9. Shelby
SHELBY
“Damnit…”
I watch as the ball sails through the air, hitting the Nashville sunset at just the right angle. It’s going to land around the two-sixty mark, meaning I’ll get a little roll after that.
I should be happy. That’s where I want my drive to be.
Sure, it’s with my old swing, but my doctor assured me that playing it for a few tournaments wasn’t going to land me back in the operating room.
Eventually I’ll need to truly lock in and figure out a way to not tear through the shoulder I just had repaired, but that’s a problem for future Shelby.
With that pressure relieved for now, I should be in good spirits going into this week.
Except, I’m not. Because tomorrow I’ll be back in Las Vegas.
The city I used to call home. The place where I built my career and became one of the best women golfers in the world.
I bought my first home there. I established a life. Or at least I thought I did.
And then it all fell apart.
It’s been months since I’ve thought about my ex. When your professional career is on life support, your brain can only handle dealing with one catastrophic occurrence at a time. He became the low rung on the chaos ladder.
Now, with my swing back to semi-normal, my brain is finding plenty of spare time to fixate on what I left in the city I used to call home.
On Michael—the reporter I stupidly fell in love with.
I’ve always hated reporters and interviews. Even as a kid I remember thinking “this is the best question they can come up with?” But, when you’re one of the top-ranked golfers in the world, interviews are a part of the job.
That didn’t mean I had to like it.
I always gave the shortest answers possible.
Call it my way of staging an internal protest. If they asked me a yes or no question, I gave them just that.
I never elaborated. And I never did it with a smile on my face.
I think I was always hoping if I gave enough shitty answers, they’d stop asking me questions and I’d never have to do an interview again.
Little did I know, Michael Stevens was on a mission—to get me to crack.
And apparently crack me.
Who knew he’d succeed at both.
If anyone on the golf journalism beat could do it, it was going to be him. As much as I hated interviews, Michael’s questions were always smart. Well-thought-out. And he never asked me the same thing twice.
It also didn’t hurt that he’s drop-dead gorgeous.
Sometimes I curse myself for having a basic-bitch type when it comes to a man.
And maybe this is because I grew up on a golf course, but give me a man in a well-fitted polo shirt, pants that hug the thighs and butt just right, and a dimple when he smiles… and I’m fucking gone.
That was Michael.
Our relationship didn’t happen right away.
No meeting in a bar after a tournament sparking an instant connection.
He’s a national golf writer for a popular website, so he splits his time between the men’s and women’s tours.
But, he lived in Vegas as well, which meant doing one-on-one in-person interviews wasn’t hard to coordinate.
It started with one. Then another. Then it became “let’s talk over drinks. ”
Then I fucked him.
I’m not proud of it. But at the end of the day, I was just a woman, he didn’t have a ring, and I’m a sucker for a man in khakis.
We dated for a year in secret, and the ironic thing is that it wasn’t even his idea.
It was mine. There’s a fine line between athletes and reporters dating.
It’s not barred per se, but it’s a gray area for both parties.
Plus, I’ve never been one to broadcast my life, especially my private life.
It made sense that we kept our relationship between us.
And explains why I thought everything was great. Until it wasn’t.
We saw each other enough between our travel schedules, but those schedules also meant there were never any long stretches of time together.
Looking back, the only red flag I should’ve recognized was that in a year of dating, we never spent the night at his place.
In his words, “I live in a shitty condo.”
Oh the things a woman will ignore for better-than-average dick…
And that was the problem. I was rendered stupid by a man who didn’t take five business days to find the clit.
I’d dated off and on for years, but each man was more mediocre than the last. So when Michael came along with his deep thoughts, a love for the same game that consumed me, and could actually make me orgasm, I became blind to everything else.
Which is why when he ended things, admitting to me that not only did he have a wife, but that she’d found out about us, I was floored. Stunned. I didn’t get out of bed for two days because of the pure shock that was my life.
And all because the man forgot to turn off his location.
When the tears stopped falling—and I realized that I hadn’t showered in a while—I picked myself up. I showered, I revenge shaved. And I made a plan.
