Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (5 page)

Chapter 4
Ryan

WHAT’S UP WITH
HER? I TRIED
to mind-meld with Seth as we passed a girl with the ends
of her black hair wrapped around her hand. She looked at the floor as soon as we
spotted her, like we’d caught her snitching or something.

As Seth and I approached Coach Lannon’s office, the coach
filled his doorway, absently scratching the side of his head.

I’d seen that pinched look on his face before. He looked a
little pissed, and I wondered if word had gotten back to him about Friday
night’s party. We’d been in trouble with the coach a couple of times last year
for partying, but nothing major. He’d given us the “don’t do drugs” speech and
warned us about how alcohol burned brain cells, and we’d halfheartedly promised
to stay out of trouble—or at least promised ourselves behind his back not to get
caught. I’d heard that one of Zack’s neighbors had called the police because of
the music, but, really, I barely remembered any of it.

“Seth,” the coach said, clearing his throat as we stopped at
his door. “Got a sec?” The warning bell buzzed in the background, indicating a
ten-minute window before Homeroom.

“Sure, Coach.” Seth balanced his dark blue TaylorMade golf
bag in front of him. He grabbed the sides with both hands and waited.

The coach’s right eyebrow shot up.
“Alone,”
he said. “Sorry,
Ryan.”

“Oh, right,” I said as I wedged myself and my bag between
them. My best guess was that the coach was going to give Seth another warning
about failing grades and ditching class, two things that Seth had done really
well last year. Although I’d probably ditched as often, I’d maintained a decent
grade-point average without trying too hard. Seth really needed to start taking
the coach’s rules seriously. One more warning and he’d probably be off the team.
Before I could think it through, I said, “If it’s about Friday night, I can
explain—”

The coach cut me off with a wave of his hand. “What about
Friday night?” But then he shook his head and sighed. “Forget it. It has nothing
to do with that, Berenger.” His jaw clenched, and I realized that I’d just made
things worse.

Before I could make him angrier, I dumped my golf bag inside
the office where six others already crowded one of the corners, including a
busted-up plaid one that must have been someone’s idea of a joke. Then I turned
around for the hallway without stopping. “See you in class,” I mumbled to Seth
as I passed through the doorway.

Seth flashed me a grateful grin, but I could tell by the way
his lip twitched that he was anxious.

Coach Lannon barely gave me a chance to leave before he
closed the door.

That couldn’t be good.

* * *

The next time I saw Seth, his nostrils were flaring.

He marched into Homeroom with his fists clenched. His eyes
blazed and his chest heaved as if the coach had just forced him to do one
hundred push-ups. The veins in his forehead looked ready to pop.

Seth scanned the room until he found me. I nodded at him
from the back row and lifted my backpack from the empty seat next to mine.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed Seth. At least thirty
other faces in Homeroom watched him storm his way to the back of the room. He
dropped so heavily into his seat that his desk knocked into the guy seated in
front of him, but the dude didn’t turn around and bitch. Probably too
scared.

I feared the worst. “What’d the coach say?” I whispered to
Seth as he jammed his backpack underneath his seat. Fortunately the Homeroom
teacher was too busy going through her attendance sheets to care.

Seth shook his head and stared into space, then garbled
something unintelligible. Totally not like Seth to act so out-of-control
crazed.

I leaned in and tried again. “Come on. Tell me. What
happened?”

Seth’s face darkened another shade, and all I could think
was
He got
expelled.
That had to be it. I wondered if I should get a hall pass
to see Coach Lannon and try to explain a way out of this. I could promise that
both of us would be on our best behavior all year. We had practiced so hard over
the summer. The coach had seen us tons of times at my parents’ country club. And
if I had to, I’d even break down and beg Dad to reason with him. Dad was an
expert at convincing people to do stuff they didn’t want to do.

Finally, Seth spoke, but his teeth stayed clenched. “Dude,
you are so not gonna believe this.” He exhaled as the principal’s voice filled
the room over the loudspeakers with a list of upcoming SAT test dates.

I pulled closer, full-on curious.

“He. Kicked me. Off. The fucking. Team.”

“Say what?” My shoulders caved forward. “That is so
busted!”

Seth nodded, nostrils still flaring.

“Maybe if I talked to him. Maybe if my dad talked to
him...”

A frenzied smile took over his face. He looked as whacked as
I’d ever seen him. “Don’t bother,” he said, surprising me again.

“Don’t bother?” My chin pulled back. Seth never gave up
without a fight. “Why not? We could talk to him. We could talk him out of
it—”

“Save it, Ryan,” he said.

