The Fourth Tee
The guy had this way of always messing right into our own business and making it seem like he was doing us this big favour—Landon, that is. A week or so after that night in Josh’s basement, we’d all met up at the school track again. The parking lot lights up by the tennis courts had clicked off right at ten like they always did, leaving the clay oval pitch-black under a quiet night sky full of stars. The air rolling off the Lake Ontario marsh was heavy and cool, and Josh and I had an awesome wrestle right there on the grass by the soccer posts—one of those long, exhausting grinds where we lost ourselves and completely forgot anyone else existed.
But Landon was out there too, and Landon was hot on Western and golf.
He’d spent his whole first year down in London learning how to play, and he wouldn't stop bragging about how fantastic it was and how it was way better than wrecking your knees on the damn clay every night. He kept pushing this idea of a casual, low-key round at that rough old course out in Tashawaga—the plain one right by the airport and the cemetery, with the bumpy fairways and the muddy ponds. My treat, he said. I’d never even held a club in my life, but Josh had at least whacked a few buckets of balls at the driving range before, so he wasn't completely a newbie. Still, Landon had this way of making the whole thing sound like this grand adventure. And I hate to admit it, but the idea of watching him do his whole university-guy routine out there was a bit too intriguing to pass up. I thought, Hell, why not? Give it a whirl. Take it to the golf links and see what Landon was all about.
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Which is exactly how the three of us ended up standing on the fourth tee box on a blistering Saturday afternoon in July, carrying a set of old Callaways that didn't belong to us.
The heat was already bouncing off the yellowed turf, sticky and heavy, but Landon didn't seem to notice. He was moving with a steady, athletic stride, running the show.
“So, what’s the specific game plan for the fall, boys?” he asked, tossing his wedge into his bag as we trudged along. He looked over at me with an encouraging nod. “You ready for Western in September, Kyle? Picked a major yet, or still playing the field?”
“Well, I'm just keeping things open, not really sure where I'm going to focus yet,” I said, shifting the heavy strap on my shoulder. “I'm doing a philosophy course, an English course, maybe psychology. Basically just reading books and trying to figure it out as I go. I'm not exactly committed to a major yet.”
Landon nodded, easy and supportive. “Nothing wrong with exploring the waters in your first year. Get a feel for what clicks.” He turned his eyes toward Josh, his pace never faltering. “What about you, Josh? What’s your track look like after high school?”
Josh stared down at the grass as he walked, his stride suddenly heavy. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, lacking any of that usual basement certainty. “Nah, university isn't really my thing. I'm thinking about carpentry, actually. Looking into a local apprenticeship, maybe doing custom woodwork or framing. Just keeping it local.”
“Hey, trades are where the real money is, man, seriously,” Landon said quickly. He’d already told us he was majoring in criminology at Western—it was his second year—and he paused a bit nervously, adjusting his cap before launching right into a big speech about it. He went off about the program, explaining how it was way more than just traditional policing. He got incredibly intense, talking about community resets, poverty, and the dark underbelly of downtown Tashawaga that people wanted to pretend wasn't there.
“It shouldn’t just be about writing tickets and locking people up,” Landon said, his arms sweeping out over the yellowed grass. “It’s about community policing. Being in the neighbourhoods, knowing the kids, fixing the cracks before they fall through them. I want to be part of that change.”
I didn't know this side of Landon—how fired up he could get about social justice and actually helping people. Listening to him, I felt small. I’d just admitted how lost I was, and meanwhile, Landon was ready to save the world.
I kicked at a clump of dirt with my sneaker, trying to look casual.
But even with all that heavy talk, the sheer swagger coming off Landon in that moment was ridiculous. My eyes kept tracking the easy, confident stride of his bare legs. He was one of those lean, athletic guys who would look incredible in a police uniform. As he kept talking about policy and reform, my mind took a wicked detour. I could see him pulling me over on some dark, deserted Tashawaga side street, leaning down to look through my driver's window with that smirk. Hell, it’d be worth the ticket.
“Western’s an exciting place all right,” Landon continued, snapping me right out of the fantasy. “Frosh Week can be overwhelming, but I think you’re gonna love it.” He paused, looking over at me for a second before turning to Josh with a reassuring, older-brother grin. “Don't worry, bro. Once we’re both down at Western in September, I’ll take care of your little buddy for you. Keep him out of trouble.” He gave my shoulder a playful little punch.
For a split second, I got lost in it—the thrill of Landon looking out for me on campus, protecting a green freshman.
But as the echo of his words hung in the hot air, reality came crashing back. It dawned on me how patronizing those words actually sounded—and exactly how Josh would hear them.
I glanced sideways at Josh, but the sudden tightness in his face made me look away. I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes.
Josh didn't say a single word. He just stepped right up to the markers, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. He teed up his ball, took a single step back, and unleashed a swing so explosive it looked like he was trying to chop down an oak tree. The crack of his driver echoed across the trees as the ball rocketed into the afternoon sky, slicing hard and furious into the distant rough.
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