Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (20 page)

But the golf course was hardly the Rez. No one would understand
George Trueblood like we did.

I cringed inwardly at his clothes and felt guilty in the next
instant for my embarrassment. He was dressed in a buckskin jacket with fringe
along both arms even though it still felt like August. A green-and-blue beaded
band wrapped around his shiny forehead. His marble-black hair stretched down to
the small of his black in a single tight braid. The strands were sprinkled with
gray. On the Rez, I didn’t give George Trueblood and his strange ways a second
thought. Off the Rez, he stood out even more than I did.

“Here’s a new sleeve,” Coach Lannon said, walking back toward
the tee. He handed me a box with three white golf balls.

“Thanks.” My eyes swept over the crowd that had formed around
the first hole. Every time I blinked, the crowd swelled. This week, Principal
Graser was in the crowd, standing out in his blue suit. He and Coach Lannon
exchanged a wave.

I threaded my golf bag higher across my shoulder, letting its
weight balance as much as steady me. Then I squeezed the golf glove peeking out
of my back pocket for luck.

Coach Lannon removed his visor and wiped his forehead with the
back of his hand. “There’s one other thing,” he said.

I turned to him, waiting, expecting more news on golf pairings
or something.

“The starter is telling me that the tall man over there insists
on saying an Indian blessing before the tournament starts.”

“His name is George Trueblood,” I corrected him.

The coach paused. “Okay,” he said. “Mr. Trueblood. But what
d’you think? Would you like him to do it? Your call.”

I swallowed, considering this, as my eyes drifted back to the
crowd. They landed on my friends from the Rez. Normally our prayers and
blessings were considered sacred and not shared outside the tribe, but I
wondered if we should make an exception today. “Yes,” I said, surprising myself.
“Let him.”

Coach Lannon glanced down at me and smiled. “Well, okay, then.
You got it.”

“A blessing can’t hurt,” I added, lifting my chin.

The coach tilted his head. “Can’t argue with that.” Then he
turned to the starter and yelled, “Okay, Ron.” He swirled his forefinger in the
air.

Ron, the starter, wore a black-and-white-striped golf shirt. He
motioned to George Trueblood.

I caught Kelly staring at me, trying to get my attention. She
stood next to George Trueblood. Her shoulders shrugged apologetically, but I
smiled back and shook away her apology with my head.
A few
minutes isn’t going to hurt anybody,
I tried to tell her.

George Trueblood stepped onto the fairway, one worn moccasin at
a time. From a distance, his shoes looked like brown socks. He walked straight
and held his chin high. When he raised his arm, the crowd turned silent. The
fringe from his jacket fluttered downward like a dozen arrows. If his deep voice
hadn’t commanded everyone’s attention, the sharp edges to his weathered face
would have. Even the doves and the cactus wrens turned silent in the trees that
lined the fairway—at least I imagined that they did.

“What’s he saying?” someone whispered behind me.

“Hell if I know,” another voice answered.

“He sounds like he’s grunting,” laughed another.

More chuckling.

Coach Lannon turned his head and glared. “Show some respect,
boys.”

I swallowed back an angry breath as I struggled to concentrate
on George Trueblood’s words. I’d probably heard them a dozen times. Even though
I didn’t understand everything, I certainly got his meaning.

“What’s he saying?” The coach whispered beside me, his arms
crossed over his chest.

I hesitated. But the coach nudged me again.

So I translated,

May the warm winds of Heaven blow softly on
your house;

May the Great Spirit bless all who gather
here.

May your moccasins make happy tracks in many
snows;

And may the Rainbow always touch your
shoulder.
1

My eyes never left George Trueblood as he spoke. When he
lowered his long arms, Coach Lannon turned to me and whispered, “Is he
done?”

I nodded without looking at him and watched as people began to
fidget along the fairway. A few even clapped, but clapping wasn’t necessary.

George Trueblood turned to me. His expression smiled at me,
even though his lips never moved.

I nodded at him, grateful.

“Finally,”
someone muttered behind
me.

“Jeez, let’s get started,” said another.

The coach turned toward the voices and sighed with
exasperation, shaking his head. Then he turned to me. “You and Ryan are up,
Fred. Good luck.”

The starter blew his whistle. Twice. The sound pierced the sky,
and the people standing closest to him had to cover their ears.

I strode to the top of the tee box, my expression frozen. I was
determined to win this tournament. And I’d already played the first hole in my
mind: I’d reach the green in two strokes.

I didn’t even notice Ryan standing behind me till he spoke.
“Fred,” he said. “Do you—”

His voice sliced through my concentration. “Please don’t talk
to me, Ryan.” I plucked my driver from my bag. “Let’s just play golf.”

