9. Shelby #2
Never—not even before I hated him for ruining my life—have I done anything at the command of Beau Devereaux. It’s either my emotional rawness, or the slight hint of the Louisiana drawl he never got rid of, but my body doesn’t even try to say no.
Seriously…what is wrong with me tonight?
“Sometimes things just don’t work out, and that’s okay,” he says, giving my shoulder a nudge like he used to when we were kids. “Now you just move on.”
“It’s not that simple,” I say with a sigh. “My doctors told me if I kept my old swing, I’d eventually need another surgery. I’ll be okay for this tournament. Maybe this year. But…I’m scared Beau. What if one can’t happen while the other does?”
It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. And, even if they’re to Beau, it feels good to have them out in the open.
“You’ll find a way. You always do,” he reassures me. “Just take things one step at a time. First step—getting back out there next week.”
I nod, knowing he’s right. Ugh. He’s right a lot. I hate it.
“Can I admit something to you?”
“Is it another way I was right?”
“Yes,” I say begrudgingly. “I hated the grip from the first time he made me do it. It’s…unnatural.”
That gets a laugh out of Beau. “Thank you for that, because my wrist hurt just watching it.”
“I just hate that he came recommended by so many,” I say. “I talked to a lot of people. They all had glowing things to say about him, and his unconventional styles. Which then left me wondering if I was the problem. It’s like when you see aliens and no one believes you.”
My analogy makes Beau laugh. “Have you seen aliens?”
“I lived in Vegas for a decade. Weird shit happens out there.”
The two of us share a laugh, and then it hits me—this is the first time in two decades that we’ve had a conversation like this.
Yes, it’s golf sprinkled in with our dry humor.
But that’s me and Beau. He’s the only one I could ever talk to about my game.
The only one who got my jokes. Who I could be vulnerable to when things got hard on the course. And he could too.
Yes, he’s a cheater. I’ll never forget, or forgive, that.
But right now, I need to push that aside.
I need to figure out how I’m going to fire Chad, and get out of him being my caddy next week, all while going back to the town where I no doubt will see my ex for the first time since he dumped me at a Chilis.
Chilis. Mother fucker ruined the triple dipper for me, which, honestly, was the worst part of the breakup.
My brain is going a million miles an hour, and I don’t know what to focus on.
As much as I hate to admit it, the only person to ever help me with that is the one sitting beside me, looking criminally good in his black ball cap and gray sweat set that looks casual but I’d bet cost at least five hundred dollars.
“What do I say to Chad? Every time I’ve tried to talk to him about changing things up, he’s gotten defensive. And that was just my swing. Now I need to somehow let him know I’m firing him.”
“He can suck it up. He’s a grown-ass man.”
I raise a questioning eyebrow. “Really? Chad? Chadwick Ashcroft?”
Beau huffs out a laugh. “Okay, he’ll try to gaslight you because he can’t admit when he’s wrong. But if he’s the professional he claims to be, he’ll respect your wishes. And if he doesn’t, well then you know you definitely made the right move to let him go.”
I know he’s right, but I haven’t told him my next biggest problem. “There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
I swallow, hating that I put myself in this situation. “Chad’s my caddy.”
Beau’s visibly taken aback by that. “He’s what?”
I nod, hating that it came to this. “Bubba retired. I lost my combination caddy/swing coach to an RV he wanted to drive around the country. One day early on in our lessons, I asked Chad if he had caddy recommendations. He said he could do it. That I didn’t need to look any further.”
“And you thought that was a good idea?”
“One, your sarcasm isn’t appreciated, and two, I was desperate,” I defend. “I was spending so much time on my recovery, I forgot to look for a new caddy. I figured if I was trusting him with this, I could trust him on my bag.”
“But now…?”
I let out a sigh. “But now I know I’m fucked and I can’t get a hold of him in time to fire him so he’s going to show up tomorrow and I’m going to have to awkwardly tell him I’m going back to my old swing and we need to talk when we get back to Nashville.”
“He’s a big boy, you know. He can handle you not using his grip.”
I give him a side-eye. “Are we talking about the same Chadwick Ashcroft? The one who once cried because of a pin placement at a Drive, Chip, and Putt competition?”
We both laugh, remembering Chad’s full-on meltdown when he was eleven.
I know Beau gets shit for being a diva—and with his bright shirts, always perfectly matching shoes, and ridiculous celebrations where he pushes his club into a non-existent holster, he’s earned that title—but Chad is just as much of one.
Only instead of developing from success and being encouraged by adoring fans, Chad’s personality manifested in a “my daddy has money and I should get everything I want” kind of way.
And unfortunately, it hasn’t gotten better as we’ve become adults.
“Can I point something out?”
I turn to look at him, and the softness in his eyes pulls at a heart that most days I don’t think is there. “Go for it.”
“Have you noticed that we’ve been here for going on thirty minutes, and neither of us have called each other a name?”
“Wow,” I say with a chuckle. “That’s gotta be a new record. But don’t tell Gabi. She’ll get her hopes up.”