20. Beau #2
Cheers erupt as Shelby starts jumping up and down. I’m celebrating right along with her, until I see her run over to Chad.
I can’t believe she’s dating him. I also can’t believe the lame fist bump he gives her. What kind of congratulations is that? Fuck that.
“You did it, Belle!” I call out, swooping her into a hug and twirling her around. If her boyfriend doesn’t want to be excited for her, I sure as hell will be. “You fucking did it.”
“I did,” she says. But just as quickly, a sad look covers her face. “But…aren’t you mad?”
I set her back on the ground. “Mad? Why would I be mad?”
“Because if I birdie, I’ll beat you.”
I just laugh and shake my head. Would I like to win? Sure. Another victory under my belt. But I don’t need this win. Shelby does.
“Absolutely not. You earned this, Belle. I’m proud of you.”
“You’re asking me?”
She shrugs. “This affects you too. Plus, you tend to not steer me wrong in situations like this.”
Emotions flood through me. Never in my wildest dreams did I think Shelby would ever trust me again with anything, especially golf.
But now, being here? At a shot where she has to hit it perfectly over water?
Sure, it might not be the same distance or club as it was all those years ago, but the similarities are too similar.
Except, after this tournament, I’m not going to let anything happen to her. To us. Not again.
“I say go for it,” I begin, going into Beau golf mode and focusing on where the pin placement is today and where she needs to hit it. “Use your full nine iron. Hit it toward the top of the green. Put spin on it. Then let it roll back, and I’ll tap it in.”
She softly smiles as she looks up at me. “You don’t think I should lay up?”
I know I told her earlier not to kiss me on the course, but maybe I should’ve told myself that. Because all I want to do right now is lean in and kiss the shit out of her in front of the fans, my family, and any other person watching.
“Nah,” I say, giving her a head nod. “Go hit the shit out of this ball, Belle. Bring it home.”
I’ve won two career majors.
I’ve played on the biggest stages in golf.
And never have I heard a round of applause like this. Because everyone here knows this ball is about to drop into the bottom of the cup.
Birdie.
One-stroke win.
Holy fucking shit! We did it.
If I thought the crowd noise was loud on the prior hole, it’s nothing compared to this.
I don’t even do any of my celebratory dances or celebrations.
No sword fighting with my putter or little jigs as I walk to the hole.
Instead, I throw my putter in the air and turn to find the only person I want to celebrate with right now.
“Holy shit!” Shelby yells, running over to me and jumping in my arms. I laugh as she wraps her arms around my neck and holds on tight, a stark difference to the last time she jumped on me at this golf tournament. “Did we really do it?”
“We did it, Belle. We fucking did it.”
We stand there for another few moments, and selfishly, I don’t let go of her. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get to do this again. Feel her against me. Us not fighting. I don’t want it to end, even though I know it has to.
“When I put you down, remember what I said.” I slowly start lowering her to the ground, but our eyes find each other the second they can.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you.”
I lean in, hoping it doesn’t look suspicious. “But you want to, don’t you?”
All I get from that is a roll of the eyes and a slight chuckle. “I hate you.”
I bring her in for a side hug. “No, you don’t.”
Shelby doesn’t have a chance to answer back as the media director for the tournament waves us off the green. When you win, it’s always customary to do a quick, live interview with whatever channel is broadcasting the tournament before going to sign scorecards and doing the more formal interviews.
“Beau! Shelby! What a round!” the female reporter says in the most cheerful tone I’ve ever heard. “Shelby, did you think this was possible after Thursday’s…incident?”
I had a feeling that would be the first question, and by the way Shelby starts talking, she did too.
I don’t know what’s changed in Shelby this week, but this is the most comfortable I’ve ever seen her in interviews.
I want to puff out my chest and claim it’s because of me, but I know it’s not.
Maybe. Probably. Okay, I’ll take some credit. Multiple orgasms do loosen a person up.
“Beau, walk us through those putts on the last two holes. What pressure were you feeling?”
I begin giving the canned answer about my putt—focusing.
Trusting my game. Blah, blah, blah. “But of course, I can’t take all the credit.
Shelby’s always been the putter between the two of us.
She can read a green like no other. I’m not making that putt on seventeen without her.
And that approach shot? Come on. She nailed it. ”
I see a small smile inch onto the corner of Shelby’s mouth as the reporter goes back to her, asking about her last shot on the final hole.
As she answers, I let my eyes wander and happen to see Michael standing in the distance.
And when I say he’s staring at us, I mean unblinking.
There’s a bitterness to it. Like he’s a villain in a comic book and the trap door he set is about to drop from beneath me.
The only thing missing is him doing the weird, creepy, hand thing all villains do as they put their plot into motion.
Suddenly, my stomach sinks, and I just know something bad is about to happen.
“Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t congratulate the both of you on another big thing that happened this week!”
Shelby and I share a look of confusion, and that feeling in my stomach has now dropped all the way to my pinky toe.
“You might need to fill us in,” I say, trying to add lightness to my comment to cover my sheer panic. “A lot has happened this week.”
“I’d say so. Beau Devereaux and Shelby LeBlanc getting married? I must say, none of us saw this coming. But congratulations!”
Did she just say…married?
No. That can’t be.
“Excuse me, what did you just say?”
“Sorry if I spoiled the surprise you wanted to share with us all,” the clearly clueless reporter says. “But Michael Stevens broke the news just a few minutes ago. Golf’s new power couple is Mr. and Mrs. Beau Devereaux!”
Shelby and I slowly turn toward each other, our eyes getting bigger and bigger with every memory that comes crashing back.
The bar.
The shots.
The dare.
The double-dare.
The chapel.
Elvis.
Kissing my wife.
Holy shit. Shelby LeBlanc is my…wife.