Page 66 of Unexpected Shot
I look up to see the ball, happy with the contact I made. It felt good. Made a nice sound off the club.
Except I know how far I can hit a three wood, even on a bad day. And what I just did? That’s about twenty-yards shorter than normal.
What the fuck?
“Not saying that my method would’ve been better,” Chad says as I hand him back my club. “But now you’ll never know.”
“Shut the hell up,” I seethe, watching as Chad puts the head cover back on my club. And realize why I hit it twenty-yards short.
Because I didn’t hit a three-wood. I hit my five. And it went the exact distance my five-wood goes.
“What the hell?” I whisper-yell, forcing myself to be quiet as Beau steps up for his shot. “You gave me the wrong club.”
“Oh. Did I?” Chad says, his mock innocence not landing. “Sorry about that.”
Brain? fuming. Blood? Boiling. I should’ve realized he was juvenile enough to pull something like this, especially after me firing him. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve checked.
“Fuck!”
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but the word actually comes from Beau’s mouth. Because the shot he just hit went the right distance, but about thirty yards to the left of the green.
“Fucking lovely,” I grumble, stomping ahead of Chad, because otherwise I’ll punch him.
“You didn’t do so great either,” Beau chirps.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
I want to tell him that Chad fucked up my club—without a doubt on purpose—but considering the two of them haven’t even looked at each other today, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure Beau is the reason for his black eye, I don’t. We don’t need to cause any more of a scene than we already have.
“Can we just play golf and not bite each other’s heads off?”
“Ha! Rich coming from the woman who’s bitten my head off every day of her life.”
This is what I get for trying to be the mature one. “You deserved it then. And you deserve it now. You’re acting like an asshole.”
“You sure it isn’t a cheater? I thought I was a cheater?”
I narrow my eyes at him, lowering my voice as we approach the area where fans are gathering around the green. “Two things can be true at once. Also, why the fuck am I the bad guy right now? What happened to our truce? What happened to getting along?”
Beau doesn’t answer as we stop in front of my ball, analyzing the shot. He’s closer to the green, but I have the better path.
“Yours is better,” Beau huffs, signaling Phil that we’re staying here. “Think you can make it forty yards? Or is that too far?”
Beau has given me a lot of shit over the years for many things. He’s always known what nerve to touch to get the biggest rise out of me. But never in that time has he ever said shit about a shot like this. A chip. The best part of my game. Something I can do in my sleep. And one thing I don’t have to change because of my shoulder.
“Too far, Devereaux.” I step up to him, getting right in his face. “I don’t know what the hell crawled up your ass today, but you better fucking fix it. Because right now? My shitty playing isn’t the story of the day. It’s you. So get over whatever tantrum you’re throwing and buckle in for the last few holes.”
I see a glimpse of remorse in his eyes before he takes a step back, his head hanging. “Hit the ball, Belle. Just…hit the ball.”
I don’t know what is going on with him today—and I plan on finding out—but I can’t worry about that right now.
Turning to Chad, who already has my wedge ready for me, I glare at him but keep my voice controlled. “Is it the right club this time?”
He rolls his eyes. God I want to punch him. “Yes, Shelby. It’s the right club.”
“Right club?” Beau says in surprise, shooting a look at Chad. “What’s she talking about?”
