he resisted being reeled in. “Wait,” he said, because he’d nearly let himself forget that they were not two normal people in a relationship. “You sure you wanna go out for dinner? I mean, the two of us out could look friendly most of the time, but with my mom there? What if the paps catch us?” he asked.

“The paparazzi are not as interested in my life as you give them credit for,” said Spock.

“But do you want to risk it? Your endorsements,” said Jim, unable to help the pleading note in his voice. His own, too, maybe, but given the other shit he’d pulled already, Jim thought maybe his sponsors weren’t easily scared off. He had no such hopes for Nike.

Spock was silent for a minute, wearing his thinking face. “Fine,” he said. “I will cook and you will bring her over.”

“You cook?” Jim asked, surprised.

“I cook,” said Spock, tugging Jim closer. “It was a necessity in my youth. My father is terrible at it.”

Jim couldn’t decide if that was funny or sad so he focused on the feel of Spock’s skin as they slid back down in the bed.

“Hey,” he said as Spock’s fingers skated down his ribcage, “does this mean I have to officially meet your dad? Because he’s terrifying and I fear for my life.”

“Perhaps that can wait a while longer,” said Spock into Jim’s neck.

***

When Jim stood at the arrivals gate of the airport the next day, looking for his mom’s blonde head, he still didn’t know how he was going to say, ‘oh, Ma, tonight for dinner we’re meeting up with the boyfriend I didn’t tell you about’. He managed to forget about it for five minutes when he saw her in the crowd and then lifted her off her feet into a hug, but by the time they reached the baggage carousel it was back on his mind.

Then she looked up at him and said, “I could eat a horse, Jim. What’s for dinner?” and his mouth was apparently on the case even if his brain wasn’t, which was troubling.

“We’ve got dinner plans,” he said.

“Where at?”

“With Spock Grayson,” said Jim, feeling dazed.

“Oh,” she said with a nod, and then moved to grab her bag.

Jim wondered if he’d just gotten off too easy.

***

He had totally gotten off too easy. Winona had no comment on the matter all the way to Isleworth that night and only looked up at Spock’s house with interest as they pulled up the circular drive. Jim paused at the door, wondering if he should just go in, and then punched the bell awkwardly while she studied the plants around the front steps. Spock answered the door.

“Jim,” he said, “Mrs. Kirk.”

She shook his hand as they stepped inside. “It’s Winona,” she said, beaming up at him.

Spock inclined his head at that and shot a glance at Jim that had an amused air about it.

“Your house is lovely,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Spock. “The dining room is this way; I have opened some wine.”

Jim attempted to seem like he wasn’t here all the time as they made their way to the rear of the main floor, where Spock had set one end of the table and uncorked a bottle each of red and white wine. Winona accepted the red and Jim took the seat at the head of the table, between her and Spock.

The first thing she said when they were all settled was, “You know, Spock, you’re even more handsome than you look on TV. Nice work, son,” she said mock-conspiratorially to Jim.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Jim blurted.

Spock raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t mind Jim,” she said offhandedly. “He still thinks he can keep things from his mother.”

“That seems rather futile,” said Spock.

“Goddammit,” said Jim into his hands. “How?”

Winona sipped placidly at her wine. “You never tell me anything, so I set up a spy network,” she said. “You brought it upon yourself. Also, you’re apparently more clueless about human relationships than I gave you credit for.”

Jim was going to surgically excise Bones from his life, or at least destroy his phone so he couldn’t keep selling Jim out.

“On that note,” said Spock, standing and abandoning Jim, “I believe our meal should be ready.”

Spock had made some kind of pasta in cream sauce, and it was good but Jim wasn’t sure he tasted any of it through the feeling of betrayal that sat heavy on his tongue; he left most of the conversation to Spock and his mom. But when dinner was over and Jim went to take Winona home to set up the guest bed (Bones had been booted to the pull-out couch), she made sure to give Spock a hug and a pat on the cheek before leaving the house. Spock held Jim back for a goodnight kiss before sending him on his way.

“Thank you,” said Jim.

“I will see you,” said Spock.

“Please keep him,” said his mom when Jim joined her in the car.

***

The week before Christmas brought the Isleworth Christmas Invitational; Jim stared at the embossed invitation in his mail until Winona slipped up beside him and stole it.

“Hey,” he said half-heartedly.

“I remember this,” she said, and looked up at him. “Are we going?”

They hadn’t done much since she’d been there; one trip to Universal Studios, a few dinners and drinks out with Spock or Bones. “Do you want to go?” Jim asked.

“They had good champagne last year, and it might be my only chance to see a Christmas tree while I’m down here,” she said, and then leaned up to give him a peck on the jaw. “Up to you, though.” She tossed the invitation back on the kitchen island and gave his back an absent pat on the way out; he stared at the gold leaf embellishments on the paper.

His first instinct was to call Spock.

“I do normally attend,” said Spock, who sounded like he was out on the course. “In penance for avoiding most other Christmas gatherings.”

“I don’t think I want to play the tournament,” said Jim helplessly.

“Then do not. There is still the social gathering and a great deal of catered food.”

Jim huffed. “Quit making sense.”

