Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (6 page)

Chapter 6
Ryan

DECENT.

That’s what I thought when I watched Fred’s swing. Although
she’d completely muffed her first tee shot, her form was tight: knees bent, chin
lowered, hands gripping the club on the sweet spot. Her club swept back and then
crushed against the ball as if swinging a club was the easiest thing in the
world. Some golfers had it and others didn’t. Fred Oday definitely had
it.

I’d be lying if I said that I hoped she was good, because I
wanted Fred to fail. I wanted an epic fail right in front of the coach, in front
of everybody. And I wanted it bad.

“Jeez, the Fred freak sure can crank it,” Henry Graser said.
He swung next to me and sounded as disappointed as I probably looked.

“Yeah,” I growled underneath my breath as I fiddled with a
new box of tees stuffed in the front pocket of my golf bag.

“Well, we’ll see.” Henry stopped to lean against his Ping
nine-iron. He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his pale forehead. “Coach always
says practice is one thing, tournaments are another. Maybe she’ll choke on
Thursday.” He tapped his iron against the heel of his golf shoe, releasing a
clump of dirt.

Tournaments.
My shoulders lightened. The coach was right.
Let’s see how she
does on Thursday. That ought to set everything straight again. Maybe then
Coach will realize he made a big mistake.
Maybe there was a chance
Seth could rejoin the team....

“And just because you can crank a ball doesn’t mean you can
putt. Or get yourself out of a sand trap,” Henry added, trying to convince us
both that Fred’s golf skills were a fluke. He bent over to balance another ball
on his tee.

Three stations away from us, Fred pulled out a seven-iron
from her golf bag and took a practice swing with her eyes closed. A light wind
lifted black wispy hairs around her face. She paused to twirl the loose strands
behind her ears when they drifted too close to her eyes.

I pretended not to notice that Fred was more than just a
little pretty.

Hold up. What am I saying?!

I lowered my head over my ball and pulled my chin into my
chest. I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath. Fred was starting to psyche
me out, and I could kick my own ass for even thinking it.

Sucking in a gulp of warm air, I pulled back my driver and
cracked the ball clear across the field, but the ball hooked left almost
immediately. It didn’t sail straight like Fred’s. Not even close. Waiting for it
to land, I whacked my club against the ground.

In my periphery, I caught Fred watching me, studying me. I
swore under my breath. If only she’d seen my last shot. That one had been
perfect.

What was wrong with me? Why should I care, and most of all,
why
would
I
care what she thought? I tapped the side of my head with my club.

“Not bad, Berenger. Not bad!” Coach Lannon yelled from the
other end of the field. “Except you hooked it.”

Gee, thanks, Coach. Tell me something I don’t know.

“And check out that bag.” Henry continued his ongoing
commentary, lowering his voice. He chuckled. “Where’d she find that thing?”

I tried to ignore Henry but failed miserably. “Shut up,
Graser,” I snapped. “You’re messing with my concentration.”

Henry’s neck pulled back, palms lifted. “My bad, Tiger
Woods. Just having some fun.”

I shook my head and then tried to concentrate on the next
practice ball.

“It must be real busted, losing the team’s top spot to a
girl,” Henry added.

“Yeah, real busted,” I said, not bothering to hide my
sarcasm.

It was all I could do not to wipe off Henry’s grin with the
end of my club. He was lucky his father was principal of the school, or I would
have seriously considered it.

Chapter 7
Fred

I SAT ON
the curb next to the gym after practice, pretending to be engrossed in
The Great Gatsby
perched on my knees as I waited
for Dad. Too bad F. Scott Fitzgerald never knew what it was like to be the lone
girl on an all-boys’ golf team.

My backpack was propped against the front of my bare legs. The
sun began to set over the Estrella Mountains, painting orange-yellow streaks
across the sky. The campus was almost peaceful.

Almost.

All of my new teammates raced out of the school parking lot
like it was the last day before summer vacation. They peeled across the pavement
in SUVs, convertibles, sedans, a pickup—one even drove a Hummer—each one newer
and shinier than the next.

No one offered me a ride, not that I expected one, especially
when they’d behaved like I had some kind of incurable skin disease. No matter.
I’d be mortified if any of them drove me all the way home. Better to let them
believe I lived in a tepee with no running water or television. That was
probably what they thought. That was probably what they’d all like to think.

Ryan Berenger was the last one to leave. He made a show of
racing through the parking lot in a shiny silver Jeep Cherokee. His tires never
stopped screeching.

Someone sat in his passenger seat, but I couldn’t see who it
was. I kept my head lowered toward my book and watched Ryan through the safety
of my eyelashes. The radio blared through his open windows, and yet he scowled
through the windshield.

What a waste. Why would someone with his own car need to scowl?
And why was he always staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking? He’d kept
glancing over at me during practice. It was...unsettling.

After Ryan drove away, I exhaled and closed my book.

“Hey, Fred.”

I turned, startled. It was Sam. “What are you doing here?”

Sam walked toward me, his backpack threaded over his shoulder.
“Stayed late to work in the lab on a project. Mind if I catch a ride home with
you?”

