20. Beau
BEAU
“It's left to right.”
“I can read a green,” I say, not looking back at Shelby as I continue staring at the line I’m trying to read on the seventeenth green. “But thanks for your input.”
“Always glad to give it, Big Boy. Now make this putt.”
I chuckle under my breath at the words we exchange, and the name she gave me Wednesday night.
Sure, I might know what she looks like naked, and her taste is going to live on my lips for the foreseeable future, but that doesn’t mean we’re not still going to snip at each other on the course.
It’s who we are. That will never change.
Except at least in this moment, her words don’t have their usual smart-ass bite. She’s not saying it to prove she’s a better putter than me—which she is. She’s saying it because if I make this putt, we’re one birdie away from completing the comeback literally no one—including us—saw coming.
Yes, we came into today in second place, but I don’t think anyone actually thought that the pair who fought on the course on the opening day of the tournament would be in the leading group, never mind actually have a chance to win this thing.
But if I make this putt, and then we birdie eighteen, we will pull off the most chaotic and fucked up story of the golf season.
No. I can't get too far ahead. I have to focus. Do what I know how to do. Even if my brain wants to perform countless gymnastics and jump through every mental hoop as I stare down this putt.
“See that slight dip?” she says from behind me, and I lock in on the part of the green she’s referring to. “Just hit it there. Then let the downhill take it.”
I stand up and Shelby takes a few steps back, out of my line of sight as I grip my putter in my hands. Her backing away is proper etiquette, and it’s what I need for my sanity. All day I’ve had an urge to be as close to her as possible. After three days, I’m already addicted. Which isn’t good.
If you would’ve told me my first tournament of the season would include three nights of the best sex of my life… with Shelby? I wouldn’t have believed it. Maybe another Shelby. It's a common name.
Who am I kidding? Only this Shelby has this kind of effect on me.
The course falls silent as I adjust my grip and look one more time at the spot Shelby told me to hit it to.
I swing my putter back, let the pendulum motion push it forward, and then suck in a breath as I watch the ball roll to exactly where she coached me to hit it.
I don't release that breath as it finds the slope and curves perfectly toward the cup, inching slower and slower until it drops in.
“Yes!” I shout as the crowd roars in applause. I give a fist pump for good measure, before taking my putter and pushing it into an imaginary holster like it’s a sword I just wielded in battle.
I glance back at Shelby as I walk to the hole to pick up my ball. The smile she's showing, mixed with genuine laughter, is one I want to memorize and keep forever.
I don't know what's going to happen when we get back to Nashville.
I doubt it's going to be what we've been doing these last three days.
There's still a lot of history and unresolved issues between the two of us that we’ve mostly ignored.
But if there's one thing this weekend has given me, it's seeing that smile. And I’m not going to take that for granted.
"You can say it," she says as we walk past fans toward the eighteenth tee box.
"Say what?"
"Oh, I don't know. ‘Thank you.’ ‘You were right, Shelby.’ ‘No one putts better than you.’”
"Excuse me, I just made that putt," I say. Then I lean closer, selfishly taking a moment to breathe her in. "Thank you."
They're bare minimum words. But we both know that in this instance, considering our history, they pack a deeper punch.
As we walk past the gallery of fans, I take a look around, immediately locking into my family who’s standing against the ropes.
Maddox and Gabi, screaming and yelling like they're at a football game and not a golf match.
Ace strapped to Maddox's chest, wearing a little caddy outfit I bought him that says "Devereaux" on the back. Next to them are my parents. My dad slowly clapping, a proud look on his face, as my mom beams, videoing this like she did so many times as I was growing up. Well, back then it wasn’t a cell phone recording, but she always had a camera or a camcorder, capturing every memory I made on the course.
How many tournaments have they watched me in over the years?
How many times have they held their breath with each shot I've taken? Some parents would’ve told their pre-teen, and even their high-schooler, to focus on something more secure.
That becoming a professional golfer was a pipe dream.
But they didn’t. They never crushed my dream.
They drove me to every lesson and tee time, they always made sure I had a ride to the driving range, and they signed me up for every tournament I wanted to play in.
