Page 64 of Unexpected Shot
SHELBY
“Fuck!”
I cringe at the volume of the curse word that just left Beau’s mouth, hoping the television broadcast isn’t focused on us right now. I mean, I’d have yelled it too, because there’s no way we’re about to find his ball with how far into the woods he just hit it.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying to not dog on him more than he already is himself. Except I’m me, have a twenty-four seven resting bitch face, and the headache pounding through me now would kill lesser people. “We’ll play my ball.”
“Great. Let’s go up two hundred yards and find it.”
“Hey. Watch it,” I defend, even though he’s not wrong. “At least I’m in play. And it’s two fifty, asshole.”
He lets out a breath, hands on his hips, head tilted back, as if he’s trying to calm himself. “Let’s just fucking go.”
I look over to Beau’s caddy, who just gives me a shrug. Phil has been on Beau’s bag for years. He knows his swing better than Beau does. And he’s even baffled as to what’s going on with his player today. Sure, we’re both hungover. Neither of us are playing well. I’ve had my moments when I’ve wanted tothrow my club. But Beau? It’s like he has a personal vendetta against the course today, and the course is winning the battle.
“Bet you could’ve hit it two seventy-five with the Ashcroft,” Chad says as he walks next to me down the fairway. But even at this angle, he can still see me roll my eyes.
“When did I ever come close to hitting it that far in the months we worked together? Also, when did you start calling it that? Do you think having a name makes it better?”
“It’s always had a name.”
It hasn’t.
“Whatever you say, Chadwick.”
For the most part today, Chad’s done what I asked and kept his mouth shut. This is the first comment he’s made about not using his swing, which I figured would come at some point.
But I can’t worry about him now. I need to channel whatever energy I have available into figuring out how Beau and I can pull something out of our asses on this hole. If we don’t do something soon, our comeback PR tournament is going to quickly become the have-you-ever-swung-a-club-before tournament.
Today’s competition is a two-person scramble. In theory, it’s the best format for me in my first tournament. Beau is going to outdrive me for most holes, which is how it should be. Ideally, no matter how well, or poorly, I hit, we’d have the advantage of using that placement for both of our second shots. But considering Beau hit his ball so far out of bounds it might’ve landed in the Hoover Dam, we’re going to play my ball. And we have a hell of a long way to go if we want to even attempt to make a birdie on this long par four.
Oh, who am I kidding. We just need to pray for par on this one and to finish the final few holes respectably. Which, considering how we’ve played today, is a big ask.
I’m playing like it’s my first tournament back in nearly two years. I’m rusty. Inconsistent. The hangover doesn’t help. This was probably the best drive I’ve had today, but I’ve been misreading putts and not judging club distances like normal.But, between what I’ve gone through, the cinnamon whiskey I’m sweating from my pores, and the two men surrounding me who are acting like jackasses, I could be playing a hell of a lot worse.
But then there’s Beau. His play wasn’t even this abysmal after his meltdown at the America’s Open. His tee shots are all over the place, most likely because his swing seems to be fifty percent body strength and fifty percent rage. His irons are hitting everything but the green. His putting has never been his strong suit, but today, I don’t even know why he’s trying.
And then there’s his temper, which… Well, it’s making the America’s Open look like a toddler’s tantrum. Tournament officials have come over to him multiple times, asking him to watch his language and reminding him it’s a live broadcast and there are children in attendance. I believe Beau’s response was, “Thanks. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
How we’re not in last place with two more holes to play is baffling. Despite our shitty play, we’ve been able to save pars that have kept us respectably away from the bottom of the pack. And because of the non-traditional format of the tournament —the women playing tomorrow and the men on Saturday—the final field isn’t decided until Saturday night. We have two days to bounce back, sober up, and get our shit together.
Easier said than done.
“We’re two hundred forty yards from the pin,” Phil says, reaching into Beau’s bag and handing him what looks to be his five-wood. Passing him a new ball, he adds, “Now get your head out of your ass and hit the damn ball.”
I snicker at Phil’s comment, which earns me a look from Beau. “What are you laughing at?”
I shake my head and hold my hands up in innocence. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Whatever,” Beau says. “It’s your shot.”
I position myself to face the green, looking around for anything I might want to play away from. Being this far out, not even in my peak form could I make the green on this next shot.But there’s no bunker or water that I need to be aware of. No weird hill I want to avoid. I can presumably hit it down the center and give us a good look just in case Bad Beau shows up for his next shot.
“Three wood,” I say, holding my hand out for Chad to give me my club.
“You could say please.”
I shoot my caddy a look. “And you could not be a douchebag. Three wood.”
