XIX.
The week after the Invitational, Zuri went back to the municipal course with Pop. No gallery. No Cup. Just the range and a bucket of balls that had been hit by a thousand strangers.
She worked on her fade. She worked on putting from twenty feet. She worked on the part of her game that still got quick when she was mad. Pop sat on his stool and said almost nothing, which was how he said the most.
On Thursday, Brayden showed up.
He came alone, in a plain shirt, without the Pinecrest logo, and stood at the end of the range until Zuri noticed him. He held a paper cup of water like a peace offering that knew it was inadequate.
"Can I hit next to you?" he asked.
Zuri looked at Pop. Pop's face said *your call*.
"Two stations down," she said. "I don't share shag bags with people who might still think my driver is a costume."
Brayden flinched, then nodded. "Fair."
They hit in parallel for forty minutes. He did not talk about his father. She did not ask. When his bucket was empty he said, "There's a junior series event at Lakeside in three weeks. Mixed flight again. I'm entered. Are you?"
"Yes."
"Good." He hesitated. "I'm not asking you to be friends with him. Or with me, even. I just — I don't want the only version of this story to be the first tee."
Zuri thought about that. Stories wanted clean endings. Lives refused them. "Then show up and play," she said. "That's the only version I care about right now."
Brayden left. Pop said, "He's trying."
"Trying isn't arriving," Zuri said.
"No," Pop agreed. "But it isn't nothing."
XX.