27. Beau #2
“Surrrrrre,” she says unconvincingly. “But all I’ll say is, and I think any woman watching will back me up on this, sometimes when your husband is an ass, no matter if it’s day one or a thousand of your marriage, you need to jump on his back and punch him a bunch of times.”
I look over to Shelby and my jaw is fully dropped. Who is this woman being charming? And funny. At the same time! I don't know who she is, but I’m pretty sure I’m falling for her more than I’m comfortable admitting to myself.
“Really? You’re going to blame it all on me?”
“Well, did you or did you not swallow a bug on the green, then coughed so loud you could hear it back here in Nashville, causing me to miss a putt?”
“Yes. I did. But it was a really big bug. And I said I was sorry,” I defend. “And it was you who was giving me lip up the fairway.”
“Me? You were the one who was grumpy all day.”
“And why was that? Could it be because we were up late getting married? Which, by the way, was your idea, Shelby.”
We might not be admitting how drunk we were, but time stamps don’t lie, so we have to continue with the narrative that we were just feeling the flow of the night that led us to the chapel well after midnight.
We share a look, because she knows I’ve got her, and this is the part of the story where we can’t tell the entire truth.
As the weeks have gone along, more of the night has come back into our memories. Not everything. We blacked out good and hard after we started playing pool, so those memories are fuzzy at best. But other things we convinced ourselves we’d made up? We didn’t make those up at all.
“Can we agree, and compromise—because, you know, that’s what married people do—that we both had a hand in the wedding, as well as our bad moods on Thursday?”
“Fine,” I groan. “Guys, y’all weren’t lying when you told me happy wife, happy life.”
“Damn straight.” Shelby sends me a wink with those last words, before popping out of the cart.
I can’t help but smile and sit back as I watch her head to her ball.
This is what we’re doing today. We’re playing a regular round, and, in between, we’re just talking.
A little about our games and our swings.
The stuff I’d talk about with any other pro golfer who came on the show.
But we were told we also need to talk about Vegas—a.k.a.
the main reason everyone is going to watch. And I must say, it’s going pretty well.
Then again, we’re only four-and-a-half holes in, and this is Shelby and me. Truly anything can happen.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry I jumped on your back and beat you up.”
“An apology?” I throw my hand over my chest like an offended church lady. “If I’d known an apology was coming, I would’ve made you come on the show years ago.”
The death glare she sends me only makes me laugh.
As Shelby approaches her ball, all I can do is hang back and watch.
I’ve always been in awe of her swing, even when we were kids.
It’s so natural. Smooth. And it looks like she’s now trying to use more of her lower body rather than just her arms. It’s made her even better, which I didn't know was possible.
“Nice shot, Belle. Clean.”
"Thanks," she says as she walks back to the cart. “Can I ask you a question now?”
I have no idea what’s about to come out of her mouth, but she knows the cameras are rolling.
So this could be blackmail material, or she’s so comfortable she’s asking me questions she truly wants answers to.
And right now, I don’t care which. I just know Shelby and I are having the best conversation we’ve had maybe in our lives.
"Shoot.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Belle?” I ask as we drive forty yards forward to my ball.
“Yeah. For those at home watching, he’s called me Belle since literally the first time we met when I was six years old. And to this day, I’ve never known why. Newsflash: It’s not because I resemble, or act like, the Disney Princess.”
I laugh, but at the same time feel a hint of embarrassment coming over my cheeks as I pull the cart to a stop.
“When I was little, I always had trouble remembering people's names. It took me weeks each year to remember everybody in my new class at school. One of my teachers told me to make a game or a rhyme to help me remember. A mnemonic device of sorts. So, when we met, you were Shelby, Shell-Belle, Belle. I guess it just stuck.”
Her face softens as she listens to my words. "I never knew that about you."
I try to shrug it off, but I can’t. Because it’s not the words she’s saying to me.
It’s everything. This moment. This ease.
It’s the perfect day. And while I’m glad I have the cameras set up to capture everything, I’m also mad that they’re here, because I selfishly don’t want to share this moment with anyone.