Ryan lifted his palms and backed away a step. “I was just going
to ask you if you wanted to go first,” he said evenly.

“Oh,” I replied in a small voice. But then I said, “I’d rather
flip for it,” finally looking back at him. It was the first time that we’d
looked directly at each other since Saturday night. My eyes quickly swept across
his face, long enough to notice his bloodshot eyes, the bruise on his cheek.
Even his golf shirt was wrinkled.

Ryan won the coin toss, calling tails.

We were paired with two other players from Glendale High. They
kept staring at me like I was some sort of freak. The golf-girl freak.

I walked the course alone, but the vast majority of spectators
followed my foursome from hole to hole. Ryan didn’t attempt to talk to me again.
The only person who checked on me was Coach Lannon as he flew across the path on
his golf cart tracking the team. My Rez friends didn’t say anything, just gave
an encouraging nod and smile here and there. That was all I needed.

By the ninth hole, I’d managed to par six of the holes and
birdie two. I probably would have birdied three if I hadn’t caught the eye of
Seth Winter and Gwyneth Riordan on the opposite side of the putting green,
directly in my line of sight.

On purpose?

You never knew with Seth Winter.

Gwyneth blue Ryan a kiss as he waited on the green behind me,
and I felt my stomach lurch as I tried to line up my putt. I three-putted and
cursed myself for losing my concentration. It would not happen again.

By the tenth hole, on a short par four, I got my first eagle of
the day, and the crowd erupted in approval. “Fred Oday is in the lead,” I heard
people murmur as I walked the cart path to the eleventh hole. Even Ryan
muttered, “Nice hole.” I said nothing back, refusing to look at him. Instead, I
searched the crowd for familiar faces—Kelly, Yolanda, George Trueblood, even
Sam. When I found them, I smiled, and they waved their arms overhead, energizing
me.

I birdied the eleventh hole and parred the twelfth and the
thirteenth. For the next four holes, I blocked out all voices around me, even
the few friendly ones. The world moved in graceful slow motion, and the colors
blended together again at the edges, muted and wispy, as I found my rhythm. My
only focus was the golf ball and landing it inside the hole with as few strokes
as possible. My swing was the only thing I could control; it was the only thing
that made sense. I loved it when I found my zone, and I was definitely inside
its warm and calming embrace in this tournament.

After I sank my final putt on the eighteenth hole, Coach
Lannon’s voice was the first sound to break my trance. I blinked, and the world
started to spin faster again. The colors turned sharper and more vibrant. I
heard clapping, floating in my direction in waves. It was almost like I’d
returned to my body from some far-off place.

“You’ve won, Fred. Again!” Coach Lannon roared. “And we’re
gonna win our fifth tournament, thanks to you. Can you say
state championship?
” He patted my back, harder this time, and I
stumbled forward with only my right foot to keep me from crashing to the
ground.

I forced a tight smile, mostly from the shock of the back slap,
as the coach led me by my elbow to the white tent at the edge of the parking lot
where each player was required to return a signed scorecard to the tournament
officials. The three reporters with their notepads and tape recorders trailed a
few steps behind us, closer than before. Ryan followed somewhere alongside
me.

Just as we were about to enter the tent, the starter stopped
us.

“Hold on, there,” he said, pulling on the coach’s left
shoulder.

“What’s up, Ron?” Coach Lannon said.

The starter cleared his throat, scratched the side of his head
and then said, “There’s been some talk among the players, Larry...” He avoided
eye contact with me.

“Talk?” Coach Lannon’s hand dropped from my back as he turned
to face him. His chin lifted. “What kind of talk?”

The starter cleared his throat again. “Someone got a look at
the girl’s bag.” He nodded at me, as if there would have been a question about
which girl.

Coach Lannon chuckled. “Yeah? So it’s a little
loud,
I’ll grant you that. So what?”

The starter’s head tilted. “It’s not the outside, Larry. It’s
what’s inside. Each player can only carry fourteen clubs. You know that. It’s
PGA regulation. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”

Coach Lannon blinked, slowly, like someone was waking him from
his own private trance, too. Then he turned to my bag. It still hung over my
shoulder. “Let me see your bag, Fred.” His fingers fluttered at me.

I let the strap slip off my shoulder. It landed on the pavement
in front of me with a heavy
thunk.

The coach and the starter placed their hands on either side of
it. “One, two, three...” Coach Lannon began counting. “Four, five, six,” he
said.