Spock’s voice had a tinge of laughter. “I will endeavour to do so.”

Jim suddenly remembered something else. “Is your dad gonna be there?”

Spock paused. “Yes. However, perhaps we can fail to engineer a meeting.”

***

The clubhouse was decked like the proverbial halls and a big tree sat near the windows. Jim showed up with Bones and Winona in tow, having extracted promises that they’d both behave which he valued at approximately nothing. Bones disappeared almost immediately into the milling crowd of people, and when Jim heard Scotty braying with laughter thirty seconds later he understood why.

“You are late,” said Spock, materializing at his elbow.

Jim jumped. “You can’t be late to a party, Spock.”

“I’m going to find the champagne,” said Winona.

“I believe there are roaming waiters,” Spock offered, and she set off with a little wave.

They were left staring at each other for a second. “You look well,” said Spock.

Jim self-consciously smoothed a hand down the front of his button-down. “She made me dress up since I’m not golfing.”

Spock was wearing one of his thousands of Nike golf shirts, but he made them look so good that Jim was weighing the merits of touching him in the middle of the clubhouse. He was saved when someone called Spock’s name from across the room and he turned away.

Of course, Spock had barely left his side when Uhura appeared.

“Kirk,” she said, passing him a full flute of champagne.

He sniffed it. “Is this drugged?”

“You wish. Merry Christmas.” She clinked their glasses together.

Jim took an obligatory sip and cleared his throat around the bubbles. “I don’t understand your angle.”

She tilted her head at him. “I’m Spock’s best friend,” she said slowly, as though talking to an idiot.

Maybe she was. “When did he tell you?”

“Not long after the last time I talked to you,” she said. “Which explained a little why you were acting so weird.”

Jim just shrugged helplessly.

“Listen,” she said, her voice low, “for some reason he likes you, so I’ve decided to take you off my shit list conditionally.”

Jim sipped his drink. “Is this the part where you tell me that if I hurt him they’ll never find my body?”

“I don’t need to tell you that, Jim,” she said.

“No,” he said, “I guess you don’t.” He paused. “Hey, how do I handle his dad?”

Uhura just shrugged. “His dad always loved me.”

“Fuck,” said Jim under his breath, and then he knocked back the rest of his champagne.

At least Spock successfully failed to engineer that meeting with his dad, and Jim never got closer to the guy than the opposite side of the room. Small mercies.

***

In the third week of January, Jim woke up for his flight to Hawaii for his first tournament of the new PGA Tour season and instead of feeling excitement, he just lay in bed and wondered if going back to sleep would make it all go away. Then Bones gave his door a ritual early-morning hammering on the way past and he realized how silly that was.

Getting lei’d at the airport in Honolulu cheered him up marginally, both for the memories of his first time there and for the sight of Bones trying to reconcile having to wear a flower necklace with the pretty girl who’d just put it on him. But then they walked outside to hail a cab and Jim looked down at his golf bag and the tournament nerves came rushing back. Uhura wasn’t playing the Sony Open this time and Spock had stayed home (he’d offered to come but Jim had waved him off, spewing some crap about his delicate southern flower sensibilities while really just not wanting him there to witness Jim’s potential failure); this left only Bones to help him fend off the darkness, which was an even-odds proposition.

“Can we go drink?” Jim asked in the cab.

“Get some sleep, Jim,” said Bones. “You have a day to get in a practice round on the course.”

Jim looked sadly out the window until he felt Bones’ hand on his shoulder.

“Get your game face on,” he said. “This is nothing you haven’t done before. And you did it well. You’ll find it again.”

“Yeah,” said Jim, not feeling it but trying to.

***

“Jim, that’s your second cut missed in your professional golfing career, and in consecutive tournaments,” said Jerry on Friday night.

Jim glared down at Jerry’s white shoes and the green plaid slacks that met them. “Yeah,” he said. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else while there was a microphone pointed at his face.

“Why the sudden slump?” Jerry asked, using the forbidden word. “Have you pinpointed what’s changed so drastically in your game?”

Bones stood just out of frame, looking worried. Possibly for Jim, possibly for Jerry. Jim drew a painful breath. “No, but I’m working on it with my trainer. And hey, I haven’t even been playing long, right?” He smiled brightly, baring his teeth. “I’m told it happens to the best of us.”

“I’m told that, too. Well, good luck, Jim. This is Jerry Fairfax, reporting from the Sony Open in Hawaii.” He paused. “And we’re out. We’ll use that.”

“Thanks so much,” said Jim.

“Well, stop sucking and I’ll start flattering you for the viewing audience again,” said Jerry flatly.

“Hey,” Bones broke in. Jerry blinked at him rapidly. “Leave him alone, jackass.”

“It’s fine, Bones,” said Jim tiredly.

“I hate your fucking shoes,” said Bones as he led Jim away.

***

They went home and Spock hugged Jim, letting him bury his nose in his bony shoulder and breathe him in for a while, and then Spock taught Jim to meditate.

“It will centre you,” he said as they sat cross-legged on mats next to the pool. “The increased focus will be invaluable during competitive play.”