“Why?” I said. “Why not try?”

“Won’t matter,” he fumed.

“But the coach saw you at the club this summer, practicing
your ass off.” Seth might not have been the best player on the team but he had
gotten a lot better. The coach had to have noticed.

Seth half laughed, half snorted. “Seems I got axed
anyway.”

“Did it have to do with the party? Did he hear about
it?”

“Had nothing to do with the party.”

“What, then? Why?”

Seth’s tight-lipped smile faded, but the anger behind his
eyes only got worse. The blood vessels around his forehead looked freakishly
ready to explode. “Some girl named Fred Oday got my spot.”

“A
girl?
” I was speechless. My eyes narrowed.
There was that odd girl name again: Fred.

“Here’s the best part,” Seth continued, his voice growing
raspier. “Coach isn’t even making her try out.” He chuckled darkly. “He handed
my spot right to the bitch.” His glassy eyes stared back at me. “Sweet deal,
huh?”

I shook my head.
Hardly.

I didn’t even know this girl, but I already hated her.

* * *

Homeroom was only fifteen minutes, but it felt like fifteen
hours.

Afterward, Seth stormed into the hallway. “I gotta ditch,”
Seth told me. “I need to chillax before my head explodes.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Seth shook his head, surprising me again. “No, I just got to
figure out how to explain this to my parents. They’re going to go ape-shit.”
What Seth really meant was that his stepdad would freak. Getting cut from the
golf team would give him one more reason to be disappointed in Seth.
Unfortunately, Seth’s stepdad had a habit of showing his disappointment with a
few well-placed punches, most of which left a bruise or two.

There was no stopping Seth either. He darted toward the
student parking lot to get his truck.

Students with backpacks as big as tortoises shuffled
alongside me as we all carved our way down the narrow hallways before the next
bell. Normally I hated the claustrophobic feeling of the hallways and all the
pushing and shoving, but today I barely noticed. I was still trying to wrap my
head around Seth’s news:
Some girl named Fred Oday.

Some girl?
Had Seth heard that right?

She’s already got a spot on the team.

How was that fair?

Coach isn’t even making her try out.

Not even an informal tryout?

And her name is Fred Oday.

Fred? What kind of a girl’s name was that?

My temples began to throb as I replayed the news in my head.
None of it made any sense.

And where had I heard the name Fred? Where had I seen her?
Surely she hadn’t just dropped out of the freaking sky. She must be at least a
junior. And why would Coach Lannon put a girl on an all-boys’ varsity golf team?
Was he high? Weren’t there rules against stuff like that? Shouldn’t there be?
Our chances of winning the state championship had just crashed.

Still numb, I almost head-butted Zack Fisher on my way to
English. I was going through the door as he was busting out.

“You hear?” Zack said to me, predictably. Of course Zack had
heard. Thanks to him, probably everyone in the entire school already knew about
Seth.

I stared back at him, still a little dazed.

“Well? Have you heard?” He grabbed my shoulder.

I shrugged Zack’s hand off my shoulder. “Yeah. I heard. I
sit right next to him in Homeroom. Remember?”

“Can you believe that?” Zack’s head of tight brown curls
shook indignantly, his eyes shiny and wide with the news. “And now we’ve got a
girl on the team? Are you kidding me?” His voice got higher, louder. Angrier.
“Why don’t they just start a girls’ team?” Several freshmen glanced curiously in
our direction as they passed us in the hallway.

“I know,” I said, unsure what more to say.

“You know her?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of her.”

Zack chortled. “Well, she better be good. That’s all I got
to say.” He said it as if he didn’t think it was even remotely possible. I
wanted him to be right.

“Yeah,” I said. Especially since she just got my best friend
kicked off the team.

The bell rang, and we both turned for the door. Mrs. Weisz,
our English teacher, was already at the podium and shuffling papers. She peered
at us over her wire-rimmed bifocals. A quick flicker of her eyelids reminded us
about her views on tardiness. But then I realized, too late, that I’d rather be
anywhere other than inside her stuffy classroom discussing lame hundred-year-old
books that never made any sense. I should have ditched with Seth.

Too late now.

With my backpack slung over my right shoulder and my hands
jammed in my front pockets to keep them from punching a hole in the door, I wove
my way to my usual spot next to the window. Every seat was taken, and the rows
were so tight that there was barely any room to wedge between the desks. When I
finally made it to the last row, I passed by a girl seated in the front desk and
accidentally knocked over her book with my backpack.

