Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (30 page)

Epilogue

WITH A SHRILL BLOW
ON HIS SILVER
whistle, Coach Lannon started the tournament between
Lone Butte and Anthem High at the Ahwatukee Golf Club. If we won, our next meet
would be the state championship.

The coach stood on the first tee with most of the Lone Butte
players waiting behind him. He began to bark out names and pairings beneath a
cloudless sky. For a moment, the low hush from the swelling crowd turned
silent.

I stood alongside Ryan at the bottom of the first tee box
with our golf bags, oblivious to the commotion. We were hidden behind a crowd
that that had begun to line the cart path. It was the first time we’d been alone
all day.

“Does it hurt?” I pressed my fingertips below Ryan’s temple.
Though his sunglasses hid most of the bruises, a red blotch above his right
eyebrow still peeked out. The fight with Seth seemed aeons ago, but the fresh
marks on his face and knuckles said otherwise.

Ryan winced. “Only when you touch it.”

“Sorry.” I cringed.

But then Ryan smiled at me. “This is better.” He took my
hand in his, and a new line of goose bumps flew all the way up my arm.

“You sure you can play?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

More goose bumps.

“How do the shoes feel?” Ryan asked me.

I looked down at my brand-new golf shoes, the white ones
with the pink piping that matched my golf glove. A present from Ryan. He’d
insisted, no matter how much I’d protested. “They feel great.” But that was an
understatement. Next to my golf glove, the shoes might have been the nicest
present I’d ever received. “How’d you know my size?”

“Your mom told me.” He smiled. “I think she’s starting to
dig me.”

“Yes, but how did you know these were the ones I
wanted?”

Ryan just looked at me with a crooked grin, like he
preferred to keep that a secret.

I smiled back at him, shaking my head, even as Coach
Lannon’s voice boomed in the background with names and instructions that didn’t
feel so strange anymore. I wondered if that had to do with me or whether that
had everything to do with Ryan.

“I’ve missed you,” Ryan said, and I thought my chest would
burst from wanting him.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I said, even though we’d only been
apart a day. It might as well have been a year. A thousand years. After golf,
Ryan Berenger was all that I could think about, wanted to think about. I had it
bad.

The coach waved at us from the top of the tee box, his arm
moving back and forth like a windmill. It became impossible to ignore him.

“Oday! Berenger! Get up here!” he yelled. “You’re up!”

“Oh, no,” I said.

“What?” Ryan chuckled. “Is the coach trippin’?”

“Do you hear that?” I tilted my head. A steady beat hovered
above the crowd from somewhere on the fairway. But it came from the direction of
the tee box, just below Coach Lannon. I squinted through the crowd for a better
look.

“Is that a drum?” Ryan said.

“I think so.”

“Well, that’s a new one.”

We moved closer to the cart path to peer above shoulders and
heads. I stood on tiptoe, as tall as I could go without falling forward.

The drumbeat drowned out Coach Lannon until even he had no
choice but to turn silent. Slow and steady, the drumbeat replaced the voices on
the golf course.

Thump-thump-thump.

Then the drumbeat grew frenzied, louder and faster, until it
stopped abruptly, quieting the sky.

The crowd froze, even me.

George Trueblood began to chant as steadily and deeply as
his drum. With his face lifted toward the sun, he extended his arms like he was
trying to greet the entire sky and everything in it. His feet shuffled and
stomped in small, deliberate movements as the fringe from his jacket fluttered
all around him.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

“A lot of people from the reservation are here today,” Ryan
said, unfazed. “I saw Sam and Pete. And Kelly and Yolanda. Your brother even
nodded at me. I’ll take that as a good sign.”

“Just be patient, Ryan. My brother needs time.”

“I got time.” He squeezed my hand.

“He’s stubborn. And annoying.”

“He’s being a good brother. Can’t blame him. Anyway, I saw a
bunch of other people from the hospital here, too. Seems you’ve got a real fan
club. Guess this isn’t just about you anymore, is it?”

I bit back a smile when I remembered the banner hanging
across the front of the community center on the Rez. I’d seen it on the drive to
the freeway and it made me feel as tall as the Estrella Mountains. It said,
Good luck, Fred
Oday. You make us proud!
It wasn’t professionally done or anything,
just a long white sheet with blue-and-black loopy painted letters made by Rez
kids at the elementary school. I would never forget it as long as I lived.

