Page 62 of Unexpected Shot
“I want you gone,” I say with a bite. “Leave now. You’re fired.”
I’ve never had to fire anyone before, but on a scale from one to ten, I think that was a solid eight and a half.
So why is Chad smiling? No…sneering.
“You want to fire me? Fine,” he says low enough so only I can hear him. “But you tee off in twenty minutes and your rent-a-caddy is gone. Where are you going to find one? You won’t, Shelby. So I guess you’re stuck with me.”
And now I’m pissed about that. Because he’s right.
“One day,” I say, leveling him with a stare. “Tomorrow, I don’t want to see your face anywhere near me.”
“Whatever you say, Belle.”
“Don’t call me that.” I’m about ready to pop my elbow back so I can ram it into his rib cage, when he swiftly picks up my club bag and starts walking away.
Oh, he knew what was about to happen. Guy might be a douchebag of epic proportions but he’s not dumb.
“You should probably know something,” I say, needing to get ahead of this now before he makes a scene on the course. “I changed my swing.”
“I saw,” he says, purposely not making eye contact with me as we walk toward the first tee box. “I was watching. Looked familiar. But not in a good way.”
“I need to read your definition of good,” I say. “I just wantedto let you know so you didn’t make a big deal of it on the course.”
I nearly trip over my feet because of how quickly he stops and turns to me. “Why would you do that, Shelby? We were making so much progress.”
I’m blinking rapidly because I’m confused on about ninety-two levels. Not only is this man a premier gaslighter, he's also golf's version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Not even a minute ago we were biting each other’s heads off. I fucking fired him. He said a phrase that wasn’t threatening per se, but had the tone of a threat. Now his words are soft? Curious? Wondering why I would do such a thing?
Note to self: Call Bubba and ask where the hell his recommendations for Chad came from, because either this is the special treatment he only gives me, or somehow he’s conned the entire golf world.
“It wasn’t working, Chad. You had to have seen that. Or are you so narcissistic that you couldn’t care that you were making me worse?” Saying all of this feels good, though I doubt minutes before my tee time is the best place to have this out. “If I swung like that this weekend, I would be an embarrassment. And guess what? You would’ve been too.”
“Me?” Why is he acting like a dramatic southern grandmother right now? If he had pearls on, he’d be clutching them. “It’s not my fault the proven Ashcroft Method wasn’t working for you.”
“Ha!” I laugh so loud, heads turn. Also, when the fuck did he coin the term Ashcroft Method? Out of all the douchy things the douchebag could do, this is the douchiest by far. “But isn’t it your fault? A good coach would help his player. Figure out what was wrong with them. You didn’t. You doubled down. And then today, when I would’ve played like shit—because it was going to happen—I would’ve been asked why I wasn’t hitting the ball better. Everyone knows we’ve been working together. And you know I won’t lie, Chad. Never have, never will. So I would’vetold them that my new swing, the apparent Ashcroft Method, is why my drives barely cracked two hundred yards. How would that have gone for your reputation? Would you still get clients rolling in if you couldn’t fix one of the top women's players in the world?”
I rarely flex my status. I've worked hard for what I’ve accomplished over my career. Bragging isn't my style. But right now, I will use every piece of clout I have to show him I am not fucking around on this.
And for the first time since he walked up to me, I see his true self come out. And it happens with one bobbing Adam’s apple.
“I’m sorry, Shelby,” Chad says, the swinging of his personality pendulum now at contrite. He even puts his hand on my shoulder in a failed act of…comfort? Remorse? Not sure. “Let’s talk about this after the round.”
“Nothing to talk about,” I say.
And just as I’m about to shrug out of his touch, his hand is ripped off my shoulder.
“Get your fucking hands off of her.”
Chad’s eyes go wide, and I watch as every single ounce of blood drains from his face. Even with his shitty spray tan, you can tell how pale he’s gone at the sound of Beau’s booming voice.
Who…oh shit…Beau’s pissed.
Hungover. But pissed.
My body shivers as I feel the anger radiating off of him, which is a screwed-up way to feel. Beau’s hero complex has always annoyed me, but right now? Watching Beau tower over Chad. His breathing heavy. His fists bunching at his side. It’s hot.
Like really hot.
Like I want to find out if the dream could be true hot.
