34. Shelby
SHELBY
It’s weird being on the other side of the rope during a golf tournament.
But if anyone thought I was going to miss a second of Beau’s first round today, they are out of their goddamn minds.
I’m here to support him, so I was going to be walking every hole no matter what.
But when we found out that someone in the scheduling office felt like being messy and paired Beau alongside Ricky Robson, who still has Chad as his caddy, I knew I wasn’t going to miss a single shot. Hell, I even got here early.
Which was a good call. To say this group has a following would be an understatement. It’s like every golf fan who’s come out here today is waiting with bated breath to see if there’s going to be a blowup between Beau and Chad.
So far, they’ve been disappointed. But that’s to the untrained eye.
For me? The person who knows these two—and their history—better than anyone? I’ve gotten to witness every single microaggression between the former friends.
I’ve noted every time Chad’s looked his way. It’s almost pathetic how many times he has. It’s like he’s begging Beau to look at him.
And Beau, when he has, it’s been with nothing but disgust. Then again, he could be envisioning Chad with his hands on me, which sent Beau into a hot—I mean blind—rage.
But it was really fucking hot.
Since the article came out two nights ago, the gossip mill has been going crazy around the course.
Beau said every golfer he saw at the driving range, or during the practice round, asked him if we had exaggerated anything.
When Beau said no, and that we actually probably went too easy on him, he could see the real-time shift in their attitudes toward the caddy who’d made his way into golf circles like he was one of the players.
Chad, meanwhile, has denied everything. Shocking, I know. Last night when we walked past the hotel bar, he was actually standing up on a stool in the middle of the bar trying to declare his innocence.
No one was listening. It was kind of hilarious.
Will it change anything? I don’t know. It’s too soon to tell. But what I do know is that I feel better. And I’ve done my part in telling the golf world that this man isn’t who he claims to be.
“He's playing well today.”
I try not to have a reaction to Michael's voice as he walks up next to me, watching Beau’s shot as it goes sailing down the fairway. I don't even want to look at him.
“Are you doing okay?”
Is this man really trying to have a conversation with me?
The same man who asked me questions about my Vegas wedding?
The wedding he knew about before I did? The man who—whether he knew it or not—literally told the entire world about my marriage?
The man who, once upon a horrible time, made me the other woman?
Yeah, I don’t owe him a single fucking syllable.
“Can we talk?”
Oh for fuck’s sake. “About what, Michael? Oh! Let’s go chat at Chili’s! I could go for a Triple Dipper.”
I see a touch of shame cross his face. Good. He deserves it. And so much more.
“There’s a lot that I need to tell you. Please, Shelby. Let me get this off my chest and I promise you'll never have to speak to me again.”
I ponder his words, reminding myself it’s not my job or responsibility to absolve his guilt. He broke my heart. He broke my trust. He threw me into a mental and emotional spiral that landed me in Nashville.
Except…everything that happened after I left Vegas led me here. To finding happiness. To Beau.
Fuck…do I need to thank my ex? That sounds like a terrible thing to do.
“After this shot, you’ll follow me to the green,” I whisper as Beau approaches his second shot. “Then, you have five minutes.”
Michael nods slightly as Beau sends a beautiful shot toward the green, an easy hundred-fifty-yard iron that’s leaving him with a fantastic look at a birdie.
“Walk,” I command as I start to melt in with the crowd, hoping Beau doesn’t see me walking with Michael.
Not because I’m going to hide this from him—oh no, he’s going to get a whole debrief when the round is over—but the last thing he needs on the final hole of the day is to see me walking with my ex.
I find a spot away from the crowd of people where I still have a view of the green and Beau’s putt, but we’re far enough back that if Michael whispers, we won’t get yelled at by the golf marshals—a.k.a., the golf police. “Timer starts now.”
Michael takes a deep breath. Is it bad that I’m glad he’s kind of scared?
"I'm sorry, Shelby."
I give him a side-eye. “Is that a blanket sorry? Or is it for something specific? Because if so, you’ll need to narrow it down.”
“Blanket, and that doesn't even come close to doing justice,” he says. “I fucked up, Shelby. In a lot of ways.”
“Okay…is this the part where I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Or say that you’re forgiven. Because if so, you just wasted a whole dramatic thing.”
