11. Beau #2
But, yes. That’s what I want. I want that back. Especially if our lives are always going to be intertwined because of Gabi and, now, the fact that we’re neighbors. That’s all I want.
Right?
I’m too fucked up—both mentally and alcoholically—to think about any of this. I need to get out of here. It’s late, and I have a morning tee time. Plus, I need to sleep this off.
Except, when I start to make my way out of the bar, I hear a laugh that’s not only familiar, but has been mysteriously absent all week.
I turn to my left to see Chad holding some sort of douchebag court in one of the lounge seats of the hotel bar.
He has his arms stretched out across the back of a booth like he’s expecting two cocktail waitresses to perch down at each of his sides.
He’s telling some story that’s probably half fabricated—every one of his tall tales have some hint of truth surrounded by ninety-six percent of a lie—but his audience doesn’t seem to care.
I recognize a couple of players who’ve just gotten their tour card.
Some caddies. A few who I don’t think are golfers, but clearly want to be in the circle.
They all know who Chadwick Ashcroft is—one of the most decorated swing coaches and caddies in the country.
But what they don’t know is that the man is a grade A douchecanoe.
Deep down, I think I’ve known this fact about one of my oldest friends forever, but it’s not until right now—and thanks in part to his ghosting act of this past week—that I’ve truly accepted it.
When we were kids, he was genuinely my friend.
So many of my summers were spent with the three of us dragging our pull carts along the nine-hole public course that let kids play alone.
He was always good, but I think we all knew back then he had a ceiling.
He wasn’t going to go pro. He probably wasn’t even playing in college.
But he didn’t care. It’s not like he needed a scholarship.
His dad had enough money to pay for all of our tuition if he’d wanted to.
Chad didn’t need golf like Shelby or I did, but what he did need was attention.
He always had to one-up us. If I hit a far drive, he had to try and beat me, or make an excuse for why he didn’t hit it as far.
When he realized he couldn’t keep doing that, he’d find a way to bring the spotlight to him.
People think I’m cocky—and I am, don’t get me wrong—but Chad is a different breed.
He’s a narcissist. Self-centered. Can’t be happy for someone else’s success unless his name is attached to it.
Which is probably why he transitioned to being a coach and caddy. Doesn’t require playing the game, but connect yourself to the right person, and you get the accolades of being part of the process. And the right to tell overinflated stories like he is right now.
“So there we were, TPC Sawgrass…”
I don’t know what story he’s about to spew out, but I know I can’t listen to it. “Let me guess, you told him what club to use and he made it to the green. Good job. You did your job as a fucking caddy.”
Chad looks up to me, his lip curling into a smile that far too closely resembles one of a villain who’s lured the hero into a trap. “Well look who it is, everyone. Golf’s social media star, Beau Devereaux.”
“Cut the shit, Chad. How long have you been here?”
Why is he looking at me like that’s the dumbest question I could’ve asked. “Here as in this booth? A few hours, I’d say.”
He picks up on the glare I give him. Only, instead of it frightening him like I intended, it makes him laugh. “Keep your pants on. I’ve been in Vegas since Sunday.”
I have to blink a few times to remember what day it is. I might be drunk, but I know Sunday was the day before Shelby and I got here.
“Then where the hell have you been?” I ask, trying, but failing, to keep the anger out of my tone. This is a busy bar. I’m surrounded by golf people. Now’s not the time to create another viral moment. “Because the answer is not caddying for the player who hired you.”
My call-out has all the heads turning. Some have dropped jaws. Some are looking at him in a weird ‘say it ain’t so’ way. It’s fucking bizarre.
“How about we talk outside?” Chad says as he stands up.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
Chad might be a lot of things, but he’s not dumb. The golf world is small and his entire business is reliant on good word of mouth. If it gets out that he ghosted Shelby this week, that’s not exactly a five-star review of services.
We step out of the bar and I turn to the right, knowing there’s an outside exit to the hotel just a few feet away.
“What the fuck bro?” Chad asks before the door even slams shut behind us. Also, bro? Are we twenty? “You didn’t need to call me out like that. And in front of all those guys…”
Cue the Chadwick Ashcroft temper tantrum.
I see we’re leading off with an old faithful.
“See, Chad, I did. Because from where I’m standing, I asked you a question that I don’t think was out of line.
You told Shelby you’d caddy for her. You’re her swing coach.
It’s her first tournament back from a long recovery.
Where were you, Chad? Because it sure as shit wasn’t with Shelby. ”
I’m not going to go into the fact that she’s not using his grip anymore, and that she’s about to fire his ass. For all he knows, things are still on the up-and-up.