15. Shelby
SHELBY
“Fuck!”
I cringe at the volume of the curse word that just left Beau’s mouth, hoping the television broadcast isn’t focused on us right now. I mean, I’d have yelled it too, because there’s no way we’re about to find his ball with how far into the woods he just hit it.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to not dog on him more than he already is himself. Except I’m me, have a twenty-four seven resting bitch face, and the headache pounding through me now would kill lesser people. “We’ll play my ball.”
“Great. Let’s go up two hundred yards and find it.”
“Hey. Watch it,” I defend, even though he’s not wrong. “At least I’m in play. And it’s two fifty, asshole.”
He lets out a breath, hands on his hips, head tilted back, as if he’s trying to calm himself. “Let’s just fucking go.”
I look over to Beau’s caddy, who just gives me a shrug.
Phil has been on Beau’s bag for years. He knows his swing better than Beau does.
And he’s even baffled as to what’s going on with his player today.
Sure, we’re both hungover. Neither of us are playing well.
I’ve had my moments when I’ve wanted to throw my club.
But Beau? It’s like he has a personal vendetta against the course today, and the course is winning the battle.
“Bet you could’ve hit it two seventy-five with the Ashcroft,” Chad says as he walks next to me down the fairway. But even at this angle, he can still see me roll my eyes.
“When did I ever come close to hitting it that far in the months we worked together? Also, when did you start calling it that? Do you think having a name makes it better?”
“It’s always had a name.”
It hasn’t.
“Whatever you say, Chadwick.”
For the most part today, Chad’s done what I asked and kept his mouth shut. This is the first comment he’s made about not using his swing, which I figured would come at some point.
But I can’t worry about him now. I need to channel whatever energy I have available into figuring out how Beau and I can pull something out of our asses on this hole.
If we don’t do something soon, our comeback PR tournament is going to quickly become the have-you-ever-swung-a-club-before tournament.
Today’s competition is a two-person scramble.
In theory, it’s the best format for me in my first tournament.
Beau is going to outdrive me for most holes, which is how it should be.
Ideally, no matter how well, or poorly, I hit, we’d have the advantage of using that placement for both of our second shots.
But considering Beau hit his ball so far out of bounds it might’ve landed in the Hoover Dam, we’re going to play my ball.
And we have a hell of a long way to go if we want to even attempt to make a birdie on this long par four.
Oh, who am I kidding. We just need to pray for par on this one and to finish the final few holes respectably. Which, considering how we’ve played today, is a big ask.
I’m playing like it’s my first tournament back in nearly two years.
I’m rusty. Inconsistent. The hangover doesn’t help.
This was probably the best drive I’ve had today, but I’ve been misreading putts and not judging club distances like normal.
But, between what I’ve gone through, the cinnamon whiskey I’m sweating from my pores, and the two men surrounding me who are acting like jackasses, I could be playing a hell of a lot worse.
But then there’s Beau. His play wasn’t even this abysmal after his meltdown at the America’s Open.
His tee shots are all over the place, most likely because his swing seems to be fifty percent body strength and fifty percent rage.
His irons are hitting everything but the green.
His putting has never been his strong suit, but today, I don’t even know why he’s trying.
And then there’s his temper, which… Well, it’s making the America’s Open look like a toddler’s tantrum.
Tournament officials have come over to him multiple times, asking him to watch his language and reminding him it’s a live broadcast and there are children in attendance.
I believe Beau’s response was, “Thanks. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
How we’re not in last place with two more holes to play is baffling.
Despite our shitty play, we’ve been able to save pars that have kept us respectably away from the bottom of the pack.
And because of the non-traditional format of the tournament —the women playing tomorrow and the men on Saturday—the final field isn’t decided until Saturday night.
We have two days to bounce back, sober up, and get our shit together.
Easier said than done.
“We’re two hundred forty yards from the pin,” Phil says, reaching into Beau’s bag and handing him what looks to be his five-wood. Passing him a new ball, he adds, “Now get your head out of your ass and hit the damn ball.”
I snicker at Phil’s comment, which earns me a look from Beau. “What are you laughing at?”
I shake my head and hold my hands up in innocence. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Whatever,” Beau says. “It’s your shot.”