So Jim meditated for an hour every day, and then he went to play the Farmers Insurance Open in La Jolla, CA. Uhura was there on an exemption and Spock was playing too, his season kick-off. Jim appreciated the company on the course and even wondered if he caught a glimpse of red hair and a fan club t-shirt in the spectator crowd, but if Gaila was actually there again, she didn’t approach him.

Jim at least made the cut at Farmers Insurance, although he finished in 65th place. Northern Trust, which was the next weekend in Pacific Palisades, didn’t go as well.

“I’m tired,” he told Bones over a late breakfast Saturday; they were in a place where the rest of the tournament was on the TV and he could just make out Spock taking a fairway shot on the screen. “I might… I wanna reschedule my flight.” He’d been booked for Monday morning to fly home to Florida for a quick break while Spock went on to a WGC tournament in Arizona.

Bones shrugged. “Leaving today now?”

Jim nodded and picked up a piece of bacon.

“Okay. I might stay out the weekend, watch the rest of the tournament if you don’t care.”

“That’s fine by me,” said Jim. It worked out for his plans perfectly.

He went to the airport that afternoon and changed his flight to three o’clock, and his destination to Cedar Rapids, IA.

***

His mom came around the side of the house at the sound of his rental rumbling up the road, leaning a snow shovel against the siding.

“What are you doing here?” she asked when he got out of the car. “I thought you were golfing.”

“I’m done,” he said, not sure himself how he meant that.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Jim huddled in the jacket he’d bought at the airport and tried to hold himself together. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to, to stay for a while. Can I do that? Please?”

“Come inside before you freeze to death,” she said.

Jim grabbed his suitcase off of the passenger seat and followed her up to the house. “When did Iowa get so fucking cold?”

“When you got used to living in Florida,” she said mercilessly, stamping snow off her boots on the porch before opening the door. “Here, I’ve got coffee on and it should still be hot.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said when they were settled in the kitchen with hot mugs in hand, “but how long were you planning to stay?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Winona sipped her coffee and let the silence hang a while. “It’s not Spock, is it?”

“Nope,” said Jim, “he’s fine. We’re good.”

“Did you tell him you were coming here?”

“He thinks I went back to Orlando.”

“Yes,” she said, “I can see how you’re good.”

***

Jim had left most of his winter clothes behind in Iowa when he’d moved, and that ended up working out well since his bag contained only a weekend’s worth of golf clothes, half of which needed washing. His room was still intact too, as Winona hadn’t gotten around to doing anything with it yet. He settled back into the swing of doing chores almost as if he’d never left, and naturally it took until Monday evening before anyone missed him; he answered Bones' and Spock’s texts with an ‘I’m fine’ and then shut his phone off and stuck it in a drawer.

“You probably owe them more than that,” said his mom, who’d witnessed this.

“Probably,” he said. “But so far I’ve only been gone a weekend.”

When a weekend became a week, and then Jim cancelled his registration for the Phoenix Open and Honda Classic for the two weeks after that, he looked at the drawer with his phone in it guiltily but did nothing.

Finally, Chris came by.

“You’re supposed to be in Phoenix right now,” he said when he’d hung up his coat.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Jim asked. “I’ll get more potatoes.”

“Stop peeling vegetables and answer me.”

“You didn’t ask a question,” said Jim, but he stopped peeling. He’d bullied his mom into taking a nap only half an hour ago and if Chris woke her, Jim was going to stab him with the peeler.

“Why, Jim? Why aren’t you in Phoenix?” Chris asked, dragging out a chair from the kitchen table.

Jim wiped his hands on the tea towel and turned around to lean on the counter. A drawer handle dug into his hip. “I needed a break,” he said.

“You just had a winter break.”

“It obviously wasn’t long enough.”

“Leonard’s emailed me five times. Normally you run this kind of thing past the people who work with you.”

“Maybe I needed a break from more than golfing,” said Jim.

They were silent for a while. Winona came into the kitchen and Jim glared up at the ceiling.

“Chris, nice to see you,” she said. “Sorry, I just woke up.”

“Go back to sleep,” said Jim. “You’re not getting enough rest.”

“I take care of myself just fine when you’re hundreds of miles away,” she said, sitting down across from Chris. “Why would that change just because you’re here again?”

Jim crossed his arms.

“Jim,” Winona said, “do you not like golfing anymore? I thought you were happy doing it.”

“I’m happier when I make money at it than when I lose,” he pointed out.

“No shit, but the money’s never really the point.”

“I started out doing it for the money.”

“Mostly you just like attention and winning,” she said, ignoring him. “You might as well have just gone into politics.”

“My background doesn’t lend itself to that.”

Winona propped her chin on her hand. “Golf it is, then.”

“Fuck,” said Jim, and walked out of the room.

“Leave him alone for a while,” he heard her say as he stalked toward the stairs. “He’s got some things he needs to work out in his head.”

***

Jim hadn’t found it too difficult to put golf out of his head while it was still cold and snowy outside, but March came in warm and melted everything to sogginess with the promise of green and he felt his traitorous hands start to itch for a club. He hadn’t gone so long without golfing since he’d started. Jim still had no idea if he wanted to golf again so he tried to ignore the antsy feeling, but one afternoon he was outside checking on the cistern when his attention was drawn to the roof of the barn.

