Page 92 of Unexpected Shot
If I thought the crowd noise was loud on the prior hole, it’s nothing compared to this. I don’t even do any of my celebratory dances or celebrations. No sword fighting with my putter or little jigs as I walk to the hole. Instead, I throw my putter in the air and turn to find the only person I want to celebrate with right now.
“Holy shit!” Shelby yells, running over to me and jumping in my arms. I laugh as she wraps her arms around my neck and holds on tight, a stark difference to the last time she jumped on me at this golf tournament. “Did we really do it?”
“We did it, Belle. We fucking did it.”
We stand there for another few moments, and selfishly, I don’t let go of her. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get to do this again. Feel her against me. Us not fighting. I don’t want it to end, even though I know it has to.
“When I put you down, remember what I said.” I slowly start lowering her to the ground, but our eyes find each other the second they can.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to kiss you.”
I lean in, hoping it doesn’t look suspicious. “But you want to, don’t you?”
All I get from that is a roll of the eyes and a slight chuckle. “I hate you.”
I bring her in for a side hug. “No, you don’t.”
Shelby doesn’t have a chance to answer back as the media director for the tournament waves us off the green. When you win, it’s always customary to do a quick, live interview with whatever channel is broadcasting the tournament before going to sign scorecards and doing the more formal interviews.
“Beau! Shelby! What a round!” the female reporter says in themost cheerful tone I’ve ever heard. “Shelby, did you think this was possible after Thursday’s…incident?”
I had a feeling that would be the first question, and by the way Shelby starts talking, she did too. I don’t know what’s changed in Shelby this week, but this is the most comfortable I’ve ever seen her in interviews. I want to puff out my chest and claim it’s because of me, but I know it’s not. Maybe. Probably. Okay, I’ll take some credit. Multiple orgasms do loosen a person up.
“Beau, walk us through those putts on the last two holes. What pressure were you feeling?”
I begin giving the canned answer about my putt—focusing. Trusting my game. Blah, blah, blah. “But of course, I can’t take all the credit. Shelby’s always been the putter between the two of us. She can read a green like no other. I’m not making that putt on seventeen without her. And that approach shot? Come on. She nailed it.”
I see a small smile inch onto the corner of Shelby’s mouth as the reporter goes back to her, asking about her last shot on the final hole. As she answers, I let my eyes wander and happen to see Michael standing in the distance. And when I say he’s staring at us, I mean unblinking. There’s a bitterness to it. Like he’s a villain in a comic book and the trap door he set is about to drop from beneath me. The only thing missing is him doing the weird, creepy, hand thing all villains do as they put their plot into motion.
Suddenly, my stomach sinks, and I just know something bad is about to happen.
“Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t congratulate the both of you on another big thing that happened this week!”
Shelby and I share a look of confusion, and that feeling in my stomach has now dropped all the way to my pinky toe.
“You might need to fill us in,” I say, trying to add lightness to my comment to cover my sheer panic. “A lot has happened this week.”
“I’d say so. Beau Devereaux and Shelby LeBlanc getting married? I must say, none of us saw this coming. But congratulations!”
Did she just say…married?
No. That can’t be.
“Excuse me, what did you just say?”
“Sorry if I spoiled the surprise you wanted to share with us all,” the clearly clueless reporter says. “But Michael Stevens broke the news just a few minutes ago. Golf’s new power couple is Mr. and Mrs. Beau Devereaux!”
Shelby and I slowly turn toward each other, our eyes getting bigger and bigger with every memory that comes crashing back.
The bar.
The shots.
The dare.
The double-dare.
The chapel.
