7. Beau #2
“Go back to your normal grip,” I instruct. “Now…shoulders like this…hands like this…good.”
She lets me tilt her shoulders ever so slightly and position her hands a few degrees back. I don’t think I tickled her—I didn’t mean to if I did—but I swear I felt her shiver.
“Alright, Belle. Let me see what you’ve got.”
I step back, not taking my eyes off her as she brings her club back. When she swings through and makes contact, I know before it lands that this is about to be the best tee shot of her life.
“Holy shit…” I hear her whisper, club still back as she watches it sail easily two hundred ten yards.
“Holy shit is right.”
I’m still in a little bit of daze seeing her ball go that far, so I barely notice in time that Shelby is running and jumping into my arms.
“I did it!” she screams, squeezing me so tight I can’t breathe. “I did it!”
“Yeah you did.” I’m so shocked by her reaction I’m surprised I don’t drop her. Shelby has never hugged me before. Hell, I’ve never seen her be this excited before.
Have I ever hugged her before? I feel like maybe once, years ago, when we were younger. But not recently. And not like this.
We both pull back, looking at each other in a way that’s…different. At least I am.
Holy crap, Shelby is gorgeous.
Has she always been like this? Her blue eyes are sparkling, and I’ve never noticed them this bright before. Her blonde hair is in her typical ponytail, and it’s a bit wild as it’s the end of the day. Her cheeks are flush, but not from makeup.
She’s beautiful. And I don’t know when that happened.
Not since she first stole my clubs have I looked at Shelby as anything else besides my sister’s best friend and my golf buddy. She’s one of the guys. She swears more than I do. She’d rather talk golf than makeup.
And I’m ninety-nine percent sure she wants me to kiss her right now.
She’s giving me the look. The look I got three years ago from KristieLynn LaFleur at our eighth-grade dance.
And I want to. I mean, I’m sixteen years old.
I don’t have a girlfriend, though I very much enjoy girls.
Especially beautiful ones with blonde hair who can call me out on my shit and look better in a skirt than I ever thought they could.
But I can’t. This is Shelby. It would be weird on so many levels. So, as beautiful as she looks, and as much as I want to, I can’t.
It’s better this way.
“We should keep going,” I say, putting her down. “We don’t want to lose any more light.”
“Yeah. Sure. Light,” Shelby says, quickly walking back to her golf bag. She picks it up and heads to her ball, not waiting for me. Which I get. I just denied her. But it’s for the best.
I know it is.
The sound of her club striking the ball brings me back from the memory.
And she’s still using the weird grip—not the one from all those years ago, but just as jacked up.
I don’t know what Chad is doing. From where I’m sitting, he’s not only touching her in ways that make me want to punch a wall, but he’s also actively trying to make her worse.
“Is that grip helping you?”
She starts to reply, but quickly shuts her mouth as she watches the three-wood go about the same distance her driver just did. Even if she was in full form, those two yardages shouldn’t be the same.
“Like I said, I’m working on it,” she grits. She doesn’t make her way back to the cart, instead standing and staring at the ball that isn’t hard to find on the open fairway.
Fuck. This is painful to watch. We were planning on playing eighteen today, but at this rate, I don’t know if I can stand to watch her past nine.
It’s the reason I use to justify what I do next. It has nothing to do with the trip down memory lane I just took, that’s for damn sure.
Without thinking too much into this, I lean over to her side of the cart and grab one of her spare balls before tossing it to her. She doesn’t realize I’ve done it until the ball rolls two feet from her.
“What is this?”
“What do you think it is? A mulligan.”
“I can’t take a mulligan.”
I look back, and no one is behind us, meaning no one would be the wiser. “Then consider it a practice ball.”
Our eyes lock, and I know she’s remembering that day too. But before she can let a hint of nostalgia come back to her, her arms cross over her chest, pushing up her tits more than I should be noticing.
Focus, Beau. And not on those…even if they are fucking perfect.
“I’m not taking another shot.”
“Yes you are.”
“Who are you to tell me what I will and won’t do?”
“Woman! You are maddening!” I swing my legs out of the golf cart and march to her, her eyes getting wider with every step I take.
“I’m the one who has to play with you. I’m the one who’s going to have to defend you when reporters are asking how Shelby LeBlanc forgot how to hit a golf ball.
I’m the one who’s going to go down with the ship when you’re back on the course and whatever this is isn’t magically working. ”
I don’t know which part of my speech gets to her, but I feel like her defenses have lowered. Slightly. Barely. But I’ll take it.
“I shouldn’t…”
“You should,” I encourage. “And while you’re at it, do it with your old grip.”
The defensiveness goes right back in place. Fucking stubborn woman.
“That’s not what Chad—”
“Oh, fuck Chad!”
I’m pretty sure players on the other side of the course heard me, but I don’t care. My outburst takes Shelby visibly aback, but I’m not sorry. She needed to hear it. Chad might be one of my oldest friends, but her defensiveness of him is crazy.
Because, and I’ve thought this for a long time, he’s not that good. It’s just that no one has called him out on it yet.
The man has always been able to work a room. Say the right combination of words to convince people it’s cold on a ninety-degree day. Honestly, growing up, I thought he’d be a really good lawyer, or an incredible used-car salesman.
He was always a decent golfer, but not as good as me or Shelby.
College golf wasn’t going to be in his future—because family legacy demanded he go to LSU, and he was not a Division I golfer.
Somewhere along the way, he got into coaching.
Which, good for him. Do something for a living you enjoy, right?