I smiled at him. “’Course not.”

And that’s when Dad drove through the front entrance. I heard
the familiar chug of the van’s engine a block away. Perfect timing.

I looked at him through his open window and smiled tiredly.
Gratefully. It was so nice to see Dad’s face.

“How’s my daughter?” he said as he pulled the van alongside the
curb.

“Fine, Dad,” I said with a tinge of forced brightness.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Mr. Oday.” Sam grabbed my backpack from the sidewalk.
This time he didn’t ask, and I was too tired to protest.

Sam followed me as I opened the rear door. With one hand, he
tossed my pack into the back of the van. I placed a purple Lone Butte High
School golf shirt from Coach Lannon on top of it. It was a men’s large, but it
had been the only shirt left. I was supposed to wear it to all the tournaments.
I’d have to hem the sleeves a couple inches before Thursday’s tournament.
Otherwise the shirt would hang past my elbows.

Dad’s brow continued to furrow as he watched me over the front
seat. “Really?” he said. His tone was doubtful. “Everything’s really fine?”

I slammed the door, because that was the only way it closed.
Then I climbed into the passenger seat, anxious for once to get home. Sam
slipped into the seat behind mine. “Really,” I said, still a bit forced.

“How was practice?”

“Fine.”

He chortled. “That’s it? That’s all you got for me?
Fine?
”

I nodded and looked out the passenger window as he pressed the
accelerator and proceeded to the exit.

“How’d you do?”

“I did okay.”

“Just okay?” His eyes widened. “Look, are you going to tell me
how practice went or not? I’ve been worried all day.”

I dragged my tongue across my lips, then turned to him and
smirked. “It was about what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

I sank lower in my seat as we approached the stoplight, hiding
the bottom half of my face below the dashboard. Ryan Berenger’s silver Jeep sat
at the red light only two cars ahead of us.

Dang it!

I swallowed again, not taking my gaze off the back of his
vehicle. There was a gold Ahwatukee Golf Club Member sticker on his rear
window.

“Well, Coach Lannon had us warm up on the school’s driving
range. Then we practiced our short game and putting.” I shrugged my shoulders
like practice was no big deal. “I did fine. I think.”

Sam grunted behind me like he thought I was being too
modest.

I’d done better than fine, even after my embarrassing first
practice shot. I’d attacked the ball at every opportunity, because I didn’t have
a choice. The boys had expected me to fail—wanted me to fail. I’d sensed it. And
I wasn’t about to give any of them an ounce of satisfaction.

“And what about your teammates? What are they like?”

My lips sputtered while I crossed my arms over my chest. I
really didn’t want to say too much in front of Sam. It felt kind of weird. And
embarrassing. “They’re just...” I paused, looking ahead for Ryan’s Jeep.
“They’re just a bunch of guys. You know...” My voice trailed off.

The light changed to green, and the cars began to cross the
intersection. Dad stayed in the left lane to take the freeway home; Ryan turned
right toward the Ahwatukee Golf Club and the sea of pink-tiled roofs.

And breathing became easier again. I rose a notch in my
seat.

“How’d they feel about having you on the team?” Dad asked
quietly.

My shoulders shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Coach Lannon didn’t give
them much of a choice. How could they feel?”

Dad didn’t say anything. And neither did Sam.

Still, I could see both of their brains churning, even if they
didn’t utter a single word.

Chapter 8
Ryan

ZACK FISHER
WOULDN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT
Fred Oday. I cranked up the car stereo
another notch.

Zack sat in my passenger seat. He’d needed a ride home, but
I regretted my offer to drive him.

“Man, I hate to say it, but she’s badass,” Zack yelled over
the music, reaching for his seat belt as I pressed my foot against the
accelerator, hard. The Jeep lurched forward.

My hands gripped the steering wheel till all my knuckles
turned white. First Henry Graser, and now I had to listen to Zack Fisher all the
way home. All anyone could talk about was Fred Oday.

“Did you see her sand shot?” Zack shook his head like he
still couldn’t believe it.

Yeah, I saw it.
My jaw clenched.

“I don’t think she missed a single putt either.” He whistled
annoyingly through his teeth. “And I used to think you were the best putter on
the team,” he said even louder. “Not anymore, dude. Sorry.” He chuckled darkly,
slapping his hand against the door frame.

I raced to the stoplight just past the school exit. The
light turned red, and my foot pressed the brake when it really wanted to stomp
on the accelerator and fly down Pecos Road.

“You think with her on the team we might actually take State
this year?” Zack turned to me.

My expression stayed frozen till my gaze traveled to the
rearview mirror. Then I shook my head and sighed.

“What?” Zack asked.

“Nothing.” I frowned. I wasn’t about to tell bigmouthed Zack
that I was starting to see Fred Oday everywhere—at restaurants, in class, even
in my rearview mirror. And she was in the passenger seat of a rusted-out van—at
least, it looked like her. Dark hair, coppery skin, hair pulled back, forehead
lowered. Always lowered. And for some reason, that ape of a guy Sam Tracy was in
the van, seated behind her. It was kind of hard to miss him. His neck was as
wide as a tree trunk.