“Sorry,” I murmured, bending over to retrieve it. When I
stood up, my eyes swept over her desk and then landed on her face. It was the
same girl who’d walked out of Coach Lannon’s office.

For a moment, we locked gazes, and I began to piece it
together. But then before I blinked, the girl lowered her eyes and began
fidgeting with a strand of her hair. It twirled around her finger like a shiny
black ribbon as she stared down at a blank page in her notebook. Her eyes hid
under feathery eyelashes.

And then, for some odd reason, I squinted at the cover of
her book in my hand:
The Great Gatsby
by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In
the right corner, written in perfect cursive letters in black ink, I saw another
name:
Fred
Oday.

My jaw dropped.
Fred Oday?
That
Fred Oday?

My temples started to pound again. My eyes traveled back
down to the girl’s forehead. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes stayed lowered.
She was sure as shit avoiding me.

You’re Fred Oday?
I wanted to shout.

I almost choked out my question until Mrs. Weisz said, “Mr.
Berenger? Something wrong?”

I didn’t answer her. My gaze refused to unlock from the top
of the girl’s head.

“Will you take your seat, Mr. Berenger?” Mrs. Weisz
snapped.

I nodded numbly. And then I remembered.

All of the details came flooding back as clearly as the
writing on her book. Everything.

She was the girl who’d dropped cake right into my crotch at
Mom’s birthday dinner, almost as if she’d done it on purpose. She was the girl
who’d passed Seth and me outside Coach Lannon’s office. And she was also the
girl who’d robbed my best friend of his spot on the golf team.

I dropped the book onto Fred’s desk. It landed with a
splat.

Then I stormed down the row and dropped into the last empty
seat.

Chapter 5
Fred

I WANTED TO
hide in Coach Lannon’s office for the rest of the day.

The whispers and hushed voices started in earnest sometime
after Homeroom on my way to English, even worse than when Dad had dropped me off
at the curb. When I tilted my head and struggled to eavesdrop on hallway
conversations between classes, voices faded. It was like trying to catch words
in the wind.

But then in first-period English, for the very first time,
he
looked at me: Ryan Berenger. The pretentious,
moody guy who couldn’t be bothered to have dinner with his family, the one who
always had his arm around the bleached-blonde girl from the pom squad who was
always pictured in the school newspaper on top of parade floats and at dances
that I wouldn’t dream of attending. Usually. Anyway, they always sat together
all cozylike at lunch. Ryan let Blonde Girl thread her thin, pale fingers
through his hair like she owned him.

They deserved each other.

But I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year,
and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.

I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the
summer, too. He and his short, stocky blond friend were always speeding by the
driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they didn’t have to wait till after
five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play
whenever he wanted.

And now we were teammates. As Trevor would say, that was
irony.

That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class
and gripped my book like he wanted to shred it to pieces. What else would make
him so angry? Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too—or he
was still pissed that I’d ruined his pants with a piece of mushy birthday
cake.

“Don’t fear the journey,” I murmured as the day’s last bell
rang. At my locker, I closed my eyes and tried desperately to picture the falcon
with the gold-and-brown feathers perched at the top of our mesquite tree at
home. For a moment, my shoulders lightened, and I was able to drown out the
negative thoughts invading my head. After a few calming breaths, my eyes opened
slowly. My vision cleared. “Don’t fear the journey,” I exhaled one final
time.

A girl with red spiky hair and a silver nose stud standing at
the locker next to mine slammed her army-green locker shut.

I jumped when it closed and then turned to her.

The girl rolled her eyes like I was crazy.

She might be right.

* * *

“Okay, men—” Coach Lannon said but then stopped himself.
He turned sideways, his thick arms folded across his chest. He cast an
apologetic smile at me. “And lady,” he added, as if he was doing me the world’s
biggest favor.

I groaned inwardly.

It’d be more comfortable standing beneath a spotlight
surrounded by a marching band.

Leaning against my golf bag like it was a lifeboat, I stood
with my seven teammates on the largest of the four grassy fields that surrounded
Lone Butte High School. The open field was as large as a football field. My
teammates stood beside me but not too close, each straddling their own golf bags
that looked newer than mine by at least three decades. Coach Lannon stood across
from us in the middle of our half-moon lineup, eager to start barking out orders
by the way he kept fingering his whistle.

After spending several excruciatingly long seconds introducing
me to the team, he mercifully reverted into his coach persona, the one I’d
gotten to know at the country club, long enough for me to resume breathing
again. Small miracle: at least he introduced me as Fred Oday and not Fredricka.
That would have been beyond humiliating.

