Page 31 of Unexpected Shot
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help!”
“Yes you do!”
If anyone was watching us right now, it probably wouldn’t be a good look. Because here I am, standing behind her, trying to rip her hands off her club, while she fights against me, body squirming as she’s trying to break my hold.
“Why won’t you let me help you?”
“Because I hate you. And this isn’t Ghost golf!”
Ghost golf? I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about, but my slip in focus is all she needs to break my hold.
“What the fuck is Ghost golf?” I say, needing a second to catch my breath.
“You know the movieGhost? Where Patrick Swayze reaches around her to help her mold the clay. Super romantic scene, apparently. I never saw the appeal. But that’s what you were doing. Ghost golf. And I don’t need it.”
Her comparison would be much funnier if I didn’t want to strangle her.
I stand, staring, as she goes back to lining up her shot. But just when I think she’s about to go back to her fucked-up grip, I watch as she subtly moves her hands. I don’t say anything. I don’t move. Because if I move, I’ll spook her. And I don’t want to ruin this moment.
Because she’s going back to normal.
The grip that’s won her millions in tournament money.
The stance she used when she hit the best three-wood of her life twenty years ago.
She looks like Shelby LeBlanc.
I hold my breath as I watch her take her swing. When the club makes contact, I feel my jaw slowly start to drop. Becauseshe didn’t just hit the ball, she fucking crushed it. An easy two hundred yards before the roll.
She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to me, a look on her face even more shocked than mine. “Oh my God!”
Her excited voice catches me off guard, but nothing could shock me more than Shelby running over and jumping into my arms.
“I did it,” she says. “I fucking did it.”
I hold her a little tighter, not wanting her to fall. And that’s the only reason. It’s not because I like the way she feels against me. It’s not realizing that the last time we were this close was the last day I could call Shelby my friend. Or that it reminds me of the day I wanted nothing more in this world than to kiss her.
Do I like her? Not on most days. Does she drive me crazy? Every day. But seeing her have this glimmer of hope? Well, right now, I don’t hate her as much.
“It was a nice shot,” I say. “Wonders what a correct grip can do.”
Should I have said it? No. It was a low blow. But it’s me and it’s Shelby and this moment felt a little too…intimate. That’s not us. Never has been, never will be.
Which is why I’m not shocked in the slightest when she pushes out of my hold, rears back, and slaps me across the face.
“Now, that form you haven’t lost. Still packing a good punch.”
“Fuck you,” she says before stomping toward the golf cart. “Get in. Let’s finish this damn round.”
I laugh as I hold my cheek, the sting resonating there as she marches back to the golf cart.
I never like being slapped across the face. It’s not the first time, and probably won’t be the last. Hell, it’s not even the first time Shelby has slapped me. But in this case? It’s worth it.
Because Shelby LeBlanc is fucking back.