“So, what do you think?” Zack prodded again.

“About what?” I mumbled as the light turned green. My
fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

“About the team? About winning?”

I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what to think, so just shut
up. I’m trying to drive. Do you want a ride or not?”

Zack’s neck pulled back, and his eyes widened. “Sure. That’s
cool.” His eye roll told me he would have preferred walking home. “You wanna
hang at my house for a while?”

“No, I’ve gotta get home,” I lied.

I’d promised to stop by Seth’s house after practice. I
didn’t know which would be worse: avoiding Seth’s questions about golf practice
or listening to Zack’s nonstop babble.

When the light finally changed, I made my turn and checked
the rearview mirror. Fred was gone, and I could think clearly again.

Chapter 9
Fred

AFTER THE
USUAL
quickie dinner of hot dogs and canned corn, I begged Mom to
drive with me back to Phoenix to shop for a new pair of shorts for school. That
was the only way Dad would let me go, and, surprisingly, Mom agreed. I’d had my
license for almost a year, but Dad had a thing about me driving long distances
at night. And when you lived in the middle of nowhere, everything was
long-distance.

Being September, it was still too warm for jeans, and my two
pairs of shorts had become embarrassingly faded and frayed around the edges. My
khaki pair I’d worn since the eighth grade.

I was certain my fashion faux pas hadn’t gone unnoticed at
school where most of the girls, especially the popular ones, rotated fashion as
often as their boyfriends. I simply had to have something new to wear, at least
an updated pair of shorts, maybe even a new tank, before the first golf
tournament.

The closest mall to the Rez sat next to the freeway. It was
halfway between our trailer and Lone Butte High School. The mall was completely
enclosed and so enormous that it should have had its own zip code. There were
three floors of continuous stores wrapped around a central courtyard with a
fountain. A strong scent of melted cheese and warm pretzels permeated the air.
Even though it was a Monday, the stores buzzed with people and chatter like it
was the last day of Christmas shopping.

I loved the mall. I could window-shop every day. Mom? Not so
much.

“Just a couple of stores tonight, Freddy,” Mom said, pulling
closer to me as the other shoppers jostled around us with their elbows and
strollers. “Let’s not make it a marathon. The air in here always dries my eyes.”
Her nose wrinkled when someone’s shopping bag brushed her arm.

“’Kay, Mom,” I said. Mom had never been a fan of crowds,
especially in places outside the Rez. She always said the mall made her nervous,
but I suspected it was the people, especially the ones with designer purses and
overflowing department-store bags from Nordstrom and Macy’s. They probably
reminded her too much of the people she had to serve at work.

Still, I always secretly wished that she was the type of mom
who liked to shop and do all the fun things I imagined that normal girls did
with their mothers, maybe even stop at a restaurant in the food court afterward
to critique our purchases over a cheeseburger and soda. Wouldn’t that be so
cool? Except we never did stuff like that.

“Where to first?” Mom said.

I nodded to a Gap store next to my favorite golf-goods store.
I’d been in the golf store a few times with Dad but never to buy anything, only
to look. And dream.

Mom’s eyes followed mine. She let out a long exhale. “You
didn’t drag me all the way out to this godforsaken place to look at golf clubs,
did you? When I could be home with my feet propped up enjoying a cold beer?”

I cringed at her loud tone. “Already got clubs,” I said softly.
Nonchalantly, my eyes trailed across the display window. A silver ladder with
women’s golf shoes perched on each step filled the corner, and my eyes beaded on
a white leather pair with soft pink piping around the laces. I sucked back a
breath through my lips. Those shoes matched my golf glove. I just had to take a
closer look.

“Freddy...” Mom’s voice ratcheted up another notch. “A pair of
shorts is why we’re here, remember?”

“Yep, I know. But I just need to look at something for a
second. Please? I’ll be back outside before you know it. Promise.”

Mom’s lips sputtered. “Okay, okay. But only a minute. I’ll be
in here.” She nodded toward the Gap. “I’ll start looking for the clothes on
sale, but if you’re not inside this store in five minutes, we’re leaving.
Anyway, I think I’m getting a migraine.” Her eyebrows pulled together.

I nodded. “I’ll only be gone a minute.” I glanced again at the
golf shoes, half expecting giant hands to swoop them off the display before my
very eyes.

“How much money you got?”

“Probably enough for two pairs of shorts,” I said. “That’s all
I need.”

“Good, because I sure as hell didn’t bring any.” Mom’s
shoulders shrugged, and then she turned for the other store. “At least it’s less
crowded in here,” she muttered as she walked away. “And there’s a chair!”

I spun on the balls of my feet and darted inside the golf store
while Mom trotted off to nab the chair. I rushed to the shoe section to find the
white pair with the pink piping. My eyes landed on the price tag: $110.

I sighed.

It might as well have said one million.

My fingers brushed the soft laces. I’d need a few more weekends
at the Wild Horse Restaurant to afford them, if the chef allowed me back at
all.