It was just the sunlight hitting it where it was wet that caught his eye; the last of the snow had slid wetly off the pitch of the roof a few days before and it stood dark against the brown slush on the ground, the weathering red paint on its sides the only colour standing out for the eye. He stared at it for a long time before going back to what he was doing.

It took him three more days to break and go climbing up there.

It was dry when he looked around up there for himself; his old, shitty driver was lying against the wall up in the hayloft, waiting faithfully next to the ladder. Jim just sat on the roof for a while and took in the endless dark fields with his arms wrapped around his knees, and then he scrambled back down the ladder with a smile and a plastic pail and went hunting for rocks.

He set up on the roof like he was at a driving range, picking rocks out of his pail and lining up in front of them, sighting the distant fence and shifting his grip before winding up. The club was heavy and ungainly, weighted wrong and with no carbon fibre shaft like his sponsored clubs (sitting in the hall closet). The rock he was hitting wasn’t made with a fancy core and wasn’t spherical, it was solid and heavy all the way through and had a flatter side that his battered driver caught and lifted and sent soaring into the sky, arcing left. He heard it hit the dirt with a thump and dragged out another rock, hit it a little smoother as his shoulder loosened up.

Jim was breathing hard by the time he’d hit twenty rocks into the field, and three had hit the fence a quarter-mile away.

“The driving range in town is likely open,” he heard from the ground, and he dropped a rock on his foot at the sound of the voice.

Spock stood in the yard in front of the barn, another rental car parked in the driveway behind him. He was wearing a puffy coat and a black knit hat and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. He looked miserable.

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked, and then said, “Wait right there,” and darted for the ladder.

When he was on the ground, he dragged Spock into the barn where it was a little warmer and they stared at each other for a while.

“Spock,” he said. “Shit, Spock.”

Spock just raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here?” Jim asked again. “How did you find me?”

“Leonard gave me the location,” he said. “The reason I am here should be obvious.” He looked around. “The interior of your family home is heated, is it not?”

Jim took the hint and led the way into the house; his mom was working on dinner but took one look at them and grabbed her jacket, heading out the back door.

They sat on the couch in the living room and Spock rubbed the feeling back into his hands.

“You braved the cold to see me?” Jim couldn’t help teasing. It was almost 50 outside, not bad for March.

“Such is the depth of my affection and my annoyance toward you,” said Spock, making him blush and feel guilty. “Jim, you have been gone five weeks.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking down at his hands.

“I was prepared to come here after you missed the Honda Classic but Leonard and I agreed to wait and see if you returned on your own.” He frowned. “You did not.”

“No,” said Jim, aware he wasn’t contributing much to the discussion.

“Jim…” Spock hesitated. “Do you wish to return at all?”

“I didn’t do it to leave you,” he said quickly.

“I never suspected that,” said Spock. “We had no problems that I am aware of.”

“I just,” Jim started, and then found he couldn’t finish.

But Spock seemed to understand. “Is this retirement?”

“Extended leave,” said Jim.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.” Jim didn’t know anything, not even after a month.

“Do you miss it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were hitting stones off of the roof of your barn,” Spock pressed.

Jim sighed. “It’s a thing I used to do. I guess it was nostalgia. Today’s the first time I was up there in… it’s been a long time.”

Spock watched him for a moment and then reached out for his hand. “Return with me,” he said.

Jim looked at their hands. “I missed you,” he ventured, sure of that at least.

Spock turned Jim’s face with his free hand and kissed him; Jim’s eyes slid closed at the feeling, feeling all his nerves light up. “I missed you, as well. Return with me,” said Spock against his lips.

Jim’s heart hammered in his ears, the blood rush making him giddy. “Okay,” he said without thinking about it. “Okay. I’ll go back for you.” Then he sat back and opened his eyes. “Stay for dinner.”

“Very well,” said Spock.

***

Spock stayed at the farm that night, wrapped around Jim in his old bed, and they flew out the next day. Jim realized while boarding the plane that Spock was missing a WGC tournament to come drag his ass back home and stared at him in guilty amazement.

“Is something wrong?” Spock asked as they settled into their first-class seats.

“No,” Jim said, a little late. “Just, uh. You decided not to play this weekend?”

“Some things are more important,” said Spock. “I was prepared to remain longer than one night if it became necessary.”

Jim didn’t know what to say to that, so he just grabbed SkyMall out of his seat pouch and buried his face in it. The press of Spock’s arm against his seemed like an acknowledgement, though.

As understanding as Spock seemed to be about the whole disappearing act thing, Jim knew he wouldn’t be so lucky with Bones and he couldn’t deal with that right away, so he followed Spock home with his tail between his legs. The apology-reunion sex, he anticipated, but not so much the part where Spock woke him up the next day and said they were going somewhere.

“Where?” said Jim warily. It was Monday.

“You will see when we get there,” said Spock, urging him out of bed and into the shower, and an hour later told him to get in the car.

They drove into Orlando and when Spock stopped the car at a mini golf course, Jim stared at him.

“We are here,” said Spock, undoing his seatbelt and killing the engine.