“That’s what George Trueblood told me,” I said.

“Smart dude.”

“More than you know.”

Scanning the crowd for George Trueblood and his drum, I
found Mom. She stepped out of the crowd and began to dance alongside him on the
fairway, her feet pivoting in small steps from underneath her long denim skirt.
The crowd parted to make room for her. She wore Grandmother’s
silver-and-turquoise necklaces, blue flat stones the size of my fist. I hadn’t
seen Mom wear the jewelry since I was in grade school.

She danced next to George Trueblood with her eyes closed. A
few weeks ago, I would have been mortified. Today, only pride filled my
heart.

Then George Trueblood began to speak:

Hold on to what is good, even if it is a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe, even if it is a tree which stands by
itself.

Hold on to what you must do, even if it is a long way from here.

Hold on to life, even when it is easier letting go.

Hold on to my hand, even when I have gone away from you.
1

“Oh, no,” I whispered again to Ryan behind my hand. My eyes
shifted to the right of George Trueblood.

“What?”

“Your parents. Next to my mom.” I said.

The Berengers stood behind Mom. Dr. Berenger was smiling,
but in a tight-lipped kind of way as if she wasn’t completely sure of protocol.
Clearly she hadn’t seen a chanting Indian at a golf tournament before. Mr.
Berenger looked every bit as uncomfortable with his arm around his wife’s
shoulders. But I could tell that they were trying. That was something.

Instead of looking at his parents, Ryan’s eyes stayed locked
on mine. “Is my mom cringing yet?”

I looked over his shoulder at his parents. “A little.” I
smiled. “Can you blame her?”

Ryan chuckled. “It’s the first time my parents have come to
one of my tournaments in two years. You’re probably just seeing them in a little
bit of shock. Don’t worry about it. They’ll be okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely,” he said. “It’s getting better.”

“For you, too?”

Ryan nodded. “They grounded me for a week this time, but I
deserved it.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s all good, Fred Oday,
Daughter of the River People.”

My breath caught in my throat. Ryan looked down at me with
that smile that reached deep inside my soul and lifted my spirits into the
clouds. “How’d you—”

“I’m learning. And you have a lot to teach me.”

And then, as George Trueblood continued the blessing in his
deep, clear voice, Ryan kissed me. He placed his hand behind my neck and pulled
me closer, pressing his lips against mine. He tasted sweet, just like on Pecos
Road all those weeks ago. I wanted more of Ryan Berenger, more than just his
lips.

Too soon, we pulled apart, and I’d swear I saw stars when my
eyes managed to open, and it had nothing to do with the sun.

“You’re absolutely right.” My voice cracked. “I have a lot
to teach you.”

His chin pulled back.

“About the River People, I mean,” I added, a little
breathless, still focused on the perfect curve of his mouth.

“Can’t wait.”

I could tell he meant it.

“Does this mean you’re not leaving Phoenix?” I’d been
dreading his answer all day.

He shook his head and smiled. “I’m not going anywhere unless
it’s with you.”

I leaned against him, relieved. “I am so glad.” It felt like
my cheeks would break from smiling, even as my eyes turned a little blurry.

“Me, too.”

George Trueblood finished his chant and the crowd clapped.
The coach blew his whistle and began waving like a windmill again.

I wished that Ryan and I could have a few more minutes, just
us. Alone.

Then Ryan took my hand again. This time he didn’t let it go.
“Good luck today, Fred.”

“Same to you, Ryan.”

“Don’t forget to crank the ball.” He squeezed my hand.

“I intend to.” It was impossible not to smile. It was also
impossible not to love Ryan Berenger.

With my hand in his, we walked through the crowd toward the
first tee with our golf bags threaded over our shoulders, two puzzle pieces that
found a reason to fit.

* * * * *

Golf Girl Gab

BACK NINE

The last nine holes of an eighteen-hole golf course.

BIRDIE

One under par.

BOGEY

One over par.

CLEATS

The pointy metal prongs on the bottom of golf shoes. They help the golfer grip her stance.

