Page 42 of Unexpected Shot
“And you shouldn’t,” I say. “If he wants to fuck around, then he gets to find out. Plain and simple. Or, maybe show up for the job he was hired to do. That would solve a lot of problems.”
Shelby was in knots all morning about how to approach Chad at the tournament. Because while she’d already come to the conclusion that she needed to fire him, both as her coach and caddy, she needed to be able to get a hold of him to do it. Which is something neither of us have been able to do.
We’ve called. Texted. Emailed. I called the country club to see if he’s been there, and the clubhouse said they hadn’t seen him since midweek, which, coincidentally, is the last time Shelby saw him. She’d emailed him the itinerary of when our practice rounds were, and all he sent back were thumbs up emojis.
It’s like he’s gone off the grid. And while that isn’t a bad thing, I’m wondering if he’s going to suddenly appear out of nowhere. Shelby doesn’t do well with surprises, and if he pops out like a damn gopher from the ninth hole, it’s going to throwher. And frankly, she has enough to deal with this week, she doesn’t need whatever shit Chad is pulling on top of it.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I hope he does show up. Not to caddy for Shelby—she got a hold of a caddy she knew when she lived in Vegas who could help her for the weekend—but for me to tell him exactly what I think of him. Because not only is he going to be losing a client when Shelby finally can fire him, but he’s losing a friend too.
Seeing him work with Shelby has solidified in my mind that I’m over his shit. And, I think I want my first investigative episode ofThe Back Nineto focus on Chadwick Ashcroft’s validity as a swing coach. I know he has a reputation for fixing golfers, but I’ve never actually seen him work with any of the players he claims to have fixed. Sure, he could travel to them, but I don’t remember any stretches of time when he was gone for more than a day or two, which is odd because he has to have out-of-town clients. The clients I can confirm he does have—wanna-be scratch golfers who should stick to beer leagues, and older women who are trying to pick up a new hobby—he teaches more traditionally. Normal grips. Regular swings. Help with body placement and movement. But for the pros? I’m seriously doubting the credibility of his credentials.
Which is reason one million why I’m done with him. I don’t care that we’ve been friends since we were kids—he’s not that person anymore. Or maybe he is and just became a worse version. One I can’t ignore anymore. He was always a spoiled rich kid. He always wanted to get his way. He was always entitled. But…I don’t know. Back then, it didn’t bother me as much. Maybe he wasn’t as bad. Maybe a little of both. All I know now is I’m out.
I catch sight of Shelby taking a lot of deep breaths, which takes me aback. I know she doesn’t love interviews. That much is clear if you’ve met her for three seconds. But this feels like more than just going to do a press conference. Is it Chad? Her swing? Something else?
“Hey…” I whisper, putting my hands on her shoulders. “What can I do?”
She looks up at me, her blue eyes a mixture of sad and…scared? I’ve never seen Shelby scared. Not in the thirty years I’ve known her.
“Make it so I don’t have to go in there?”
Shit, she’s serious. She’s biting her lower lip so hard she might draw blood, and her knuckles are turning white as she grips the railing of the stairs we’re standing on. This is more than Shelby being stubborn. But what is it? And more importantly, how do I fix it?
“Hey,” I say, taking a risk and reaching for her hands, hoping she’ll let me hold them if for nothing more than to give her some comfort. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t want to go in there either.”
She doesn’t believe a word I just said. It’s fully evident in not just the cynical expression on her face, but the sarcastic edge in her voice. “Really, golden boy? You don’t love talking to a group of people who constantly tell you how great you are?”
“I used to,” I admit. “But when you know one of the first questions is going to be about my America’s Open rant, it’s not something I look forward to anymore.”
She just shakes her head and turns away, pulling from my hold in the process. “I just really, really, fucking hate interviews.”
I look back to the intern, who’s doing a shitty job of trying to look like she’s not stressing out about the time. I hold up a finger, asking for one more minute, before turning back to Shelby.
“Belle, I know this sucks.” I gently but firmly rest my hands on her shoulders as she looks out onto the course. I can’t see her eyes, but I can tell she’s trying to calm her breathing. “But let’s remember why we’re here. A good PR golf tournament. You need it. I need it. And sometimes that means having to do the things we hate. Play the games and sit through the dog and pony show.”
“Hi. I’m sorry to interrupt,” the intern says. “But they need you both inside now for interviews.”
I give Shelby’s shoulders one more squeeze. “You good?”
She nods and takes a deep breath as she turns around. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit.”
My sarcastic comment gets me an elbow to the stomach as she walks in. It didn’t hurt. If anything, it makes me smile.
Her grip is back to normal. She only called me an asshat twice today.
This might not be so bad of a tournament after all.
"Hey, everybody," I say, trying to break the ice with the reporters, because I know Shelby won’t. “I hear you have some questions for us."
Hands fly up around the room, and I could’ve bet—and won—a thousand bucks on what the first question was going to be.
“This question is for Beau and Shelby,” a reporter I’ve never seen before asks. “First tournament for both of you this season. How were each of you feeling in your practice round today?”
Yup. Should’ve placed the bet.
Press conferences always start off like this. A softball intro question. Something that gets us talking. Since I’m sitting next to the anti-talker, I take the microphone first.