“Believe me, I don’t expect you to forgive me. I fucked up and I paid for it. Lost my wife. Lost my family. Lost you. Lost…”
He trails off, and I’m pretty sure it’s to push back a tear. Which almost makes me feel slightly bad. Co-emphasis on almost and slightly.
“After I ended things, she kicked me out. And then…I spiraled. Got into some bad trouble.”
"What kind of trouble?" I ask. "Not because I care, but because I'm curious."
"Gambling," he says with a heavy sigh. “You'd think for a sports writer I'd be better at picking a winner. Turns out I'm shit at it.”
"Am I supposed to feel bad for you?"
He shakes his head. "No, I'm admitting all of this because those decisions are now directly affecting you.”
That gets my attention. “Are you betting on me?” I try to keep my voice down, but it’s hard when my ex is making me regret not busting in his windows when I had the chance. “Because if so, I’m going to throw the next tournament for shits and giggles.”
“No, it’s not like that. I started losing money. Daily. I was paying rent on an apartment, on the divorce, on child support. Everything else was down the drain. I couldn’t stop myself. I kept thinking I could win it back, and then I didn’t and…I hit rock bottom.”
I do feel for him. I know addictions are hard to come back from, especially when you’re at a low point. But I still fail to see what his gambling has to do with me. And why I should care.
“I was flat broke. I needed money…” he continues.
I tap my finger to my chin like I’m about to drop insane wisdom. “Let me guess. You didn’t go to a bank.”
I catch Michael looking down, nothing but shame rolling off him.
“There was always a rumor around the tour that if anybody got into any money trouble, there was a guy they could call.
He wasn't a bookie or some guy in the mob. But he was close to the game, had deep pockets, and would be discreet about it.”
Now that grabs my attention. “Am I that out of it that I’ve never heard about this guy? Does he have a name?”
Michael doesn’t say anything, but his eyes focus to our left as the groups come walking up to the green. “You know him. Rumor has it, you’ve even kicked him in the dick a few times.”
I have to double take between Michael, then Chad, then back to Michael, then back to Chad when I grasp what he’s saying. “Are you telling me Chadwick Ashcroft is a fucking loan shark!”
I try to keep my whisper down, but holy shit, I did not have that on my bingo card.
“I don't know if he’s giving people the money directly, or if it’s coming from his father,” Michael says. “But either way, when guys on the tour need some money, for whatever reason, he's the one we call.”
I try to process what Michael's telling me, all while staring daggers at the man I've known since I was a kid. Sure, he was always slimy, shady, and liked throwing his money around. And now that I process this for a minute, Chad being a loan shark actually feels plausible. I just didn’t know he was willing to get his hands dirty like that.
“Okay, so Chad is shadier than I ever thought. But why are you telling me all of this? What does it have to do with me?”
“I’m telling you because you got wrapped in his web, and I don’t even know if you realized it,” he says. ”Because besides the insane interest he charges, he grabs us by the balls in other ways.”
“How?”
“We do his bidding.” Michael pulls me a few steps back from a group of fans who have started to gather in front of us. “Whatever he needs, we do it. It’s how he ensures our silence. He knows our darkest secrets—ones we get money from him to make go away. And he uses them against us.”
Michael nods to the green, where poor Ricky is lining up a putt that’s nearly impossible to make, but especially when I can tell Chad is giving him the wrong line.
“Take Ricky over there. Chad has never caddied for him before, yet suddenly he’s here.
Well, how else was Chad supposed to rub elbows with all the rich people he loves?
Chad gets to be his caddy this year because last year he gave Ricky a million to make a call-girl problem go away. ”
Holy shit…Chad’s the Godfather of the douchebag mafia…
“What does he have on you?” I’m genuinely curious about this as I watch Ricky’s putt miss spectacularly.
So badly, he gets to hit again before Beau taps in for birdie.
“You’d already lost me. Lost your wife. Yeah, you were gambling.
I’m sorry you fell down that hole, but out of all the sins, there are a lot worse. ”
I take the second to look over at Michael, who I can say with absolute certainty, looks ashamed. Hell, this might be the first time he’s saying all of this out loud.
“I don’t know how he figured out all of our secrets, but he did. There— It wasn't just you, Shelby. There were more."
“What!” I don’t mean to yell. I know silence is sacred on the course, but what does he mean there were more!