Page 23 of Unexpected Shot
All I can do is shrug. “He’s your brother. You love him. I never wanted you to have to pick sides. And…”
“You thought I was going to side with him over you,” she finishes my sentence for me. Complete with a sigh I know all too well.
I look down as I shamefully nod. “Everyone else did.”
“Damnit, Shelby,” Gabi says, bringing me back into her embrace. “You stubborn woman. Don’t you know there’s nothing you could do to make me hate you?”
“Well, there were a few times over the years I wanted to kill your brother. I think that would’ve made you hate me.”
“Depends on what he did,” she says, kissing the top of my head before letting go. “But I agree, we can’t live in the past anymore. It’s time to come to terms with the present, and maybe the future.”
Fuck. I almost forgot the whole reason I was here and mad in the first place.
“You can’t change what happened back then. As much as you wish you could, you can’t. And I’ll bet my monthly diaper bill Beau would say the same thing.”
I start to open my mouth to say something, but Gabi stops me. “No. You’ve talked enough. My turn.”
“Who are you and what did you do with my best friend?”
“Your best friend has been on the receiving end of advice for years. It’s payback time,” she says. “You two are playing together. It’s going to be good for both of you. Which means, somehow you’re going to have to figure out a way to be civil with each other. You, or he, but probably a combination of both, need to bury this twenty-year-old hatchet. Suck it up and figure out how to get through one week of playing golf together. Afterthat, you can go back to the bickering you two love to engage in a little too much.”
“Promise?”
Gabi laughs as we sit back on her couch. “I’ll even let you fight him in the bakery.”
“You really are the best friend a girl can have.”
“Damn straight.”
CHAPTER 6
SHELBY
“There we go. Just like that.”
Just like that, my ass.
I squint as I watch my ball go barely two hundred yards. And to the left. Way to the left.
“Just like that?” I repeat, frustrated with myself, and Chad. “That was the shittiest one I’ve hit today.”
“It wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t shitty, either,” Chad says, though I can tell he’s trying to put lipstick on the pig. “There were improvements.”
I take a step back, drop my club, grab my bottle of water, and suck down the hydration. If I don’t, I’m going to go on a swearing rant that will get me fined by the country club.
Again.
At this point, I might as well start a tab for my infractions.
“Your rhythm was good,” Chad says, clearly oblivious to the fact that I’m about to throw my club farther than where my ball landed. “We still need to work on the follow through. That’s where you’re not getting it.”
I want to say I’m not getting it because he has my hands in such a fucked up position, there’s no way someone who isn’ttriple-jointed can follow through. But I don’t. He’s my swing coach, and I need to trust the process.
Except, as the days go by, and the improvement isn’t happening, I’m trusting it less and less.
“I don’t know how to get it,” I admit. “It’s not natural, Chad. Nothing about this grip or swing is natural.”
For a split second, I watch his face harden as I question his methods. But just as quickly, he goes back to a supportive coach. “It’s not natural because you’re not used to it. You’ve had better shots with that approach. Think back to what was different about this one and why it went so bad.”
