Page 44 of Unexpected Shot
“I mean, I’ve already said that I’d kill for her short game,” I begin. “I keep asking her for lessons, but she always turns me down.”
Cue reporter laugh. Cue side-eye from Shelby.
“But another part of her game that I don’t think gets talked about enough is her determination.” I feel her eyes on me, along with everyone else’s in the room. I didn’t plan on talking past the first part of my statement, but it’s like I can’t stop myself. “You should see how much work she’s put in battling back from her surgery. Every day, she’s out there grinding. Some things haven't worked. She’s had setbacks. But that hasn’t stopped her. If anything, it’s made her want it more. I respect the hell out of that.”
I look over to Shelby, who’s jaw is nearly on the table. She’s not even trying to hide her shock.
“See everyone? Bet you didn’t think I could make her talk less.”
The room erupts in laughter and I get a well-earned punch in the arm. I immediately rub it, making overexaggerated faces to get more laughs from the reporters. But in reality, nothing is fake about it. That hurt like hell.
“And to think I was going to say nice things about him,” Shelby says in a rare joke. Though I think she wanted to end the sentence “for once.” I’m glad she didn’t. “But in all seriousness, since we were kids, I’ve always been jealous of how far he can drive the ball. I always wanted to be like him in that regard. Eventually, I realized that physiologically, men and women just hit the balls at different distances. But, I will say, the reason I worked so hard on my driver all these years is because I wanted to be like him.”
The pain in my arm melts away at quite possibly the nicest thing Shelby has ever said about me.
“I’ve also always wished I could let go more. Like he does. Nothing seems to bother him.” I’m taken aback by her words. One, they’re nice. Two, I think she means it. “Last year, he spoke up for what he thought was right. Not many would’ve done that. People tried to cancel him, but he didn’t let it get to him. He stood by it and let the negativity slide off. I don’t know many who could do that. I definitely couldn’t. And I think that’s something to be admired.”
She turns to me, the blush I thought I saw on her face earlier now fully out against her normally porcelain skin. There’s a softness about her that I haven’t seen since we were kids. Shelby is rarely vulnerable, but right now, her guard isn’t up. She’s not on the defensive. And I don’t know if she’s ever looked more beautiful.
Besides that, she defended me. Not even members of my own tour—men I’d consider some of my closest peers—did that. Now here she is, unprompted, giving me her support when she absolutely didn’t have to.
Over the past two decades, I’ve come to terms with the fact that Shelby LeBlanc hates me. That she’ll never believe I didn’tcheat that day. That I’m the evil villain who wrote her origin story. But in this moment…in this glimmer of time…I don’t feel her hate. I feel her support. Her…friendship? Something else?
I don’t know what it is, but damn…it feels good.
“Last question for Shelby, if I may?”
A male’s voice breaks our moment. I turn my eyes to find who asked the question when I see that it’s Michael Stevens raising his hand.
I like Mike. He’s a good writer who asks good questions and puts out well crafted pieces. I’ve had a few beers with him over the years. We’ve even played a few rounds together. Last year, after the America’s Cup fallout, he was the one I trusted to get my side of the story straight after the video dropped. He’s fair, well-written, and a smart guy.
But with the way Shelby is looking at him right now, I’m scared for him. Because she’s not giving him a normal reporter scowl. This is a full-on death glare.
Holy shit.What did Mike do to her? Because the only person she looks at like that…is me.
“Shelby, this is your first tournament since your rotator cuff surgery, and even before then, you hadn’t played much. How has the recovery been?”
I glance out of the corner of my eye to Shelby, who’s actively squirming in her seat. Her eyes are getting narrower by the second. And her face? It’s not red from a blush anymore. No. This is pure hatred.
What did he do to her? Was it his question? That can’t be it. She might hate interviews, but she had to know her surgery was going to come up. And he didn’t ask anything out of line. But her fists are flexing on her lap and her breathing is picking up.Fuck.
How do I help her? Step in and soothe over whatever this is. And can I even do that? This is her injury. Her recovery. Her question.
And clearly, her battle. Whatever that may be.
“Recovery has been slow,” she says as evenly as she can. “As many know, I was supposed to come back last year. I wasn’t ready. I’m glad I took the extra time off to get fully healed so I could be ready to go for this year.”
“Are you ready?”
The two lock eyes, and that’s when I see it. That look. A hint of cockiness in his. Like he knows a secret. The fire in hers that looks like she wants to shove her putter up his ass. The sudden feeling like I’m interrupting something.
Oh…. Okay, then. They’ve seen each other naked. A lot.
Except, wait…I thought he was married. No, Iknowhe is. He brought his wife to the tournament in Hawaii last year.
Oh fuck…
“Yes. I’m ready.”