I glance over to Shelby, who's giving my family a little wave as we walk past. God, they didn't just do it for me. They did it for her, too.
Things were tough for Shelby growing up.
I never knew her mom. She was already gone by the time Shelby came into our lives.
Her dad did the best he could, but I know it was hard.
But my parents saw the dream for her, too.
If she needed a ride to the course, they made sure she got there.
Hell, I think my mom was her second emergency contact.
She's just as much their daughter—their child—as Gabi and I are.
“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada and from all of us here at the Ring and Bling Chapel, I now pronounce you, husband and wife…you may kiss your bride.”
Whoa. Where the fuck did that come from?
I shake my head, brushing away that terrifying thought, as Shelby waves at my family as we head to our final hole.
Pushing away threatening tears, I take a breath and look at the eighteenth hole.
I've played this hole many times, not only this weekend, but in my career.
The tour stops at this course often. But it's never hit me until right now that this hole isn’t just familiar because of the amount of times I've played it.
It's because it reminds me of a similar eighteenth hole—the one that will haunt my dreams, likely for the rest of my life.
If Shelby’s also realized it, she hasn’t said anything, and I’m not going to bring it up before the biggest hole we’ve played all weekend.
The leaders are already off the course, and the pair we’re playing with today had a bad front nine and are currently in fourth place.
So it’s simple enough—if we birdie this hole, we win.
Par and a playoff. Bogey? And we fall one shot short.
And if I have anything to do with it, that’s not going to happen.
“Let’s do it, boss,” Phil says as he hands me my driver. “Leave it a little to the right, it’ll give her a better angle for her second shot.”
I nod at my caddy’s advice as I step up to my ball. Because of the final day’s format—and in a tournament like this, it definitely adds the drama—we’re playing alternating shot. It’s my turn to tee off on this hole, and then Shelby will hit from wherever my ball lands.
My swing feels fluid and powerful as my club strikes the ball. The fans roar in applause as soon as contact is made, and I watch it sail an easy three-hundred yards before rolling a few more, setting Shelby up perfectly for our second shot.
“Way to rip it,” she says as we walk toward my ball.
“Thanks.”
We fall silent, and suddenly, I don’t know what to say to her. All day we’ve been talking about our shots in between. Maybe something random we saw on the course. For the most part, it’s been business. But as we approach our final few shots of the tournament, I feel a heaviness hit me.
What’s going to happen when we’re back in Nashville?
When I see her at the driving range in the morning, how am I supposed to act toward her?
Surely what we’ve done the last few nights can’t continue.
Shelby has been more than clear about that.
Has it been great? Yes. Great doesn’t even begin to describe it.
But if I know Shelby like I do, reality is going to set back in the second we’re back in Nashville city limits.
Will she hate me as much as she did before?
Only time will tell. But I know her, and I know in this instance, what’s happened in Vegas is definitely staying here.
More than that, I have to wonder if she’s even going to stay in Nashville. She moved there to work with Chad. That’s now gone. Sure, Gabi lives there, but there’s nothing else keeping her in Tennessee.
“Beau?”
My name snaps me out of the rabbit hole my brain was taking me down as Shelby looks at her upcoming shot. “Yeah. Sorry. What’s up?”
She gives me a raised eyebrow, but quickly goes back to the topic at hand. “I was asking what your thoughts are if I went for the green?”
I grin as my mind goes back to twenty years ago. During another time when she asked me if she should go for it.
“Am I being stupid?”
I know why Shelby’s asking that. While everyone else is laying up this shot, she’s considering going for it over the water. Bold? Very. But is it Shelby? Absolutely.
Plus, if she goes for it, then taps it in, she’s going to win the Willowmere tournament and the five thousand dollar scholarship. Which…good for her. No one deserves it more.
“Nah,” I say with a wink. “You’re being you. Now go hit the shit out of that ball, Belle. Bring it home.”
I step back to watch the girl I’ve played golf with for years hit arguably the biggest shot of her life. I’ve been there for most of them, but right now, I feel a sense of pride as I watch her bring her three wood back before striking the ball in the most perfect way.
The ball sails through the air, and I hold my breath until I see it go over the water, only exhaling when it safely lands on the green.