“Is this a joke?” Jim asked.

“It is not. I rented the course for us.”

Jim followed him out of the car suspiciously. He kind of thought ‘rented the course’ meant Spock had booked them a mini golf tee time or whatever, but really he had rented the entire course for the day; it was just them and the guy at the front desk.

“This is totally a joke,” said Jim as he was handed a putter and a green ball. “Why aren’t you taking a putter?” he asked when Spock just stood silently by.

“That would interfere with the goals of the exercise,” said Spock. “The first hole is this way.”

“This is the weirdest date I’ve ever been on,” said Jim as he followed; the course had some kind of jungle theme going on.

“I can comprehend how you might mistake it for a date, however this is in fact a practice scenario.” Spock leaned on a fake rock near the first hole tee box and gestured for Jim to place his ball. “The Masters is in three weeks,” said Spock as Jim was bent over, trying to make the ball stay in its divot on the mat, and Jim froze.

“Who says I’m playing the Masters?” he demanded, straightening up again.

“No one, at this juncture,” said Spock, “however, I would not wish you to use unpreparedness as an excuse not to play. I believe you may still benefit from further, dedicated putting practice.”

Jim gestured around them, at the waterfalls and palm trees and fibreglass rocks. “This is it?”

“This hole is a par two. Attempt a hole-in-one,” suggested Spock.

Jim weighed his options, found them lacking, and bit the bullet and played. At first he was fine but then his shots began to wander and Spock stepped in with gentle corrections. An arm here, a leg there, head up or down some more. On the seventh hole Jim missed a tiny bridge opening three times and Spock stepped in close, his chest pressing against Jim’s back and their arms sliding against each other as he adjusted Jim’s grip manually and demonstrated the twist of his body at contact. Jim simultaneously felt like he was in a caricature of the golf pro helping the damsel in distress and also understood why that scenario was so hot in the first place. At least he got the damn ball across the bridge on his next swing.

When he reached the end of the 18-hole mini golf course, they started over again.

“At least if this isn’t a weird date, I don’t have to put out after,” opined Jim halfway through his second play-through. It was warm enough he was considering standing in one of the little waterfalls.

Spock appeared to consider this. “What if I also pay for dinner?” he asked, and the whole place was empty except for them, so Jim didn’t feel bad about how he had to kiss him for that comment.

***

Spock’s promises of no pressure aside, when Bones was done laying into Jim over leaving with nothing but a two-word text for weeks on end and Jim had apologized sufficiently, he barely took a breath before starting in on him about playing the Masters.

“I don’t know if I want to do that,” said Jim.

“Why the fuck not?” said Bones.

“Because I might play like shit!”

“Who the fuck cares?” said Bones. “It’s only golf!”

Jim thought if he could just give it the right amount of thought, he could find what was obviously wrong with that argument and throw it back in Bones’ face, but since Bones wouldn’t care the effort seemed useless. Instead, Jim kept practicing dutifully and not taking a position on the matter.

But of course, Jim’s last Masters tournament had ended with an on-air fistfight on a green, so even if he did want to play, odds weren’t great that he’d get to. He qualified for entry by winning the PGA Championship the year before (for the next five years, in fact), but that didn’t mean much in the face of disapproving old men at Augusta and in the PGA. Bones submitted his registration anyway—without asking Jim, although he let it go because he’d always known he was going to be dragged into the tournament one way or another if he could—and they waited on acceptance or rejection. Then, Jim went to watch Spock play the Arnold Palmer Invitational at the end of March and got home to a stuffed envelope with his registration crap in it from Augusta National, less than two weeks before the tournament was going to happen.

“Fine, assholes,” Jim told the sheaf of papers in his hands.

“You pissed them off,” Bones pointed out.

“Takes two to have a fistfight,” said Jim over his shoulder as he went into the living room.

But he was playing. In a major. After taking almost two months off. He tried not to wonder what the hell he was thinking; instead he tried to enjoy that for a change he was having the good butterflies.

***

Jim stayed over at Spock’s the night before they left for Georgia, but even in Spock’s king-size bed with a really top-notch orgasm behind him, Jim hardly slept. Spock herded him into the shower in the morning and had a cup of coffee to stick in his hand as they passed each other in the bathroom afterwards like ships in the night. Jim barely remembered to mumble thanks as he made a beeline for his packed bag, digging out the clothes he’d wear that day even while he texted Bones to make sure he was awake (the response he got was wonderfully condescending and made him smile).

Spock’s manager always sent a driver to take him to the airport, and she’d already loaded their golf bags into the car by the time they got outside. Jim had just lifted the lid of the trunk to toss his luggage in when Spock laid a hand on his arm.

“Before we leave and the necessities of registration, the Champions' dinner and the Par 3 Contest interfere,” said Spock, pulling Jim’s free hand gently toward him.

Jim looked around reflexively, half for eavesdroppers and half for some sign of what was happening. “What is it?” he asked, but Spock was closing Jim’s fingers around something cool. Jim pulled his hand back and looked at the keyring sitting in his palm. Two keys, one silver, one coppery. Jim looked back up at Spock and knew that his face had to be all confusion.

