6. Shelby #2
Oh, I’m about ready to use a lot more than one f-bomb. “It’s not just one bad shot, Chad. It’s been months. Months. I’m getting worse. I don’t have time to take two steps back for every half step I take forward. I have to play now, next week, and I’m not ready.”
When I decided last year to take the entire season off, it was to get my game to the same, if not better, form than when I had to step back.
I knew I wasn’t ready last year, but never in a million years did I imagine I wouldn’t be ready by now.
But the way I’m hitting the balls, I can’t even predict when my game is going to be back up to form.
“You’re ready,” Chad says as we each take a seat on the bench. “Plus, I’ll be there with you as your caddy. What could go wrong?”
If someone took a picture of me right now and the look I’m giving him, I’m sure it could be turned into a meme in five seconds. People all over the world would recognize the universal phrase, “the fuck you thinking?”
“I’m not,” I say bluntly. “I was consistently driving at two-hundred and seventy-five yards. And that was on the low end of average for me. When I hit three hundred two years ago, people lost their minds. My game is completely tailored to not needing a lot of long irons to play. Yet here I am, a week out from my first tournament in a year, and I can barely hit two-fifty. And when I do, it’s lightning in a bottle.
My long-iron game is average at best. How am I going to be competitive, especially in a field where I have to play against men, when my game isn’t my game anymore? ”
I let my head fall back and close my eyes, willing away the tears threatening to spill out. I’m Shelby Fucking LeBlanc. Tough. Hardened. Doesn’t take shit from anyone, and nothing gets to me.
Except this is. I feel it. More and more every day.
I take a deep breath, letting the gentle breeze of the Tennessee day calm me down, when I feel something touching my leg.
Not something. Someone.
“It’s okay, Belle. We’re going to get your swing back.”
I look up, the mood ruined by Chad, who, for some reason, thinks he can give me comfort right now by putting his hand on my leg.
What the fuck is he doing? And why did he call me that?
Beau calls me that. I might hate it, and I hate when he says it, but that’s Beau’s name for me. Hearing it coming out of Chad’s mouth feels…wrong.
Also, why the hell is he touching me? Aside from a few fist bumps, and the one hug I gave him the first time I thought my swing might be fixed, we don’t touch.
Turns out it was a premature hug, anyway.
Because the next day, I was back to hacking at the ball and it looked like it was my first lesson of my career.
But it’s like I’m frozen. I can’t stop staring at it. I don’t know if he’s trying to be comforting or what, but his thumb is strumming back and forth. And I want to smack it off.
I’m about to do just that, while also telling him to never call me Belle again, when the bright sun is suddenly covered by a looming shadow.
“Well don’t you two look cozy.”
The deep voice startles me. But what shocks me even more is that when I look up to see Beau looking down at Chad and I, there’s something in his eyes that looks a lot like…jealousy?
No. Absolutely not. That’s laughable. I don’t know what’s in Beau’s dark gaze, but it for sure isn’t that.
“We’re not,” I say, standing up quickly, which throws Chad’s unwanted hand off of me. “You ready to play?”
Beau looks at me, before looking at Chad, then back to me again. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say, groaning. Because I don’t want to talk about…well, anything. I just want to play fucking golf. “I need to run inside. Bathroom. Drinks. You know. That stuff. I’ll meet you back out here in ten.”
“Good work today!” I hear Chad say before I’m out of earshot.
I should turn around and thank him, because it would be the polite thing to do. But I don’t, because I don’t want to lie. Because today wasn’t good work. It was shitty swings that made me feel worse, and then Chad touched me, and now I have to go play golf with Beau Devereaux.
Fuck my life.
I duck my head and make a beeline back to the women’s locker room, thanking the heavens there’s no one in here to see my mini mental breakdown.
How did I end up here? A year and a half ago, I was happy.
Truly happy. I was at the top of my game.
The leader in money won the year before.
I had a beautiful house in Henderson, Nevada, allowing me to play golf every day of the year.
I had my friends back home, and I was seeing a man I truly loved.
Then, in the blink of an eye, it was all gone.
“Fuck!” I scream out, and I don’t care if anyone walks in while my head is hanging. If they knew what my life was like now, they’d be randomly swearing too.
Suck it up, buttercup…
I don’t know why Bubba’s favorite words of encouragement choose this moment to ring through my brain. He said it to me daily. It always made me smile.
No, he isn’t dead, so it’s not like a ghost is talking to me, but they are four words I’ll always remember. It’s what he always told me when I was down on myself. And it’s what he’d say to me now if he was here.
I should call him later and ask him to record it for me. Keep it handy so I can play it multiple times a day. Now that’s motivation.
The small thought puts a smile on my face, and I push myself up from the bench. I need to get out there. The quicker we start, the quicker today’s round is over.
“Suck it up, buttercup,” I say, fixing my ponytail and visor in the mirror before making my way outside.
I step out of the clubhouse doors, ready to grab my clubs from where I left them at the driving range, when I notice that my club covers—specifically the one that’s a stuffed gopher in honor of my dad’s favorite movie—are already strapped into Beau’s golfcart, which is waiting for me like Cinderella’s carriage.
“You’re late. Get in.”
Prince Charming, Beau Devereaux is not.
“Chill the hell out. Our tee time isn’t for another seven minutes.” I can tell he wants to say something else as I slide into his decked out golf cart, but he doesn’t. “Also, were you timing me?”
“You said ten minutes. I was holding you to your word. You know, because you value honesty so much.”
This is going to be the longest day ever. “Let’s get this over with already.”
Beau just laughs as he sits next to me. “I don’t think a woman has ever said that to me.”
I puke a little in my mouth as Beau hits the gas and makes our way to the first tee box.
Suck it up, buttercup… Just suck it the hell up.