Page 27 of Unexpected Shot
Second, I have enough going on with my game. I don’t have the time to watch the golf swing of the woman who hates me.
If you’re going to be the guy who blasts one of the biggest tournaments on your tour, you need to be able to back up your play. I can’t talk the talk about how tournaments are only out for themselves and then go out and play horribly. If I’m going to say those things, I need to be the best. Which comes from preparation. Practice. Focus. I might be brazen, and often times cocky, when I’m at tournaments or on camera, but when it comes to the preparation, I’m none of those things. It’s just me, my club, and my ball. Back to basics. Back to the game I grew up loving.
Which is why I didn’t realize Shelby’s swing is way worse than I imagined. And if something doesn’t change very soon, she’s going to be the headline of the tournament, and not in a good way.
I wince as I watch her ball go off the tee. She pulled up tooearly—a problem she’s had since she was a kid. If the ball makes it a hundred fifty yards I’ll be surprised. Especially considering the fucking insane grip Chad has her doing. I’ve seen him offer this to his clients before—essentially the hands are reversed in what a normal golf grip would be. It worked once, which, in his mind, means he’s figured out the next best thing in golf swings.
He hasn’t. It was a fluke, but he’s taken that thing that worked once and has tried to convince the golf world he’s the smartest guy in the room. And somehow, others are vouching for him, which is baffling to me. Something isn’t adding up.
But all I can do is sit back and watch Chad fuck up Shelby’s swing more and more. And I don’t know if it’s because he’s so stubborn he won’t budge from his “method,” or that he’s trying to actually sabotage her.
And if he is, Shelby doesn’t seem to care. She’s not budging from it. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. And if that’s true, then Shelby needs a grippy sock vacation. Sure, her short game has been fine. She's chipping and putting with ease because she’s using her old grip. That swing isn’t an issue because it doesn’t put the strain on her shoulder that her driver technique does. But watching her tee off, knowing what she used to be able to do, and seeing her now in a stance and a swing that's completely wrong for her, is slowly killing me.
“Get that look off your face,” she bites as she comes back to the cart, slamming her driver back into her bag.
“Sorry,” I say sincerely. “It’s just…I didn’t realize you were still struggling.”
I don’t mean to pour salt in the wound, but it’s the truth. We’ve played six holes so far today, and none of her drives have even come close to cracking the two hundred yard barrier. Which, for a professional golfer of any gender, should be an easy barrier to cross. But for Shelby, it’s her white whale. With every bad shot she wants it more, but somehow it’s getting worse.
“We’re still working on a few things,” she says, not making eye contact with me as we drive to her ball.
“Are any of those things making you better?”
I don’t mean for my comment to have a smart-ass undertone to it. But it’s kind of hard to keep the tone in my question even when working with Chad is clearly making her worse.
“Why do you care?” she spits out as I stop next to her ball.
“I didn’t before,” I say honestly. “But now that we’re about to play together, I’d like to not have to explain to the media why my playing partner hit the ball farther when she was fourteen.”
Low blow? Sure. Truth? Absolutely.
“Fuck you.”
“You wish.”
“Literally never.”
“Really? I beg to differ, Belle.”
Our eyes lock, and she knows exactly what I’m thinking about. Sure, it might not have been “fucking” she wanted to do back then. We were kids. But I’m not a fool, and I know for a fact that my little sister’s best friend, at least at one point, wanted to kiss me…
“Why are you swinging like that?”
I’ve played with Shelby every week for the past six years. I know her swing just as well as I know my own. Which is why I just did a double take when I saw her lining up her shot completely differently than she normally does.
That and she’s wearing a skirt. Shelby never wears skirts.
Her footwork is completely off. She’s cocking her hands differently, and she’s so twisted up, I’m not sure how she’s going to make contact. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s a first-time golfer trying to replicate a swing she saw in a six-way funhouse mirror, not one of the best junior golfers in the state.
“It’s going to help my drive,” she says, not making eye contact withme as she tries to adjust her weight. Which is going to be a losing battle because of how off the rest of her body is aligned.
“Says who?”
This finally makes her look up at me, defiance covering her face. “People.”
Well that narrows it down. “Any specific people? Or are you taking advice from randoms now?”
I’m actually shocked Shelby admitted she took advice from anyone. Since she started playing, the girl has been determined to learn the game on her own. Never asking for help. Balking at advice I’d give her. I know her dad can’t afford lessons—I overheard her say that to Gabi once—but apparently to Shelby that means she can’t take help from anyone.