No one said hello, not that I expected or needed pleasantries.
I simply wanted to play golf and lots of it. I hadn’t joined the team to make
friends. And their sideways glances when they thought I wasn’t paying attention
suggested that building friendships wouldn’t be an option.

“We got a best-ball tournament with Hamilton High on Thursday,
so we got our work cut out for us this week. I hope you boys have been
practicing over the summer?” Coach Lannon’s eyes scanned the boys standing to my
right. A few fidgeted in place, especially the one with the brown curls named
Zack. He bounced around like he had an army of red ants crawling up his leg.
Coach Lannon didn’t bother staring me down. He knew exactly where I’d spent most
of the summer, and my eyes begged for his silence. Mentioning it would only
elevate my status to something below Teacher’s Pet.

“Bus will leave here at two o’clock,” he continued, tapping his
clipboard.

My chest caved forward, grateful. The coach must have sensed my
unease.

“You’re all excused from your last class,” he continued. “I’ve
already cleared it with your teachers. Bus will be back here by seven.”

A few happy gasps filled the air at the thought of missing a
couple hours of school.

“But be on the bus no later than two. Understood?” Coach
Lannon’s eyes widened, daring disobedience. “Any questions so far?” He said it
in a way that indicated he didn’t expect any. But someone got his brave on.

“What about Fred, Coach? Does she get to tee off from the
women’s tees at the tournament?”

A few of the guys snickered as the hairs prickled on the back
of my neck.

Women’s tees?

Carefully, I turned sideways till my eyes landed on Ryan
Berenger. His eyes shifted back to the coach when I glared at him.

“Well, Ryan,” Coach Lannon said, scratching the side of his
head, as if he hadn’t fully thought about it, and my jaw dropped. Certainly he’d
spent at least one minute of his time pondering this. There was only one
answer.

“No!” I blurted.

All seven of the boys, including Coach Lannon, turned to gape
at me. Clearly no one had ever answered for the coach before. “I won’t hit from
the women’s tees. I can hit from the men’s tees. I do it all the time.” My teeth
ground together as my hands shook.

One of Coach Lannon’s blond eyebrows rose with something
resembling admiration as he slowly scanned the boys’ faces, reading their
reactions. Collectively, their lips pressed together. A few fidgeted with their
bag tags, but no one uttered another word.

Then the coach smiled. “Well, I guess you heard her, men. And
don’t underestimate her,” he added. “I’ll wager she’s got a straighter shot than
anyone else on this team.”

I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any
easier.

The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to
studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.

“Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her
hit.” He said it like a challenge.

“Yeah,” piped in another low voice.

“Show us,” taunted a third boy.

My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers
and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support.
It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as
tall as I was. My stomach churned, and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless
afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.

“Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of
wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.

Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a
ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly
claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I
removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my
bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other
golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on
the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like
the newer ones.

As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of
eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently
critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious
lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin
high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to
throb.

Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a
patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against
my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts
where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out
every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my
hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a
couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single
word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half
hour.

I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I
took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from
the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward
and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their
tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and
swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the
ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.

And muffed it.

Crap!

The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more
than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.

Totally embarrassing.

Someone chuckled.

“Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It
sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed,
the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.

My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.

I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped
a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I
closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear
across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird
drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and
smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any type of bird—a crow, grackle,
hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.

And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over left,
approached the golf ball, bent my knees, lowered my forehead and smacked that
friggin’ white ball high into the sky and clear across the field. It pierced
deep into the sky like a gunshot.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Lannon roared,
walking toward me with quick steps, his eyes still tracking the ball. He even
clapped a couple of times.

I ignored him. I ignored everybody. I didn’t need their praise.
Instead, I waited for the ball to drop from the sky, still holding on to my
follow-through with the club arched over my right shoulder. Picture-perfect
form.

“I don’t think you’ll find that ball! That one’s a goner!”
Coach Lannon grinned.

“Shit,” someone muttered. “Where’d it go?”

“Dunno,” said another disappointed voice.

I didn’t turn to Coach Lannon and wait for any more of his
compliments. Truth is, I hated compliments. I didn’t boast either or flash my
teammates an
I-told-you-so
smirk. Instead, I reached
down for another ball with a trembling hand and teed up my next shot. Then
another.

And another.

It was like my arms were on fire.

“The rest of you goofballs, quit your gawking and start
swinging! Let me see what you got! We got a tournament in three days!”

I swung at another ball. Harder. The next one sailed farther
than the last.