Page 19 of Unexpected Shot
No, I need something stronger.
“Please tell me you have vodka.”
“Freezer,” she says, sounding completely confused. “Do you want a mix?—”
She doesn’t even get the question out of her mouth before I’m tipping the bottle to my lips, tilting my head back, and slamming a shot straight from the bottle. Time to let the vodka do its job and burn away some of the frustration I’m feeling.
Oh let’s be honest, to get rid of every frustrating feeling I have when it comes to Beau Devereaux, I’d need a fucking distillery.
“Shelby, what’s going on? It’s almost eleven, and you’re not wearing a bra.”
I bring the vodka to my mouth again, the burn really hitting this time. “Gabi, I love you with all my heart. You are my soul sister, and something special happened the day we met. So I say this with that in mind: Fuck your brother straight to fucking hell.”
She laughs under her breath, but it’s not because she thinks I’m funny. It’s because she realizes she’s about to play mediator for probably the millionth time in her life. “Alright then. Let me go check on Ace. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”
Gabi walks away, allowing me to catch my breath. A little. Because what in the actual fuck has been this day?
Starting my day having to deal with Beau was bad enough, but then getting the news we got, followed by his impromptu drop in at my house? That’s a trifecta of shittiness that makes me wonder what I did in this life to deserve all of that happening in a span of eighteen hours.
It had to have been something bad, because I’m a good person. Mostly. I think. At least, I try to be.
Sure, I'm not the sunshiniest person to be around. Or exude the kind of personality that has golf companies and apparel distributors banging down my door to rep for them. I shouldn’t have to.
I play golf. I play golf well. I don'talwayshave a scowl on my face. I smile…sometimes. Sure, the media loves to paint me as having the biggest resting—and active—bitch face on the tour. And they’re valid for that. What they don’t see is the stuff off the course that never fails to make me smile.
My friends. Spending time with my dad before he passed away. I always smile when Ace is around. He might not be my nephew by blood, but I would die for that child.
And speaking of children, I always smile when I visit the girls’ golf camp I sponsor every summer. Nobody sees it because nobody knows about it. I don’t do it for the press or the tax write off. I do it for me. For younger Shelby who didn’t have girls to golf with. Who had to play with the boys her entire life becauseno one took the time to teach girls that golf can be fun. Who missed out on the camaraderie and sisterhood girls in other sports experienced. In the friendships and the support. And the chance to play against equals without having to always be better just to be seen as almost-as-good as everyone else on the course.
And I do it for them. So they never have to know what that feels like. When those girls come up and hug me and tell me that they had the time of their lives, I smile then. I even cry a little.
There are smaller things that make me smile, too. A good book. A cold drink after a solid round of golf. A perfectly cooked steak. That feeling when your driver head hits the ball in exactly the right place. Sprite. Purple-bag Doritos. Puppies. Because I'm not a monster.
But never, not in the thirty years that I’ve known Beau Devereaux, have I ever smiled around that man.
“Drop your back shoulder down.”
I try not to let out the groan of frustration I feel bubbling up as Beau tries to help me. “I don’t need to.”
I don’t. I hit the ball just fine. Mostly.
Except I want to drive my ball just as far as the boys. Specifically, two boys—Beau and Chad.
They always pick on me. Well, Chad does. Beau sometimes.
I have to play with them in the league my dad signed me up for, and they always groan when they have to stop for my ball before theirs. Yes, I know they’re two years older than me, and I just turned ten, but that doesn’t matter. I want to hit the ball as far as them.
And I want to beat them.
“Did you hear me?” Beau asks. “If you drop your shoulder down a little bit, it'll shift your weight. I bet if you do it, you'll finally hit it over a hundred fifty yards. I know that’s what you’re trying to do.”
I am, and I don’t know how he knows that. Ugh. Boys. Thinking they’re so smart all the time.
“I’m fine,” I say, hoping he’ll quit trying to help. My dad says wecan’t afford lessons, so I have to learn on my own. And I really want to tell him that I finally hit my driver a hundred fifty yards. I bet he’ll be really proud of me.
As I start to go into my backswing, I slightly shift my shoulder down. I don’t want Beau to see it, but it’s worth a try. I don’t even know if it’s going to work. It feels weird, and I don’t like it.
Deciding that Beau is a dumb boy, I put my shoulder how it normally is. As I line up my shot at the driving range we’re hitting at, I feel a hand on each of my shoulders and a shadow completely blocks the sun that was just shining down on me.
