5. Shelby
SHELBY
“Iknow your baby daddy’s probably here, and I hate that I might wake up my nephew, but I need to scream and swear and get drunk. So buckle up, it’s going to be a long night.”
I barely look at Gabi as I storm through her house, in my pajamas, heading straight to the refrigerator to pull out a bottle of wine.
No, I need something stronger.
“Please tell me you have vodka.”
“Freezer,” she says, sounding completely confused. “Do you want a mix—”
She doesn’t even get the question out of her mouth before I’m tipping the bottle to my lips, tilting my head back, and slamming a shot straight from the bottle. Time to let the vodka do its job and burn away some of the frustration I’m feeling.
Oh let’s be honest, to get rid of every frustrating feeling I have when it comes to Beau Devereaux, I’d need a fucking distillery.
“Shelby, what’s going on? It’s almost eleven, and you’re not wearing a bra.”
I bring the vodka to my mouth again, the burn really hitting this time. “Gabi, I love you with all my heart. You are my soul sister, and something special happened the day we met. So I say this with that in mind: Fuck your brother straight to fucking hell.”
She laughs under her breath, but it’s not because she thinks I’m funny. It’s because she realizes she’s about to play mediator for probably the millionth time in her life. “Alright then. Let me go check on Ace. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
Gabi walks away, allowing me to catch my breath. A little. Because what in the actual fuck has been this day?
Starting my day having to deal with Beau was bad enough, but then getting the news we got, followed by his impromptu drop in at my house? That’s a trifecta of shittiness that makes me wonder what I did in this life to deserve all of that happening in a span of eighteen hours.
It had to have been something bad, because I’m a good person. Mostly. I think. At least, I try to be.
Sure, I'm not the sunshiniest person to be around. Or exude the kind of personality that has golf companies and apparel distributors banging down my door to rep for them. I shouldn’t have to.
I play golf. I play golf well. I don't always have a scowl on my face. I smile…sometimes. Sure, the media loves to paint me as having the biggest resting—and active—bitch face on the tour. And they’re valid for that. What they don’t see is the stuff off the course that never fails to make me smile.
My friends. Spending time with my dad before he passed away. I always smile when Ace is around. He might not be my nephew by blood, but I would die for that child.
And speaking of children, I always smile when I visit the girls’ golf camp I sponsor every summer.
Nobody sees it because nobody knows about it.
I don’t do it for the press or the tax write off.
I do it for me. For younger Shelby who didn’t have girls to golf with.
Who had to play with the boys her entire life because no one took the time to teach girls that golf can be fun.
Who missed out on the camaraderie and sisterhood girls in other sports experienced.
In the friendships and the support. And the chance to play against equals without having to always be better just to be seen as almost-as-good as everyone else on the course.
And I do it for them. So they never have to know what that feels like. When those girls come up and hug me and tell me that they had the time of their lives, I smile then. I even cry a little.
There are smaller things that make me smile, too. A good book. A cold drink after a solid round of golf. A perfectly cooked steak. That feeling when your driver head hits the ball in exactly the right place. Sprite. Purple-bag Doritos. Puppies. Because I'm not a monster.
But never, not in the thirty years that I’ve known Beau Devereaux, have I ever smiled around that man.
“Drop your back shoulder down.”
I try not to let out the groan of frustration I feel bubbling up as Beau tries to help me. “I don’t need to.”
I don’t. I hit the ball just fine. Mostly.
Except I want to drive my ball just as far as the boys. Specifically, two boys—Beau and Chad.
They always pick on me. Well, Chad does. Beau sometimes.
I have to play with them in the league my dad signed me up for, and they always groan when they have to stop for my ball before theirs. Yes, I know they’re two years older than me, and I just turned ten, but that doesn’t matter. I want to hit the ball as far as them.
And I want to beat them.
“Did you hear me?” Beau asks. “If you drop your shoulder down a little bit, it'll shift your weight. I bet if you do it, you'll finally hit it over a hundred fifty yards. I know that’s what you’re trying to do.”
I am, and I don’t know how he knows that. Ugh. Boys. Thinking they’re so smart all the time.
“I’m fine,” I say, hoping he’ll quit trying to help. My dad says we can’t afford lessons, so I have to learn on my own. And I really want to tell him that I finally hit my driver a hundred fifty yards. I bet he’ll be really proud of me.