“The silver one is for the house and the bronze is for the garage. The alarm codes for both are ‘1996’,” was all Spock said before walking away to get into the car.

Jim slammed the trunk without really registering, because he was too busy staring at the keys to Spock’s house—his goddamn mansion—that lay in his palm. The realization that they had a plane to catch got him into the backseat of the car next to Spock, and the driver pulled out immediately, giving Jim an irritated look in the mirror.

“You’re giving me keys?” he asked, dangling them in the air between them.

“Yes, that is precisely what I have done,” said Spock. “Put on your seatbelt.”

Jim yanked it around himself. “What does this mean?”

“It means you may come and go as you please. If you are amenable, you may also increase the number of nights per week you stay over from four to seven,” said Spock in a tone that most people might use for discussing what to have for dinner, not asking your boyfriend to move in.

The tone made it hard for the meaning to sink in. Jim frowned at the keys, holding them in his lap. Spock was asking him to move in. With him. On a permanent basis. If he was amenable.

He looked up, feeling calmer than he probably should have. “Why now?” he asked, not sure if he meant ‘now’ as in ‘on the way to the airport’ or as in ‘less than eight months into the relationship and less than six after the Relationship Talk’. Really, an answer to either would have worked for him.

But Spock just looked at Jim intently. “Why wait?”

Jim had no response to that. Instead he dug his other keys out and let Spock watch as he connected the keyrings together and stuffed them all back into his pocket. Then he reached across the middle seat for Spock’s hand and smiled when he took it.

***

Jim skipped the Par 3 Contest but enjoyed watching Spock finish third (there was a jinx associated with winning the Par 3 Contest; no winner of that ever won the Masters in the same year). He and Bones went for dinner that night while Spock met up with his dad and Jim managed to basically relax until he woke up Thursday morning.

For some reason, staring at his keys lying on the nightstand helped motivate him out of bed and into the shower.

The course was bright and sunny when Jim arrived and went to get his gear together; while technically he could have used his own caddy for the tournament if he wanted and normally this would allow Bones to do the job he'd originally been offered and hired for, Augusta officials had approached them at their arrival on Tuesday and informed them that Bones was only allowed onto the golf course on the condition that he remain in the gallery with the other patrons, and he was not, repeat, not allowed to caddy.

So Jim was getting another assigned caddy this year. His caddy was a teenage girl and when he greeted her, she cowered a little.

Jim bit back a curse. "I don't bite," he offered, glad no one else was around to say different and scare her off entirely.

She just stared up at him.

He stuck his hand out. "Jim," he said.

She looked at it for a while before taking it gingerly. "Sarah."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sarah," he said, "I've got a secret for you." He waved her in closer and grinned when she tilted her head and made her braids swing past her shoulders.

"What is it?" she asked, still seeming nervous.

"I know I got in a fight with my caddy last year," he said in an undertone, "but I swear that was a one-time thing. He's… special. Unique."

Sarah straightened up. "I've heard that from the other caddies here who worked with him," she said.

Jim snorted. At least she didn't look ready to bolt anymore. Sarah slung his golf bag over her shoulder and although she looked too small for it, the weight didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. They walked toward the first hole together.

"Do you know the course well?" Jim asked.

"Pretty well," she said. "I worked here all through last summer." She hesitated. "Do you want me to offer help?"

"I've learned to listen to good advice," said Jim. "Anyway, that would really piss off Leonard McCoy; he's going to be watching me play all weekend and my taking advice from a kid instead of him should really do wonders for his temper."

Sarah cast a look over her shoulder to the gallery and grinned. "Got it, Mr. Kirk."

"Jim," he corrected.

"Jim."

***

Everything clicked that weekend in Jim's game, and it felt so good he thought he might cry. The sports media, hovering like buzzards through the first two rounds, all converged on him Friday night almost as soon as he walked off his last hole.

"You're at the top of the leaderboard," said Sarah brightly before vanishing ahead of the horde.

Jim only had two seconds to process that information before a microphone was shoved in front of him.

"Bob Kinsdale from CBS Sports," said a dude in a tie on the other end of the microphone. Jim glanced up and saw Bones herding the rest of the reporters into some kind of line and wanted to go running after Sarah.

Once CBS, NBC, ESPN, TSN, and a few other guys in ties from stations with acronyms, plus two magazines and four print news people got done with him, Jim saw Jerry Fairfax and his cameraman using a bit of clear space to record some kind of bumper. When he was done, Jerry walked right over to Jim as though he'd known he was watching.

"Congratulations on a good first half," said Jerry, and then Jim realized the camera light wasn't on.

"Hey, thanks," he said.

"I saw you got mobbed," said Jerry.

"I'd have saved you room if I could," said Jim, "but the CBS guy looked like a scrapper and I didn't think you were up for that."

Jerry grinned. "I'm sorry if I pissed you off last time I got you on the air," he said. "Your… coach? Looked rabid on your behalf."

Jim shrugged. "It's okay, that's just the way he is all the time, on his own behalf. You want a few minutes?"

"To ask you why you were gone so long and why you're suddenly playing like a champion now that you're back? Whether you're gunning for your second consecutive major title and how that might affect your apparent friendship with Spock Grayson? Whether you're planning any brawls on the eighteenth green this year?"

