28. Shelby
SHELBY
The groan I let out as I fall into my hotel bed in Phoenix could probably be heard back in Nashville. What in the absolute hell did I do today on the course?
The answer? Nothing good.
The most frustrating thing about golf is that you can feel like you’re doing everything the same. You can think there’s literally nothing different from one shot to the next. But yet, one shot does everything you want it to do, and the next does the exact opposite.
Welcome to my first round today in my first official tournament on the women’s tour in two years.
I don't know what was wrong with me today, but I just felt off.
It wasn't my shoulder. I've been swinging pretty consistently over the last week, trying to use more of my legs and not as much of my arms and shoulders. The course is beautiful, I’ve played here many times, and it's one of my favorite stops on the tour.
No, it wasn’t physical. Today was a mental block like I’ve rarely faced before. I couldn't focus. I felt like a hamster set up his wheel in my brain and was running a million miles an hour.
I shot a seventy, which isn't terrible. If I turn things around over the next few days, I should be able to have a top-twenty finish.
But that’s not who I am. I’m not the golfer who’s happy with being in the top twenty. I need to get my head on straight, and I need to pinpoint why I’m such a mess.
Normally when I’ve had blocks like this, my first phone call would be to Bubba. Or, more likely, Bubba would’ve told me we were meeting for dinner and we were going to get my head out of my ass over a steak and baked potato. The man always knew what to say.
The problem is, I don’t have a Bubba anymore. My new caddy is fine, but he doesn’t know me like Bubba did.
The only person who does…
“No!” I scream out to the voice in my head as if she’s a real person. Because no, I’m not calling Beau. Absolutely not.
For one, he’s at his own tournament this weekend. While I’m playing four days in Phoenix, he’s a state over in California, where— Shit, I forgot to check to see how he did today.
I grab my phone and scroll to the scores. Eighth place. Not bad. He’ll probably be upset—I know I would be—because we’re both delusional people who think we should win every week.
I catch myself smiling as I watch highlights of his day.
His swing looks great. He looks relaxed.
I even see him joking with a few of the players, which I love to see.
So many of them distanced themselves from him after last year, and I know that hurt him more than he’ll ever say. I’m glad he’s having fun.
And he wants you to be having fun too…
Seriously? Who is this bitch in my brain and why won’t she shut up?
But she’s right. He would. Over the past few weeks—and even more so after we shot that episode of The Back Nine—I feel like we’ve grown closer. In a way, gone back to how I always thought Shelby and Beau would be if they stayed friends and golfed together as adults.
Only in that dream, I was never kissing him.
And now I do.
Kind of.
I close my eyes and think back to the kiss on the eighteenth green. I wish I could go back and tell fourteen-year-old Shelby that one day she’d get her kiss. That she’d kiss Beau Devereaux at the one place she’d remember forever.
Too bad it came after years of me wanting nothing to do with him.
God, I’m so confused. I want him. It’s time to start admitting that I do. Which is in direct opposition of my brain telling me I should also still hate him. The feelings inside me are raging a war.
What I need to do is talk to him. The two of us need to sit down and have an actual conversation about what happened all those years ago.
Who knows if it will do any good, but…I’m starting to think Gabi was right.
I mean, she usually is, but I was too stubborn to accept it.
Two things could be true about that day.
And if they are, I wasn’t the only victim. Beau was as well.
I let out a sigh as I flip over, needing to push those thoughts aside.
That’s future Shelby’s problem to deal with.
A discussion like that isn’t one you have over the phone.
But, a feeling I’m not used to having continues to nag me.
I want to talk to Beau. He knows my game better than anyone, and…
I’ll never admit this out loud…I kind of miss my husband.
Which is very inconvenient.
I pick up my phone and stare at his contact, trying to will myself to hit the call button. I don’t know why I’m nervous. It’s Beau. We live together. He kissed me the other day in a video that will be broadcast for millions to see. I’ve seen him naked. A lot. This shouldn’t be hard.
So why is it?
“Suck it up buttercup,” I say to myself.
I’ve never used Bubba’s slogan for anything outside of the golf world, but now seems like the perfect time. So I hover my thumb over the button, close my eyes, and press down.
“Shelby? Why are your eyes closed?”