I position myself to face the green, looking around for anything I might want to play away from.
Being this far out, not even in my peak form could I make the green on this next shot.
But there’s no bunker or water that I need to be aware of.
No weird hill I want to avoid. I can presumably hit it down the center and give us a good look just in case Bad Beau shows up for his next shot.
“Three wood,” I say, holding my hand out for Chad to give me my club.
“You could say please.”
I shoot my caddy a look. “And you could not be a douchebag. Three wood.”
Needing to focus on my shot and not the overwhelming urge to give him a matching black eye, I avert my eyes from him, holding out my hand for my club.
When he eventually hands it to me, I nervously play with the grip, hating I have to use it.
It’s never been the best in my bag, but right now I need it to come through.
Just like I needed it back then.
Fuck! No. Do not go back to that day. Stay focused on today. Right now.
I do my best to shake away the intrusive thoughts as I approach my ball. I start my routine of lining up the club, then setting my feet, but I can’t concentrate. Everything feels weird. My head. My body. My stomach. The club. It’s off. Everything is off.
I step away from the ball and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the eighteen thousand thoughts and feelings running through me, and focus on things that will calm me.
Seeing little Ace smile at me because he’s a baby and he’s adorable.
A girls’ night with Gabi.
The book I’m reading, where I guessed who the killer was three chapters before it was revealed.
A big, fat, juicy burger.
A crisp Sprite.
Beau’s cologne.
Kissing Beau in front of an Elvis impersonator.
My eyes spring open. Where the hell did that come from? Also, in case I needed the reminder, I’m never, ever, drinking again.
“Any day now,” I hear Beau grumble behind me.
Asshole.
But I don’t reply. Instead, I do what I know how to do. What I’ve always done on a golf course.
Feet.
Hands.
Grip.
Bend.
Shoulders.
Relax.
Breathe.
I feel better than I did before, but something is still off. I can’t tell what.
It’s gotta be my club. I know I avoid my three-wood like the plague, so that has to be it, right?
I adjust the best I can, not wanting to hold up play any longer.
Swing back.
Engage.
Swing down.
Contact.
I look up to see the ball, happy with the contact I made. It felt good. Made a nice sound off the club.
Except I know how far I can hit a three wood, even on a bad day. And what I just did? That’s about twenty-yards shorter than normal.
What the fuck?
“Not saying that my method would’ve been better,” Chad says as I hand him back my club. “But now you’ll never know.”
“Shut the hell up,” I seethe, watching as Chad puts the head cover back on my club. And realize why I hit it twenty-yards short.
Because I didn’t hit a three-wood. I hit my five. And it went the exact distance my five-wood goes.
“What the hell?” I whisper-yell, forcing myself to be quiet as Beau steps up for his shot. “You gave me the wrong club.”
“Oh. Did I?” Chad says, his mock innocence not landing. “Sorry about that.”
Brain? fuming. Blood? Boiling. I should’ve realized he was juvenile enough to pull something like this, especially after me firing him. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve checked.
“Fuck!”
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but the word actually comes from Beau’s mouth. Because the shot he just hit went the right distance, but about thirty yards to the left of the green.
“Fucking lovely,” I grumble, stomping ahead of Chad, because otherwise I’ll punch him.
“You didn’t do so great either,” Beau chirps.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
I want to tell him that Chad fucked up my club—without a doubt on purpose—but considering the two of them haven’t even looked at each other today, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Beau is the reason for his black eye, I don’t. We don’t need to cause any more of a scene than we already have.
“Can we just play golf and not bite each other’s heads off?”
“Ha! Rich coming from the woman who’s bitten my head off every day of her life.”
This is what I get for trying to be the mature one. “You deserved it then. And you deserve it now. You’re acting like an asshole.”
“You sure it isn’t a cheater? I thought I was a cheater?”
I narrow my eyes at him, lowering my voice as we approach the area where fans are gathering around the green. “Two things can be true at once. Also, why the fuck am I the bad guy right now? What happened to our truce? What happened to getting along?”
Beau doesn’t answer as we stop in front of my ball, analyzing the shot. He’s closer to the green, but I have the better path.
“Yours is better,” Beau huffs, signaling Phil that we’re staying here. “Think you can make it forty yards? Or is that too far?”