“Seven, eight, nine.” The starter counted, too, tapping the
tops of each club with his pen.

“Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen.” They both
paused.

My breathing stopped.

“Fifteen,” they said in unison. Coach Lannon’s eyes bulged like
someone had just squeezed his neck.

“Wait a minute,” I said, pushing the clubs around. My eyes
locked on to all of them at once. I knew my clubs like I knew my own name. Each
one was mismatched, a little rusty around the shafts, and scratched and pitted
where they should be shiny and smooth. All except one.

In the middle, wedged between my irons, I pulled out a
two-iron. It was long—too long for my height, shiny and barely used.

And I’d never seen it before.

“This isn’t mine.” I turned it in my hands. I knew the rules
about the limits on clubs. And I knew you had to finish a tournament with the
clubs you started with. I wasn’t looking for an unfair advantage.

* * *

A crowd began to gather around us.

The starter tilted his head to the side, finally acknowledging
my existence. “But it was in your bag,” he said to me.

“You heard her, Ron,” Coach Lannon said. “I believe her. It’s
not her club.”

The starter sighed, pointed to the club. “But it was in her
bag,” he said again, as if the coach had a hearing problem. “I saw it with my
own eyes. There’s no denying it.”

“This isn’t right.” Coach Lannon shook his head. The crowd
began to murmur and fidget around us, making breathing difficult.

My forehead began to pound, and the pavement looked like it was
moving. I let the two-iron slip from my hand. It clanged to the ground, and I
watched until it stopped wobbling against the pavement.

Beside me, Ryan bent down to pick it up, startling me. I never
heard his approach.

“You know our rules,” the starter said as the crowd tightened
another notch around us. “Fred will have to be disqualified.”

Disqualified?

“Cheater,” someone snickered behind me. “The Indian is a
cheater.”

That was even worse.

Chapter 38
Ryan

I PICKED UP THE
TWO-IRON FROM
the pavement after it slipped from Fred’s fingers.

I wasn’t sure if she knew she had dropped it. I wanted so
badly to tell her not to worry, that it was just a lame golf tournament, but I
lost my voice. Again.

Then I had to listen to the names people called her. They
floated through the crowd like flies you couldn’t swat. Whispers, mostly, but
loud enough to hear.

“Cheater...”

“Disqualified...”

“Loser...”

“Indian cheater...”

I took a closer look at the club. It was a TaylorMade,
smooth and shiny. Familiar. There was no way that Fred could have used this
club. It was too long for her arms. She would have had to have been at least six
feet tall to swing it comfortably.

The club wasn’t hers.

Quickly, I slid my golf bag off my shoulder and balanced it
in front of me. My fingers moved over the tops of my clubs, searching, moving,
shuffling. Counting. One of the plastic sheaths in the middle was missing a
club.

My pulse raced at the discovery. “Seth.” My jaw
tightened.

Then I looked across the cart path for Fred. She was already
walking back to the fairway, her head lowered. Half the crowd continued to trail
around her, including the three newspaper reporters.

“Fred!” I shouted, but she didn’t turn.

“Shit,” I muttered just as Henry Graser and Zack Fisher
barreled down the cart path straight for me, their golf cleats clicking against
the pavement. Grins stretched across their faces.

“Congrats, dude!” Zack said, slapping my shoulder.

“For what?”

“For first place!” Henry chuckled with excitement. “Word’s
already down to the ninth hole that Pocahontas has been eighty-sixed!”

I flinched at the casual way they mocked Fred. “Shut up,
Graser.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “You have seriously got to get over
that chick, Ryan.”

I ignored him.

Zack removed his baseball cap and wiped his flushed forehead
with the back of his hand. “Turned in your scorecard yet?”

I swallowed. “Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?” Zack’s eyes widened as they
swept across mine.

I squinted over Zack’s shoulder for another look at Fred. I
caught only glimpses of her black ponytail and purple shirt through the crowd.
Instead of Coach Lannon, she walked between two girls with coal-black hair,
Kelly and Yolanda, girls I barely knew even though we’d been at the same school
for three years. The tall Indian who’d given the blessing walked next to them,
towering over everybody like a cottonwood tree. I recognized him instantly from
years ago at the reservation school. He was exactly as I remembered, only with
more gray hair. He carried Fred’s golf bag over his shoulder. I watched them
until they reached the top of the cart path. Fred kept slipping farther away
from me, and I just let her go.

“Come on,” Henry prodded. “Let’s go.” He motioned toward the
tent.

Finally, I nodded at Zack, and all three of us turned toward
the white tent without another word.

I couldn’t hate myself more if I tried.