8. Beau
BEAU
“Whoa! Easy there! What did the dough do to you?”
Maddox’s voice startles me. I’ve been alone in the kitchen at Sugar and Sweets getting everything ready for tonight’s meeting of the Poker Club. The rest of the guys were running late, so I started working out my dough.
Also known as the best stress reliever I’ve ever found.
There are so many ways I enjoy burning away frustration and, occasionally, anger. As a professional athlete, and someone who’s always enjoyed working out, I’ve tended to stick to more physical outlets than mental ones.
More often than not, because it can double as practice, I’ll get a bucket of balls from the driving range and hit the shit out of my driver, punishing a golf ball and a club head for whatever is gnawing at me at that particular time.
If that fails, there’s always going a few rounds with a heavy bag.
Or going for a long run. If I really want to punish myself, I’ll add one of those god-forsaken running vests.
Those have been pretty effective for most of my adult years. But over the past few years, I’ve noticed those old reliables starting to get old. Stale. I knew I needed something new. Something to work out my anger that would challenge me in a way I’d never been challenged before.
Enter sourdough into the chat.
Yes, sourdough. To bake bread with.
It’s fucking amazing.
Apparently so amazing that I can get completely lost in the motions, making me not realize I now have an audience of my three best friends—well, two best friends and Maddox—who are staring at me like they need to stage an intervention.
“The dough didn’t do anything,” I say with a grunt.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Theo says, grabbing the apron I laid out for him on the counter. “Because what I’m seeing is the most aggressive stretch and fold in the history of sourdough.”
“It’s not that aggressive,” I defend. Except my words fall flat because I fold it over so far the dough breaks off.
“Well, then something did,” Theo says.
“Or someone…”
Asher Reed usually doesn’t say much. It’s what I like about him. Our resident hockey player comes to Poker Club, grabs his apron, and typically whips up whatever he’s making for his daughter that week. He minds his business, doesn’t ask a ton of questions, and keeps his comments to a minimum.
Except tonight, apparently.
“Don’t you have sugar cookies to make?” I say before slamming the prepped dough into a basket to proof. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“He might not, but I do,” Maddox says smugly. “I believe her name starts with ‘Sh’ and ends with ‘elby.’”
“Fuck you, Gallagher,” I say in a huff, which only makes my likely future brother-in-law laugh even harder. “Wait. How do you know that?”
“I live with your sister, who is Shelby’s best friend. If you think there are any secrets in my house, you’re mistaken—even when it involves you.”
“Is it too late to uninvite you to this?” I ask. “I liked it better when it was just the three of us.”
“Nope! Stuck with me.”
Maddox laughs as he heads into the walk-in cooler, leaving me with a confused Asher and Theo.
“Want to fill us in?” Theo asks. “I have a feeling this is more than just your normal—and now weekly—‘I hate Shelby’ story.”
“It’s so much more,” I say. “It’s my worst nightmare.”
In the craziness of this week, I realize I never told two of my best friends everything that’s happened.
So I do. I tell them about Ethan forcing us to play together.
How I need to put on a good face and get back in the good graces of the tournaments.
And how I need to figure out a way to make it through a weekend with Shelby.
“A whole weekend!” Theo exclaims, nearly falling off his stool laughing. “You two can’t handle a dinner together at a public place.”
“I know,” I grumble. “And that’s become even more apparent after the last few days.”
I proceed to tell them about today’s round, which is the catalyst for my bad mood. And really, it’s my fault. Not what happened on the course—oh no, that was all Shelby—but it was my fault thinking we’d made a turn for the better.
We didn’t. If anything? Things might be worse.
Sure, her grip and stance are back to normal, and she’s starting to hit the ball like the Shelby of old. I took that as an indication things would go smoothly today when we tried to play a two-man scramble, which is the format of our first day of the tournament.
Oh how wrong I was.
When you’re in a scramble, each person hits their ball, and whoever has the better shot, that’s the spot your duo or entire team plays from.
While it’s weird for casual golf watchers, because you pick up your ball and move it to the spot of the best one, it’s a great way to shake up the game and give it some variety.
Should be an easy thing to accomplish with only two people.