I can admit now, it was a shitty one. But it was what I needed to do.
I needed to get out of that town. I needed to get my career back. And if making it happen meant striking a deal with the devil, that’s what I was going to do.
The decision to buy a house in Nashville, uproot my life, and start working with Chad was one made of desperation, humiliation, and done with little thought behind it. Unknowingly moving in next door to Beau was the icing on the shit cake.
And now I’m paying the price for it. Sure, my swing is back.
But at what cost? I wasted months trusting Chad, who I still have to officially fire as my coach.
I could’ve been using that time to actually find a swing that will keep my game at the level I knew, while also giving me the longevity I need.
Then there’s my personal life, which is…
I feel like the word stagnant gives it too much movement. I have bought a lot of batteries since I moved to Nashville. But I haven’t even tried to date. The closest thing I’ve gotten to physical intimacy? Beau’s unwanted arms around me when he tried to help me the other day.
Damnit!
Beau and his stupid arms and his stupid cologne and his stupid Ghost golf…
I tap a ball toward me, bending over to prop it on the tee.
Out of habit, I start adjusting to the Chad grip, then quickly correct myself.
I’m not doing that anymore. I’m not pretending something’s working just because I’m too stubborn to admit when I’m wrong.
My career can’t be the hill I die on just to avoid having to admit a failure.
I take a breath and bring back my hands, swinging through the ball in the most effective shot I’ve taken since I decided to go back to the way I know best. It felt good. Clean. Back to myself.
It’s official. I have to fire Chad. I need to make decisions with my full brain. And I need to do what’s best for me—wherever and whatever that is.
“Nice shot. But save that for this week.”
I don't react to Beau’s voice. I'm not surprised he made his way out here. From where his house sits against the country club, he has a direct line of sight to the driving range. There's still enough daylight that he could make out who I was. That said, if he knows my swing like I know his, I wouldn’t need daylight to be able to spot Beau a mile away. I wouldn’t even need binoculars. I’d just know.
“Thanks.”
I walk back and put my driver in my bag. You always want to end a practice session with a good shot, and I don’t know how I’d get better than that.
“Did it feel good?”
Any other time, I’d say something snappy in the way of “no shit, Sherlock.” But I don’t. I’m drained—emotionally more than physically. Well, damn. I’m so tired I don’t even want to fight with Beau.
That’s a new one.
So I don’t answer his question. At least, not directly.
“You were right.”
I peek out of the corner of my eye to witness Beau dramatically stumbling back while holding his heart. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s being a smart-ass and merely mimicking a heart attack. I mean…it could be a real one. I did just admit he was right.
“You’re an ass,” I say, fighting a hint of a smile as Beau continues to be his over-the-top self.
“An ass who was right,” he crows, stepping up in front of me as I try to put away my golf glove.
“But I need to know about what. I know I’m right about many things.
Many, many things. But you’ve never said that before, so I’m curious about what specifically I was right about.
And please, don't leave out a single detail.”
I let out a sigh and prop my hand on my hip. “I need to fire Chad.”
I know he wants to do a little dance right now, but I appreciate that he’s reading the room and recognizes this is about to be a tough conversation.
I’m also just realizing that he doesn’t have his clubs with him.
No balls. No glove. Did he come here just to watch me?
Talk to me? I don’t know why he’s here, but for some reason, I’m glad he is.
Man, tonight is turning into a whole lot of firsts.
“I’m sorry,” Beau says, and shockingly, I think he actually is. “I know you wanted it to work. But you can honestly say you gave it a try.”
I’m about to respond, but I’m rendered speechless by the sight of Beau picking up a bench that’s sitting at the back of the driving range area.
It’s not just any bench. It’s heavy. Solid oak and heavy iron.
I’ve tried to slide it to where he just put it down many times, and I struggled.
Chad tried once, and I think he threw his back out.
But Beau’s making it look easy. I knew this man never skipped arm day, but damn…
“I told you before, Belle, if you want to stare, I’ll give you a closer look.”
And just like that, the spell Beau momentarily had over me is broken.
“Fuck you.”
He laughs as he takes a seat, patting the spot next to him. “Come here.”