“All right, folks, it's all come down to this,” Shelby, my apparent commentator wife says. “Eighteenth hole. Bragging rights on the line forever. Can Beau Devereaux sink this putt? Or will he lip out and forever be remembered as the guy who lost to his wife?”
“Never!” I exclaim, bending down to line up my putt.
It’s pretty straight forward, but I’m farther back than Shelby, so I’ll be going first. I have to make it to have a chance to win. If Shelby one-putts, which she should, she’ll win. But there’s a chance she could miss, which puts more pressure on me.
I take my time and tap my ball toward the hole. It’s a fast green, so I barely touched it, but it’s rolling…rolling…
“Hell yeah!” I yell, deciding that my victory celebration includes using my putter like a sword and I’m a knight in a duel. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Congrats, you made a putt,” Shelby deadpans. “Now move. You’re in my line and I need to tap this in to win.”
I step out of the shot, but it’s me and it’s Shelby, so I need to mess with her a little. “You sure you have the read? I’d hate for you to be in your head about this.”
She gives me a look that I pray Stu caught on camera, because it is the most quintessential Shelby looking at me like she wants to murder me face. “I’ve got it.”
I don’t know where this idea comes from, but it’s brilliant, and I need to act on it immediately.
“If you’re so sure, then why don’t we make a little bet?”
Shelby stands up and pops her hip out, clearly curious about my terms. “Whatcha thinking?”
"Oh, I don't know." I pretend to kick an invisible blade of grass on the green. “If you make it, I’ll make you dinner every night for a week."
"Really?" she asks. "You haven’t cooked for me once.”
“True, but in my defense, we've only been married a few weeks.”
“But in that time, have you ever cooked for me?”
“Touché."
She thinks about it for a second. “I accept. However, you have to make sure it’s a week when we’re both home. It doesn’t count if one of us is at a tournament.”
Damn her for seeing the loophole. "Fine. I’ll cook for you for a week when we’re both not playing."
“Then you have yourself a bet,” she says, looking at her putt line again.
“Don’t you want to know what’s going to happen when you miss?”
That gets me a look like I’m crazy. “I’m not going to miss.”
"But what if you do?"
"I'm not going to."
"Can we pretend?"
“Fine.”
Her exasperated groan makes me want to laugh, and I know this is going to be gold when it goes live. Hell, I can already tell that my viewers are going to like her more than me. “If you miss it, you have to walk over here and give me a big ol' kiss for the audience.”
Am I overplaying my hand right now? Possibly. Do I know that, either way, this ending will help seal the deal of the best Back Nine episode ever? Yes.
Do I really want her to miss it because I want to kiss my wife? Abso-fucking-lutely.
I just… Today has been perfect. Fun. Easy. We’re playing golf again. Just us. Like it used to be, only more. And I want the perfect ending of feeling Shelby’s lips on mine.
“Fine,” she grumbles, though I can't tell if her frustration is real or embellished for the camera. “Now get out of my line. I'm thinking tomorrow night I want chicken parmesan. And I swear to God, if you cough again, I’m going to kick you in the dick.”
I laugh and step aside, dramatically holding my breath as Shelby lines up her shot.
She already did it, but now, with something on the line, I know she's going to examine it from every angle. She’s a competitor.
Like me, she always wants to win. The selfish part of me, though?
He hopes she wants to lose because she wants to kiss me as much as I want to kiss her.
I slowly start to let the breath out as I watch her putt roll to the hole. It's on a good line. It's going to be damn close. But then it starts slowing down. And comes…up…short.
“Woohoo!” I yell, celebrating by doing a ridiculous dance where I'm pretending to ride my putter like a show pony, complete with lasso above my head. “Come here, wife!”
“I want a divorce,” she grumbles as she drops her putter.
“Nope!” I yell as I stop in front of her. “No divorce. But you do have to kiss me.”
“Fine,” she groans. “Let’s get this over with.”
“She’s always this excited, folks,” I say to the camera before turning to her, cupping her cheeks in my hands. “This okay?”
She nods as she gives me the slightest of smiles. “Just kiss me, damnit.”
And I do.
And it was better than I remembered.