As I start to go into my backswing, I slightly shift my shoulder down. I don’t want Beau to see it, but it’s worth a try. I don’t even know if it’s going to work. It feels weird, and I don’t like it.
Deciding that Beau is a dumb boy, I put my shoulder how it normally is. As I line up my shot at the driving range we’re hitting at, I feel a hand on each of my shoulders and a shadow completely blocks the sun that was just shining down on me.
“Quit being stubborn and just try it,” Beau says, gently pushing my right shoulder down. “Just once.”
Beau’s always been taller than me, but this summer it feels like he's a giant. Especially as he's standing behind me.
“There you go, just a little bit,” he says, perfectly adjusting my stance. “Please, Belle, just try it once.”
I hate it when he calls me Belle. That’s what the butterflies in my stomach mean. That I don’t like it.
“Fine,” I say with a groan. “But when it doesn’t work, I’m saying I told you so.”
“I’d hope so,” Beau says, stepping back. “Grip it and rip it.”
I blink slowly before taking one big breath. I make sure my grip is how I want it. My stance is perfect. My shoulders are where Beau put them.
Back swing…engage…swing down…contact.
I squint as I watch my ball fly off the tee. But then they only get bigger and bigger as I watch the ball sail farther than it ever has before.
“Holy crap!” Beau shouts. I want to cheer but I’m speechless.
Because my tee shot just went a hundred sixty yards.
"Oh my god!" I yell, finally able to get words out. I can’t stop smiling as I look at where my ball landed, then back to Beau. “I did it!”
“Yeah you did.”
I’m jumping up and down with excitement and pride, and before I know it, I’m jumping into Beau’s arms, hugging him with all my might. Which is…weird. I’ve never hugged Beau. Maybe it’s because I’m overwhelmed with happiness, and because he helped me, he gets a hug. Yeah. That’s it.
I’m glad he was here though. I know we aren’t friends, but we do golf together every day because I don’t have any girls to golf with. He might be a boy, and is gross, but he’s not the worst of them. Chad is the worst. But Beau? He’s okay. Mostly. Even if he calls me a nickname I hate.
"Thank you," I say, quickly stepping back. The smile he gives me sends a warm fuzzy feeling into my heart.
"You're welcome," he says. “So are you going to listen to me now when I have a suggestion?”
I roll my eyes, because of course now he would think he's the world's best golf teacher. “Sometimes. Maybe. Probably not.”
He gives me a big smile. “I’ll take it.”
“Ten minutes ago I was creating an alibi for you because I thought you were going to commit murder. Now you’re smiling like you’re remembering your first Christmas. Wait. Are you smiling because you did commit murder?”
I give my head a hurried shake, pushing aside the memory I have no business remembering fondly. “Just thinking…”
Gabi gives me a questioning look as she takes a seat next to me on the couch, putting her baby monitor on the coffee table in front of us. “I would ask what you were thinking about, but I have a feeling I’m related to him.”
I let out a sigh, trying to figure out where to start. “Have you talked to him today?”
“Earlier, yes. Actually, I meant to call him tonight. He got a random text from his agent while he was at the bakery. I wanted to follow up and ask him what it was about.”
“No need. Because I know everything that happened.”
Gabi listens intently as I tell her about Ethan calling both of us in. Her eyes get bigger and bigger as I explain the tournament we’re being forced to play in—together—and how Ethan didn’t give us an option of saying no.
“Holy shit,” Gabi says, scrambling to find her cell phone.
“Who are you texting?”
“Maddox,” she says. “He’s going to crack up.”
“Do not do that,” I say, swatting the phone out of her hand. “I came to you for help and advice on how I’m going to survive this, not to start a gossip train about it before it even happens.”
She lifts an eyebrow at me. “You realize I’m telling him the second he gets home?”
“That’s fine. Whatever. But I’m here now. And I’m begging you to help me figure this out. Because how the hell am I going to do this? I don’t know if I can play one round, let alone an entire tournament, with your brother and we both make it out alive.”
Gabi’s shoulders slightly drop and she takes my hand in hers. “I can help you. I can give you the advice you want. I can tell you how to deal with my brother, or how to defuse him when he starts being overly Beau. But…”
I suck in a breath, because I know what she’s about to say. Or, more specifically, what she’s about to ask.
The story I’ve never told her.
“Do you really need to know?”
“Need to know? I guess not,” Gabi says, her voice gentle. “I always figured you’d tell me one day. On your own time.”
“That ‘own time’ was going to be my death bed.”
“Sounds about right.”