DIVOT

The round mark left on the grass in the tee box or the fairway after a golfer has swung at her ball. All golfers are expected to return the clump of grass to its rightful place after hitting the ball.

DOGLEG RIGHT/LEFT

When a hole on a golf course is said to be dogleg left or right, it is just that: it veers to the left or right along the fairway, just like the shape of a dog’s hind leg.

DRIVER

Usually a golfer carries two to four drivers in her golf bag. They are the clubs with the wider face, usually used for long distances. Sometimes called woods.

DRIVING RANGE

The wide-open spaces where golfers go to practice their swings without fear of hitting anybody. They’re usually adjacent to a golf course.

EAGLE

Two under par.

FAIRWAYS

The space between the tee box and the putting green, usually the longest part of a hole.

FRONT NINE

The first nine holes of an eighteen-hole golf course.

GOLF GLOVE

Some golfers wear gloves on both hands; most just wear one. If you’re right-handed, you wear a glove on your left hand. If you’re left-handed, you wear the glove on your right. The glove helps the golfer grip the club.

GREEN

The place where a golfer putts. The grass on the green is usually cut with a special lawn mower so that the grass is very low.

GREEN FEES

The amount a golf course charges to play nine holes and/or eighteen holes.

HANDICAP

The number of strokes a golfer is allowed in order to compete with golfers of all levels.

IRONS

Usually a golfer carries around eleven irons in her golf bag. They have smaller faces than woods.

MARKER

A flat plastic or metal piece the size of a penny with a small prong on the underside that’s used to mark balls on the putting green. Some golfers use coins like pennies or dimes.

PAR

The number of strokes it takes to reach a hole on a golf course. For example, if a hole is a par 5, a golfer will need to reach the hole and sink the putt in no more than five strokes in order to “par” the hole.

PUTTER

This is the club you use when you reach the green.

SAND TRAPS

These are also considered “hazards.” Oftentimes you’ll find sand traps near putting greens.

SAND WEDGE

The club you use when your ball has dropped or rolled into a sand trap.

SCORECARD

The card that a golfer uses to record her strokes for each hole. The fewer the strokes, the better the score.

SCRATCH GOLFER

A golfer (e.g., a professional golfer) who doesn’t have a golf handicap.

TEE BOX

The starting place, usually a flat, grassy area, on a golf course where a golfer uses her drivers or irons to launch her golf ball onto a fairway or green.

Acknowledgments

AS I WAITED FOR THIS BOOK TO
be published, the impossible happened: my parents died. They died within six months of each other and my world got rocked in ways that I never imagined. Regardless of age, a child always believes her parents are indestructible, even immortal, and I was no different. I was blessed to have a wonderful mother and father, and that is why I’m proud to dedicate this book to them. You’ll find their smiles, quiet wisdom, love and laughter within its pages. I miss you, Mom and Dad, each and every day.

It takes a village to publish a book, and I am honored to share mine with many talented and wonderful people:

Superwoman Literary Agent Holly Root for being the first person besides my parents to believe in me and love my stories. Thanks, Holly, for sticking with me through thick and thin.

Tashya Wilson and the entire Harlequin TEEN Dream Team. Thank you for loving Fred and Ryan and helping their story to shine brighter. Every author should be so fortunate to have such a supportive publishing house.

Dana Kaye with Kaye Publicity. I am so grateful our paths crossed.

My early readers for their invaluable input and willingness to eat out: Mary Fichera Zienty, Olivia Zienty, Susanna Ives, Tamera Begay and Jessica Bradley.

The Native American communities throughout Arizona and the American Southwest. Thank you for sharing your enduring spirit, beautiful cultures and lands.

All of the book lovers, librarians, teens, bloggers and online writing community members that I’ve met these past couple of years. Because of your love of stories, being an author is the best job in the world.

My crazy family, Mary, Joe, Joe Z, Kaz, Olivia and Andrew. Thanks for your infinite supply of love, unwavering support and tolerance for my constant
Seinfeld
references.

My sister, Mary, especially, for being the one I’ve always been able to count on.

And, finally, my husband, Craig. My light and my rock. Thanks for putting up with my nocturnal ways. Life wouldn’t be any fun without you.