Page 43 of Unexpected Shot
“Felt really good,” I say, tapping into my brain to make sure I hit all the pulse points for a good, yet non-controversial, interview. “It’s always good to be in the warm weather and back on a golf course. Those Nashville winters are deceivingly chilly.”
The joke results in the reporters’ expected robotic laugh. I swear they teach them that in college.
“In all seriousness, it felt good out there. The course is beautiful and playing nicely. I’ll have to watch for a few of thosetricky holes—I’d hate for my sand wedge to get a workout this week—but all and all, I’m ready to get at it.”
The reporter nods and I look over to Shelby, who’s slowly bringing the microphone in front of her closer.
“Felt great.”
The room goes silent, save for a few cameras taking pictures and the air conditioner running, as everyone—including me—waits for Shelby to elaborate, but she doesn’t.
I knew she didn’t like interviews, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.
A few more easy questions get fired at each of us, and just like the first question, I give elaborate answers that I know will make good soundbites. Shelby gives the shortest answers possible. One reporter does the dumbest thing you can do in this situation and gives her a yes or no question. And she just says, “Yes.” One syllable answer. No further explanation.
I’m not sure who hates this more—Shelby, or the reporters who have to interview her.
“Courtney Crenshaw, ABC 4.” She says her name because that’s the formal and expected thing to do, but I don’t need her to introduce herself. Courtney works for a local affiliate here in Vegas, and since the men’s tour comes out here once a year, she’s always in the media room.
And then usually in my hotel room at night.
Three years ago, Courtney and I ended up in the same bar after the second day of play. I was drinking my sorrows away because I played uncharacteristically like shit. She had a run-in with her boss and was also trying to wash the day away with a gin martini. One thing led to another.
When I came back the next year, I didn’t mean to sleep with her again. It just kind of happened. And then it happened the year after. But it’s fine. We’re two adults who scratch an itch when we see each other.
Except, as I’m looking at her as she asks her question—don’t ask me what the question is, by the way—I realize I have nodesire to see her this week. I know what she can do—she’s impressively bendy—and how I always feel when we’re done. But for reasons I refuse to look into, I don’t want to send her a text today. Hell, until I saw her now, I’d forgotten I’d even see her this week.
“Beau? Do you have anything you want to add?”
I shake my head a little, and I see Courtney smiling. She knows I drifted off, but she probably thinks I’m remembering our adventures last year that included a jacuzzi, a waterproof vibrator, and an unforgettable blow job.
Oh how I wish I was…
“I’m sorry. Just thought of another trick shot challenge and my brain took it from there. Can you repeat your question?”
She knows I’m full of shit, but she obliges. “I asked what it’s like playing with Shelby again after all these years?”
Thank God it’s the easy question Ethan told us was going to be asked. No real thinking involved with this one. “Amazing. I think the first time I played an actual round with Shelby was when I was ten, and I knew even then she was going to be a hell of a golfer. Except I was ten, so I didn’t say hell.”
“You were nine. I was seven.”
I look over to Shelby. Really? Now she decides to talk? “No, I was ten.”
“You were nine,” she fights back, now turning to me. Because even in front of a host of reporters, this woman has to have the last word. “I know this because we met when I was six. I didn’t play on a course until I was seven, which would’ve made you nine.”
“Sounds like Shelby has the receipts on this one,” Courtney jokes.
“I’ll concede defeat," I say, knowing that doing this will probably earn me more brownie points than squabbling with Shelby in front of cameras. “She does have the better memory. And the better short game. She always has. I might have the driver on her, but when we get to within a hundred fifty yards, I knowshe’s going to take over. It’s why we’re going to be a good team this week, especially on the two-man scramble day.”
I catch a glimpse of Shelby out of the corner of my eye, and— Well, holy shit. I’m pretty sure I just made Belle blush.
Interesting…
The press conference continues with questions about our childhood. And Ethan would be proud of the tame, respectable answers we give. I tell the story of how we first met and she tried to steal my clubs, which I can tell the reporters eat up. She gives the longest answer of her professional life when she tells the story of how I fell into a lake, determined to chip out a shot that was hanging on the edge for dear life. If you didn’t know us, you’d think we’re the best of childhood friends, not two people who most days want to rip each other’s faces off.
Or kiss each other. Or both.
“This question is for both of you,” an intern from the men’s tour asks. “What is one part of each other’s game that you wish you could steal from the other?”
