Page 67 of Unexpected Shot
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, not having the mental capacity to referee these two. I just need to hit this chip shot so we can one-putt and move on.
Luckily, my chip does exactly what it needs to do and rolls four feet from the cup. Beau’s goes a little bit past it, but since we’ve used most of my chips today, this doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Did he fuck with your clubs?” Beau’s low growl surprises me as we walk to the green.
“I said don’t worry about it.”
Beau and I argue. A lot. We’ve been furious with each other for a multitude of reasons. The look in his eyes right now, knowing I’m covering for Chad? It’s murderous.
“I’m going to ask you again, Shelby. Did. He. Fuck. With. Your. Clubs?”
We stop at my ball and wait for Phil to pull out the pin. “And I told you, I have it handled. I don’t want you to worry about it. I can fight my own battles. As I’ve told you. Many times before.”
That makes him laugh. “Of course. Shelby can never let anyone help.”
“And what are you going to do? We’re in the middle of a golf tournament. Just drop it.”
I step back, letting Beau line up his putt as I try to get a read on the green. I realize he’s going to miss it maybe before he does. His face has more pigment in it than the hot pink shirt he’s wearing. He can’t stop shaking his head, and if he holds his putter any tighter, he might break it in two.
“Damnit!” he screams the second his club touches his ball. He hit it too hard. Way too hard. Like, rolling off the green hard.
“Move,” I say, pushing him back as I set my ball down.
“Don’t start,” he says, bumping my shoulder as he walks past me.
“I didn’t start it. Like many times in our life, this is all because of you.”
“Me? Where do you?—”
Before he can finish his thought, Phil is stepping between us. “You two need to stop whatever the hell this is and play golf. Cameras are everywhere, and the fans are straining their ears to figure out what you two are yelling about.”
We stare at each other for another second before turning away, a silent truce for a fight we know we’re going to be continuing later.
I take my time lining up the putt. Sure, it’s only four feet, but that’s a lot of green if you rush it. And we can’t bogey anotherhole. I don’t know what the next two days are going to bring, but we won’t have a prayer of making it to Sunday if we keep giving away shots today.
The course is silent, like it always is when someone is about to take any shot. It lets me get into that final, perfect headspace for me to make a perfect putt.
Like the pendulum on a clock, I take my putter back, and just as I’m about to push it forward, I hear the loudest, longest, most obnoxious cough I’ve ever heard in my life. And the putt falls short by six inches.
“What the?—”
I stop myself from swearing, because if it was a fan, they didn’t do it on purpose. Things happen. Coughs come out of nowhere. But when I realize who’s coughing, because he still is, I forget everything. Where I am. What I’m doing. That this is supposed to be a good-news only tournament.
Because I’m going to fucking kill Beau Devereaux.
“You!” I scream, throwing my putter onto the green and marching up to him, giving him a slight push. “Really? Coughing in the middle of my shot? Nice thing to do for your playing partner who is keeping your ass alive right now.”
“I inhaled a bug, Shelby!” He’s still coughing, which is great for the act. He’s really selling it. “Why would I want you to miss?”
“I don’t know! Because you’re you!”
“Unbelievable!” he says, taking off his hat and throwing it down on the ground. “I’m sorry, okay? What else do you want me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know? Sorry for being an asshole. A cheater. A constant pain in my ass for thirty years?”
“You’re insane,” Beau says. “Everyone’s always out to get you. Nothing can just be an accident.”
“Preach!”