I peek open my left eye, because either he answered in less than half a ring, or I blacked out for thirty seconds.
“I…I had something in it. Trying to squeeze it out, you know?”
Beau’s tilted gaze screams that he knows I’m full of shit. “Did you get it?”
“Hold on,” I say as I continue my horrible lie. “Yup. Out. So much better.”
He laughs under his breath as he situates himself against the headboard of his bed. I don’t know if it’s intentional, but he’s posing himself like a fucking model.
God, I hate how fucking hot he is…
His hair is ruffled, clearly having air dried after getting out of the shower. He’s not wearing a shirt—because of course he isn’t—and the way he’s holding his phone shows off the nonflexed ridges of his biceps while also highlighting the pecs that are peccing.
And then there’s…
“When did you start wearing glasses?”
He smiles as he slips them off. “At night when I’m reading.”
“Since when did you learn to read?”
“You’ve been full of jokes lately. I’m really liking this new side of Shelby.”
I know we’re both teasing each other, but it feels good.
Comfortable. I once read an article that claimed a true sign that you’ve found your person is that they’re your best friend.
That they can roast you and love you and support you and be everything you need.
I don’t know if we have the love part yet, but if I’ve learned anything over the past few weeks, it’s that it’s getting harder and harder for me to deny that Beau makes me feel a certain kind of way.
“Well, what can I say, married life has brought out a new side of me.”
“Clearly,” he says as he gets a little more comfortable in the bed. “I have to ask, because don’t get me wrong, I was very happy to see your name on my phone, but I have a feeling you didn’t call just to shoot the shit?”
I shrug as I fall back into my bed. “No, I called because I played like shit.”
“I don’t want to get ahead of myself here or assume anything. Did you call to yell at me because somehow it’s my fault?”
I laugh, because I don’t blame him for thinking that. “Actually, I didn’t. I…I was wondering…”
Why is this so hard to say? Or ask for? Why can’t I, for once, just open up to someone? Be a little vulnerable? Ask for help?
“Take your time, Belle. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
There’s not a hint of sarcasm in his tone. Not a trace of annoyance or irritation. Beau genuinely wants to be here for me right now.
And I’m going to let him.
“Can we talk through my day? I…I just felt off the whole time, and I’m not sure what’s wrong, but I felt like I sucked today.”
“No, you didn’t,” he says. “You’re two under par. Few hard holes that you didn’t do yourself any favors on, but all-in-all, not a bad day.”
I’m taken aback by his breakdown of my round. “Did you actually watch?”
“Caught the highlights,” he says with a smile. “What? Did you not look up how I did today?”
Thank God I did so now I don’t have to feel worse than I already do. “Of course I did. You played well.”
His raised eyebrow says otherwise. “Eighth is generous. The morning group got the shit end of the weather. I should be worse.”
“You’ll bounce back,” I say. “Hopefully tomorrow will be better.”
“Same for you,” he says. “Oh, I meant to ask you. What did you change with your swing?”
I’m a little surprised he noticed. “You can tell?”
“Shelby. I’ve watched your swing for years. A little too closely at times. You could change a nanosecond of how long you hold your upswing and I’d notice.”
Have sexier words ever been said? I don’t think so.
“Oh…yeah…” I stammer out. “I’ve been focusing more on my hips and my legs.”
“I’ve noticed. Is it helping?”
”I think so. Too soon to say just yet.”
“Any reason you made the change?”
I’ve purposefully not told Beau what I’ve been up to since Vegas when it came to my game. I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before I’d have to come clean.
“I emailed my surgeon after Vegas.”
“What did he say?”
“I explained that new grips and new techniques weren’t working, and that I felt fine in my old swing, but asked again if it would eventually put me back under the knife.
” I pause for a breath, readying myself for the reaction Beau’s going to have when I confess the next part.
“Then, he very gently told me that, while he did indeed say I needed to adjust my swing to give me the longevity in my career that I wanted, he also reminded me what he said after that part.”
This makes Beau sit back up in bed. “Shelby Lynn…what did he say?”
The blush hits my cheeks before I can say a word.
“That I need to focus on using more of my entire body in my swing. My previous swing was ninety percent shoulders and arms, and I just needed to use more of my lower core and legs. That if I took the pressure off, I’ll be able to continue playing as long as I want. ”