"You could probably take the notes from the last ten people who asked me all those questions and save us both time and effort," Jim pointed out, "but I know you TV guys like your visuals."

Jerry straightened his tie and nodded to the cameraman. "Carl, let's get some film going here."

Jim gave him almost five minutes.

***

Saturday dawned hot and gorgeous and ended mostly just hot, but since it also ended with Jim still in the lead by three strokes (on Spock, of course), Jim felt magnanimous toward it.

"We're getting chicken-fried steak for dinner," he told Bones as they left the golf course; Spock had already left with his dad.

"We are?" asked Bones, sounding surprised.

"Is that a problem?" Jim asked.

"Not for me," said Bones.

"Good," said Jim, "because I feel great and I want to celebrate by eating something delicious and terrible for me. For that, nothing beats Southern food."

"You've got that right," said Bones. "And Spock's not here to make that face at you."

"If he asks," said Jim, clapping Bones on the shoulder, "we ate salads."

"Green salads with no dressing."

***

Sunday brought Jim a nice surprise: his playing partner for the day would be Spock.

"Is it really random drawing?" Jim asked when he joined Spock under a tree near the first hole. "Or does CBS want a ratings bump?"

"Logically it may be both," said Spock. "Are you ready?"

"I wore my Sunday best and everything," said Jim, plucking at the shoulder of his gold shirt.

Spock just shook his head a little.

Jim suddenly felt like getting into some trouble. "Hey," he said. "Is your underwear Nike, too?"

He almost hoped that might startle a laugh out of Spock but instead he gave Jim a look that made his neck itch. "I suppose you will have to wait until later to find out."

Whatever response Jim might have found to that (he swore he was coming up with something), he couldn't give it because Sarah appeared at his elbow.

"Stop being friendly with the enemy," she said brightly. "You tee off in a few minutes."

"Your disruptive influence clearly knows no bounds," opined Spock before walking off to join his caddy. "Good luck," he called over his shoulder.

"You too," Jim called back. He couldn't keep the grin off of his face.

***

Jim's pace kept up like it had for the first three rounds and he maintained his distance from the rest of the leaderboard all day, but Spock was a different story. The fact that Spock was awesome at golf was really a given, but despite all the times Jim had played with him, friendly or otherwise, or watched him in tournaments, sometimes it still seemed like he forgot just how good Spock was. Clearly he'd spent the first three rounds of the Masters fucking around or something—like the first fifty-four holes had just been a light warm-up for Sunday—because not only did Spock keep pace with Jim as they left the pack behind, he made up the three-stroke difference between them by the fifteenth hole and the rest of the day was a dogfight.

"We draw near the close of another historic Masters tournament here at Augusta National Golf Club, as our tournament leaders approach the par-4 eighteenth hole, named 'Holly' after the trees that surround the fairway." The announcer's voice echoed over the heads of Jim and the steadily-growing throng of patrons that followed their group to the last hole. Jim rolled his eyes down at Sarah and she grinned.

"This afternoon has been one to remember. Rarely have we seen such a fight for the win here at Augusta. Jim Kirk and three-time champion Spock Grayson are tied for first after Kirk's eagle on the seventeenth, and there's talk of the possibility of entering a sudden death round to decide the victor."

"I really hope not," Jim muttered.

Spock teed off first, a smooth drive that landed in a prime spot at the dogleg to quiet applause. Jim took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he wound up his own swing; he peered after it as it arced toward the dogleg, which was uphill and crowded on the left by a bunker. It landed on a level spot, closer to the trees but with a sightline to the green, and he smiled to himself.

"That's a 296 yard drive from Jim Kirk, who has the next shot as well."

When Jim got to his ball, it was indeed about five whole yards further from the hole than Spock's. He and Sarah stood behind his ball and stared at the pin another 150 yards distant, the little flag fluttering in a breeze that Jim wasn't feeling in all the damn holly trees.

"I'm between the 6-iron and the nine," he said after a moment.

She chewed her lip a little. She did that a lot, he'd noticed, when she was thinking. "You're the pro," she said eventually, "but, um."

"Your opinion is valued," said Jim patiently.

"The nine will probably put you on the fringe. I can't tell what the breeze is like down there, really, and pushing it out too far with the six might make the wind catch it. And there's the bunkers around the green."

"Are you confident in your analysis, Sarah?" Jim asked.

She looked at him. "No?"

"Oh, good," he said, "because I'm only trying to win a major here. Your tip is dependent on this shot, you know. No pressure."

She whimpered.

Jim grinned. "Give me the nine. We'll play it safe."

"Are you sure you want the nine?"

"It's okay," said Jim. "I've done this before."

She pulled the club out of the bag.

"You'll still get a good tip," he said. "Don't worry."

"Well, win the tournament then," said Sarah. "I'm trying to pay for Yale."

Jim paused for a second before taking the 9-iron from her. "Yeah," he said, "you're wasted here."

A silence fell that seemed to press on Jim's ears as he lined up his shot. He tensed his arms and then hesitated.

"Hum something," he said.

"What?" Sarah asked, quite rightly.