Yet, somehow, every shot I recommended we take, Shelby had to argue with.
Even when I said we should play her ball, she balked.
It was like she couldn’t let me be right.
After a while, I quit talking, which somehow also pissed her off.
There’s no winning with this woman. And after today, I truly don’t know how we’re going to survive Vegas.
“Wow,” Theo says, laughing under his breath. “I’ve never tuned into four straight days of a golf tournament, but I might have to for this one.”
“Never?” I ask, a little hurt. “Even when I won my major?”
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “Though in my defense, we’d just met. We weren’t at the place of watching each other’s games or matches.”
“We still aren’t.”
I laugh at Asher’s objecting words, but it’s a fitting thing for our grumpy defenseman to say. He might not like to admit it, but the three of us have become best friends since we’ve started the Poker Club.
And it happened completely by accident.
Asher, Theo, and I all knew of each other prior to joining forces. We’re all represented by West Athletes, so we ran into each other at various events. We’d talked at some. Just gave a head nod or a wave at others. We all played different sports and had different footprints in the sports world.
Then came the fateful pie judging contest.
Yes. The three of us judging a pie-baking contest is what eventually led us here.
Theo and I had very strong opinions on a winner, but not as strong as Asher, who actually stormed off after the one he wanted to win came in second place.
At that moment, Theo and I realized the three of us might have something in common that has nothing to do with our jobs.
So we got to talking. Theo and I loved to bake.
Or, well, we loved the idea of baking. I might’ve grown up with a sister who has baking in her blood, but while she was perfecting recipes at a young age, I was working on my flop shot.
As I got older, I fiddled with things in the kitchen when I had time, but wanted to do more of it.
As for Theo? He was looking for something to take his mind off the game.
Baseball is a grueling and long season. He wanted something that was so far away from the field, he could fully unplug and not even be tempted to think about his schedule.
When we approached Asher about it, he was originally hesitant.
He didn’t want to leave his daughter with a sitter for another night on top of how much he relies on her during the hockey season.
Valid. But for some reason, he came around.
He had one condition, though—it couldn’t be called a baking club.
And thus The Poker Club was born.
It was genius. When someone asked what we were up to, no one would bat an eyelash at any of us gathering together for a friendly game of Texas Hold ‘Em.
But if anyone found out that the three of us—well, four once Maddox came along—were here baking?
That I have a sourdough starter named Betty or that Asher can pipe icing better than Gabi?
It would be a circus. The media would eat it up.
And that’s not what this is about. This is about us getting away from the pressures of our lives. From the game. To relax.
Or, in my case tonight, to get a bunch of shit from my so-called best friends who are not going to let this Shelby thing go.
“I know you want to ask me.”
The kitchen had fallen quiet, except for the working equipment, so Theo’s question takes me by surprise. “Ask you what?”
“For advice,” Theo says, like I should’ve known. “Clearly you need to figure out how you’re going to deal with Shelby. And this is the last night you get me for in-person advice for two months. So you better get to talking.”
Tonight was already planned because Theo leaves for spring training with the Nashville BlueBirds tomorrow. Usually when we meet up, we do give each other advice. Get shit off our chest. Vent. Because everyone needs an outlet. It’s unofficial therapy. A brotherhood.
Asher will occasionally talk about the stresses of being a single, windowed, father.
Maddox asks plenty of questions about being a new dad—and thankfully doesn’t talk about my sister in a way that will land him a fist to the face.
Theo doesn’t vent much—it’s like he has a permanent ray of sunshine protruding from him—but he’s the best when it comes to giving advice and putting things into perspective.
Then there’s me. Up until a few months ago, I’d talk about my game. The social media channels. The occasional woman who I had to let down because she wanted more than I was willing to give. Now I’m adding “talking about the woman who’s driving me absolutely bat-shit crazy” to the list of topics.
For clarification: On the golf course. Driving me crazy on the golf course. That’s it. No more. No less.
“I don't know if there's anything you can help me with,” I admit as I push my second loaf of sourdough to the side, letting it get in one more proof before the cheddar and jalapeno loaf goes into the oven. “Because there is no advice that can help when it comes to the SheDevil.”