The Fourth Tee
We were out at the track again a few nights later when Landon started going on about golf.
He’d spent his whole first year down in London learning how to play, and once he got rolling on it, he wouldn’t let it go. He kept saying how much better it was than wrecking your knees on the clay every night — cleaner, more strategic, more grown-up. Josh and I would be trying to wrestle and he’d be talking about fairways and club selection like he was giving a lecture. As much as we liked having him around, sometimes he could get a little carried away with the whole university-guy thing.
Eventually he started pushing the idea of us all going out to that rough old course in Tashawaga — the plain one right by the airport and the cemetery. 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. Landon made it sound like it would be a good time, and after a while we gave in.
Which is exactly how the three of us ended up standing on the fourth tee box on a blistering Saturday afternoon in July — Landon with his sleek university gear, and Josh and me lugging a couple of old, borrowed Callaway bags 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.
“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, shoulders tightening. “Nah, university isn't really my thing.” His voice lacked its usual basement certainty. “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, adjusting his cap before launching into a speech about it. He went off about the program, explaining how it was way more than just traditional policing. He got intense, talking about 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.
“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, glancing over at me before turning to Josh with that easy, older-brother grin. “Don’t worry, bro. Once we’re both down at Western in September, I’ll keep an eye on him for you. Make sure he doesn’t get lost on campus or anything.”
He gave my shoulder a light, playful punch.
For a second, I felt the old flutter—the idea of Landon looking out for me, showing me around, maybe even pulling me aside somewhere quiet between classes. It was a nice thought.
But then I caught the look on Josh’s face.
He didn’t say anything. His jaw had tightened, and something flickered across his expression—something I couldn't quite read. He stared down at the grass for a second, then stepped up to the markers.
He teed up his ball, took one practice swing, and then unleashed a swing so explosive it looked like he was trying to chop down an oak tree. The crack of his driver split the hot afternoon air as the ball rocketed off the tee and sliced hard into the distant rough.
I watched it disappear into the trees and felt something settle in my chest. Not quite worry. More like… awareness.
Josh wasn’t thrilled about that comment.
And part of me—a small, complicated part—kind of liked that he wasn’t.
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