"These stuffy bastards are too quiet," he said in a voice he hoped didn't carry. "Hum something."

And so Jim's ball landed about a foot onto the eighteenth green to what sounded like the tune of a Katy Perry song. Sarah was getting a check with a lot of zeroes on it, when this was over.

Spock conferred with his own caddy for a moment or two and then made his shot with a lot less fuss than Jim had, sadly. More sadly, it landed two feet from the hole to a burst of noise from the gallery. Jim stared at the scene for a moment and then stretched his neck as he and Sarah hiked to the green. He was going to have to sink a twenty-foot putt to push things to a sudden death round.

"Your shot was excellent, Jim," Spock murmured as they crossed paths near the green; the last of the gallery was settling in around it and the announcer was saying something Jim would probably want to stab him for.

"It's not over yet," Jim countered. "I'll have you know that my putting coach was excellent."

Spock raised an eyebrow and his lips twitched a little. "Show us what you have learned, then."

Jim struggled to draw breath. "I will do that," he said in a tone that he hoped sounded more light than strangled. Sarah dutifully handed him his putter.

"The slope is to the left, about halfway to the hole," she said. "You'll need to compensate a little."

Suddenly getting her opinion wasn't like pulling teeth, of course. "Thanks," said Jim.

"Should I hum again?"

"Do you take requests?" Jim asked.

She shook her head, but as he knelt behind his ball to check out that slope, he identified her next performance as Smells Like Teen Spirit. It was fucking ridiculous, and Jim felt himself relax so suddenly that it was like his strings had been cut. He stood up and shook out his legs a little before lining up with his ball. He could almost hear the waterfall that wasn't falling over any fake rocks near the hole as he made his putt and watched the ball curve past the top of the slope.

Sarah had stopped humming and the crowd seemed collectively not to be breathing as Jim's ball rolled toward the hole. Just when he was sure someone was going to pass out (possibly himself), the ball, a foot from the cup, found another sloping bit or something and curved smoothly to the left, stopping about four inches away.

Jim stared at it uncomprehendingly for a minute, hearing but not registering the exhalation of disappointment from the gallery.

Sarah's hand on his elbow dragged him back to reality and he went to mark his ball location and get out of Spock's way. Spock still had to sink a putt to win the tournament, of course, but it was two feet, and Jim might have wagered Spock could still do that with the club grip held in his mouth and both hands tied behind his back. So Spock sank his putt and won the Masters Tournament, and Jim tapped his ball in under the noise of applause. Spock was standing on the other side of the hole when Jim stood up from fishing his ball out of the cup, and they shook hands over it while camera flashes lit up the background. Jim felt a grin creep across his face.

"I had you worried, didn't I?" he teased.

"Extremely," said Spock. "I did not want to go to a sudden death round."

"Guess my putting coach wasn't that good."

Spock gave his hand a warning squeeze. "I think he was perfectly adequate. Achieving a twenty-foot putt under pressure is not for the faint of heart." He paused. "Was your caddy humming?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Jim, releasing his hand.

Bones had fought his way out of the gallery. "Looks like Stella's got her groove back," he said, and Jim grinned and hugged him, clapping him on the back.

"I almost had him," he said into Bones' shoulder.

"That shot almost gave me a heart attack; if you'd made it I don't think I'd have survived. Also, why are you taking advice from a kid when you wouldn't listen to me on the same damn course?"

"She's probably smarter than both of us," said Jim, cackling a little.

"Speak for yourself," said Bones, releasing him to go congratulate Spock.

***

The awards happened two hours later, when all the players had wrapped up and the scores had been confirmed; for taking second place, Jim's big cardboard check totalled $864,000. "You're getting twenty percent of this," he told Sarah, who gasped. "Go find some scissors."

She crossed her arms at him but then the officials were converging on Spock, with his trophy and $1.4 million cardboard check and green jacket. Bones hauled Jim's check out of his way as Jim stepped closer and joined in on the applause; Spock had a look on his face that was alarmingly close to pleased as they helped him shrug on the jacket.

"That was a hard-won fourth title," said the president of Augusta National as he shook Spock's hand, "and that makes two in a row for you, which is just amazing. How does it feel to be the third golfer in the history of this tournament to win it four times?"

"It feels excellent," said Spock.

Jim felt a little overfull of emotion and took his opportunity to move in and shake Spock's hand one more time, maybe give him a quick hug and feel up his new jacket, but when their hands clasped each other, Spock looked up into Jim's eyes and then tugged him in by the arm. Jim's next two impressions were the fingers of Spock's free hand burying in the hair at the nape of his neck, and then Spock's lips on his. Jim made a noise into Spock's mouth, shocked and turned-on, and fuck it was bright. Oh yes, they were standing in front of a lot of people with cameras. Spock was licking his way into Jim's mouth in public, in front of Bones, and Jim's poor impressionable caddy, and every person who'd watched them play all weekend, and the North American sports media corps, and basically, then, the whole world.

Jim's knees buckled a little and he grabbed a fistful of the jacket to keep himself steady. Spock smiled against his mouth.

So, apparently, this was how they were going to tell Spock's dad about them.

THE END