Page 160 of Unexpected Shot
“You better fucking not,” Asher says, cracking a smile. “But hey, at least she’s entertaining everyone.”
We look to the center of the bakery’s dining area, and yup, there’s Adalyn, fucked up hair and all, twirling around and doing what seems to be the latest moves from her dance class. The spin she does—which is only funnier and more adorable because of her hair sticking straight up—is met with a huge round of applause from the guests.
“Amazing, Addy!” I say, walking over and taking Shelby’s hand, pulling her in close so I can whisper, “Follow me.”
We slowly slip into the kitchen where, thankfully, we’re alone. I’ve talked to enough people. I need to kiss my wife.
“Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”
“You being you,” I say, going back in for a little more. “This was… Thank you. No one has ever done anything like this for me. I love you, Belle.”
“I love you too, Big Boy.”
We stand in the kitchen of my and my sister’s bakery, not saying a word, just holding each other for a few seconds, and yet somehow saying it all.
The last few weeks have been insane with our travel schedules. Since I won in Georgia, we’ve only seen each other for four and a half days. We knew this was going to be the life. That April through September was going to be a lot of moments passing in the night. But it really hit me this week just how much work it’s going to take for us to make sure we’re focusing on our careers, while also not losing focus of each other.
There are a lot of FaceTimes and texts. Nights in the past where I’d be hanging out at the hotel bar are now spent in my hotel room with room service and Shelby on my phone, the two of us recapping our days, and our rounds, together.
I always said if I was ever going to settle down, it would need to be with someone who fit into my life, and world, seamlessly. The fact that I denied that it was Shelby for all those years is baffling to me. She’s perfect for me. In every way. It’s barely been two months of being married, and I already can’t remember a time before her.
Well, I can. But I choose not to. There were a lot of fights I wish I could take back. Moments I’d like to erase.
But you can’t erase the past. You can only focus on the future. And that’s what I’m choosing to do with Shelby. Every day for the rest of my life.
“Do we really have to go back out there?” I groan, suddenly wanting to show my appreciation to my wife, but alone. Very alone.
“Yes, we do,” she says, pushing me back a step. “Do you know how hard I worked to plan this? I flew your parents here. Adalyn gave herself a special haircut for the occasion. We’re going to go out there, smile, eat some cake and lemon bars, and you’re going to like it.”
I laugh and pull Shelby back into me, needing to kiss her onemore time before we make our exit. “How about this? We stay for another hour. And then, when we feel like the coast is clear and we’ve done all we can, I’ll give you the signal to leave.”
Shelby gives me a questioning look. “And what would that signal be?”
“I’ll dare you.”
EPILOGUE
SHELBY - THREE MONTHS LATER
To say I’ve never been nervous on a golf course would be a lie. Even to this day, as I walk up the eighteenth fairway, knowing what I need to do to win, the nerves are endless.
But these nerves? These nerves are out of control.
I look around to the gallery following me up to the final green of the tournament here in South Carolina. It’s not a major tournament. Nothing special about it. Just a regular stop on the women’s tour. But what has gained me quite the following this week—besides my apparent new internet fame because of my husband and his damn YouTube show—is the record-breaking round I had yesterday.
I shot a fifty-eight.
Fifty-fucking-eight!
That kind of score is unheard of, men’s or women’s. Then, I came back today, and if I make the putt I’m walking toward now, I’ll have carded a sixty-one, which is—according to the golf broadcasters, reporters, and my husband—the best two-day total score in the history of the women’s tour.
“You doing okay?” Libby asks as she walks next to me toward the green.
If there was anyone I’d wanted to be partnered with today in this last round, it’s Libby. Do I feel bad that I’m beating her by as much as I am? A little, because she’s a really good person and the biggest cheerleader for everyone who’s ever met her. But selfishly, I’m glad because she’s not making a big deal out of this. It’s just another Sunday as the final group. She’s not talking about my score, or yesterday’s record. It’s just her, me, and a final round of golf.
“Yeah. I am.” And that’s the truth.
Physically, I’m fine. My shoulder hasn’t hurt all year, and I’ve played a healthy amount of tournaments. My new and improved swing has been serving me well, and right now, even before this about-to-be blowout win, I’m in the top three in money earnings. I’ve won three tournaments already and am one of the favorites going into the last major of the season. Any worries I had about coming back and not being at my best are long gone.
