10. Beau #2
“Courtney Crenshaw, ABC 4.” She says her name because that’s the formal and expected thing to do, but I don’t need her to introduce herself. Courtney works for a local affiliate here in Vegas, and since the men’s tour comes out here once a year, she’s always in the media room.
And then usually in my hotel room at night.
Three years ago, Courtney and I ended up in the same bar after the second day of play. I was drinking my sorrows away because I played uncharacteristically like shit. She had a run-in with her boss and was also trying to wash the day away with a gin martini. One thing led to another.
When I came back the next year, I didn’t mean to sleep with her again. It just kind of happened. And then it happened the year after. But it’s fine. We’re two adults who scratch an itch when we see each other.
Except, as I’m looking at her as she asks her question—don’t ask me what the question is, by the way—I realize I have no desire to see her this week.
I know what she can do—she’s impressively bendy—and how I always feel when we’re done.
But for reasons I refuse to look into, I don’t want to send her a text today.
Hell, until I saw her now, I’d forgotten I’d even see her this week.
“Beau? Do you have anything you want to add?”
I shake my head a little, and I see Courtney smiling. She knows I drifted off, but she probably thinks I’m remembering our adventures last year that included a jacuzzi, a waterproof vibrator, and an unforgettable blow job.
Oh how I wish I was…
“I’m sorry. Just thought of another trick shot challenge and my brain took it from there. Can you repeat your question?”
She knows I’m full of shit, but she obliges. “I asked what it’s like playing with Shelby again after all these years?”
Thank God it’s the easy question Ethan told us was going to be asked.
No real thinking involved with this one.
“Amazing. I think the first time I played an actual round with Shelby was when I was ten, and I knew even then she was going to be a hell of a golfer. Except I was ten, so I didn’t say hell. ”
“You were nine. I was seven.”
I look over to Shelby. Really? Now she decides to talk? “No, I was ten.”
“You were nine,” she fights back, now turning to me. Because even in front of a host of reporters, this woman has to have the last word. “I know this because we met when I was six. I didn’t play on a course until I was seven, which would’ve made you nine.”
“Sounds like Shelby has the receipts on this one,” Courtney jokes.
“I’ll concede defeat," I say, knowing that doing this will probably earn me more brownie points than squabbling with Shelby in front of cameras. “She does have the better memory. And the better short game. She always has. I might have the driver on her, but when we get to within a hundred fifty yards, I know she’s going to take over. It’s why we’re going to be a good team this week, especially on the two-man scramble day. ”
I catch a glimpse of Shelby out of the corner of my eye, and— Well, holy shit. I’m pretty sure I just made Belle blush.
Interesting…
The press conference continues with questions about our childhood.
And Ethan would be proud of the tame, respectable answers we give.
I tell the story of how we first met and she tried to steal my clubs, which I can tell the reporters eat up.
She gives the longest answer of her professional life when she tells the story of how I fell into a lake, determined to chip out a shot that was hanging on the edge for dear life.
If you didn’t know us, you’d think we’re the best of childhood friends, not two people who most days want to rip each other’s faces off.
Or kiss each other. Or both.
“This question is for both of you,” an intern from the men’s tour asks. “What is one part of each other’s game that you wish you could steal from the other?”
“I mean, I’ve already said that I’d kill for her short game,” I begin. “I keep asking her for lessons, but she always turns me down.”
Cue reporter laugh. Cue side-eye from Shelby.
“But another part of her game that I don’t think gets talked about enough is her determination.
” I feel her eyes on me, along with everyone else’s in the room.
I didn’t plan on talking past the first part of my statement, but it’s like I can’t stop myself.
“You should see how much work she’s put in battling back from her surgery.
Every day, she’s out there grinding. Some things haven't worked. She’s had setbacks.
But that hasn’t stopped her. If anything, it’s made her want it more. I respect the hell out of that.”
I look over to Shelby, who’s jaw is nearly on the table. She’s not even trying to hide her shock.
“See everyone? Bet you didn’t think I could make her talk less.”
The room erupts in laughter and I get a well-earned punch in the arm. I immediately rub it, making overexaggerated faces to get more laughs from the reporters. But in reality, nothing is fake about it. That hurt like hell.
“And to think I was going to say nice things about him,” Shelby says in a rare joke.
Though I think she wanted to end the sentence “for once.” I’m glad she didn’t.
“But in all seriousness, since we were kids, I’ve always been jealous of how far he can drive the ball.
I always wanted to be like him in that regard.
Eventually, I realized that physiologically, men and women just hit the balls at different distances.
But, I will say, the reason I worked so hard on my driver all these years is because I wanted to be like him. ”
The pain in my arm melts away at quite possibly the nicest thing Shelby has ever said about me.
“I’ve also always wished I could let go more.
Like he does. Nothing seems to bother him.
” I’m taken aback by her words. One, they’re nice.
Two, I think she means it. “Last year, he spoke up for what he thought was right. Not many would’ve done that.
People tried to cancel him, but he didn’t let it get to him.
He stood by it and let the negativity slide off.
I don’t know many who could do that. I definitely couldn’t.
And I think that’s something to be admired. ”
She turns to me, the blush I thought I saw on her face earlier now fully out against her normally porcelain skin.
There’s a softness about her that I haven’t seen since we were kids.
Shelby is rarely vulnerable, but right now, her guard isn’t up.
She’s not on the defensive. And I don’t know if she’s ever looked more beautiful.
Besides that, she defended me. Not even members of my own tour—men I’d consider some of my closest peers—did that. Now here she is, unprompted, giving me her support when she absolutely didn’t have to.
Over the past two decades, I’ve come to terms with the fact that Shelby LeBlanc hates me.
That she’ll never believe I didn’t cheat that day.
That I’m the evil villain who wrote her origin story.
But in this moment…in this glimmer of time…
I don’t feel her hate. I feel her support. Her…friendship? Something else?
I don’t know what it is, but damn…it feels good.
“Last question for Shelby, if I may?”
A male’s voice breaks our moment. I turn my eyes to find who asked the question when I see that it’s Michael Stevens raising his hand.
I like Mike. He’s a good writer who asks good questions and puts out well crafted pieces.
I’ve had a few beers with him over the years.
We’ve even played a few rounds together.
Last year, after the America’s Cup fallout, he was the one I trusted to get my side of the story straight after the video dropped.
He’s fair, well-written, and a smart guy.