Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (8 page)

Chapter 12
Ryan

“IS IT JUST ME, OR
IS
that girl whacked?” Seth muttered after Fred passed between us in
the hallway, forcing us to part abruptly. She barely glanced at us.

Seth glared over his shoulder. “Nice,” he yelled after her.
“Walk much?” he added.

“Seth...” I frowned at him. “Come on.”

“What?”

“Let’s just go,” I said, tugging at the thick black strap
digging into my right shoulder. “I gotta dump this.” I was anxious to be rid of
my golf bag, but what I really craved was more distance from Fred Oday. I didn’t
want to start the day arguing with Seth about her all over again. I’d had enough
of it at the mall.

Outside Coach Lannon’s office, I placed my hand on Seth’s
shoulder. I nodded at the coach’s brass nameplate next to the door. I was pretty
sure that next to Fred Oday, Coach Lannon was the last person Seth needed to be
around.

But Seth strode inside the office anyway, chin up. “It’s
cool.” A strange grin spread across his face when he saw the office was
empty.

Quickly, I walked around him and headed straight for the
corner, grateful to release the golf bag from my shoulder. I wedged it between a
half-dozen other bags while Seth dropped his backpack to the ground, bent over
and unzipped the top pocket.

“What are you doing?” I said to him.

Seth looked up at me, still grinning, before rummaging
inside his open backpack. He pulled out three red bricks, each the size of a
dictionary.

My eyes narrowed. “What’s with the bricks?”

Seth held them up like each was a gold bar, two balanced in
one hand, one in the other. His smile broadened. I hadn’t seen that look since
the time Seth had figured out how to hot-wire his mom’s car before either of us
had had a driver’s license. He’d succeeded. And then received a month’s
grounding along with a purple welt on his arm, compliments of his stepdad.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

“Shut up. Watch the door for me,” Seth whispered. “You’ll
see.” He went to the wall of stacked golf bags and moved two to reach the bright
red plaid one partially hidden behind them. It was impossible to miss.

He shook his head as he pushed the clubs inside the plaid
bag to one side. He wrapped one hand around the irons. “Friggin’ thing smells
like mothballs,” he muttered, head still shaking. The clubs clanged as they
jostled together in his hand, and I instinctively turned toward the opened door,
expecting Coach Lannon to bust us at any second.

We were so screwed.

“Um, Seth?” I said again, my eyes darting between Seth and
the door. “What are you doing?” I repeated, my tone more anxious.

But Seth still didn’t answer. He was too preoccupied with
dumping the bricks to the bottom of the bag, one by one.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“There.” He wiped his hands against his thighs. “That should
do it.” Then he arranged the plaid bag behind the others and turned to me.

My eyes widened. “Do what?”

“Let’s see how well Pocahontas does today carrying around a
load of
that.
” His head tilted toward Fred’s golf bag. His eyes dipped
conspiratorially to the bottom. But then his grin faded as his expression
darkened. “Serves the bitch right for stealing my spot.”

I swallowed back a hollow feeling of nausea. “She didn’t
exactly steal it.”

Seth glared at me.

“Well, not exactly,” I added.

His glare lasted only an instant. Then he patted my
shoulder. “But don’t worry.” He lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “I was
never here.”

Without another word, we turned for the door and headed down
the long hallway for Homeroom while I pictured three heavy bricks lying at the
bottom of Fred’s golf bag.

They might as well have been lining the bottom of my
stomach.

Chapter 13
Fred

I WAS THE
first person to board the bus before our first golf tournament. Not a
huge surprise. I’d probably been stressing about it the most.

I slipped into the empty seat behind the bus driver at 1:55,
relieved that Coach Lannon had already loaded all of the golf bags in the
storage compartment below the back of the bus. “What are you carrying in your
bag, Fred?” he teased when he climbed inside. He made a dramatic show of wiping
his shiny forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re only allowed fourteen
clubs, you know.” But then he winked at me, and I knew he was joking, his
attempt to get me to relax.

Like that was possible.

Coach Lannon didn’t need to remind me that my golf bag leaned a
little on the hefty side, and good thing I had grown used to it over the past
year. I’d carried it eighteen holes across the Ahwatukee Golf Club plenty of
times, not that I minded. Walking helped me to gauge the slope of the fairways a
lot better than driving a stupid golf cart.

The tournament against Hamilton High was being held at
Ahwatukee, another plus, since it was the only course I’d ever played. I knew
every hill, every tricky sand trap, every mesquite tree and every hazard. I even
knew where the cactus wrens and hummingbirds built their nests in the saguaros
and paloverde trees on the fairways. Simply stated, I could play the course
blindfolded.

Even so, I fidgeted in my seat, waiting for the others to
board. It was almost two o’clock, and I wanted the tournament to begin already.
I wanted to get to the course. I tried to concentrate on the English book
between my hands, but my eyes glazed over the same page, again and again.

One minute before two o’clock, Henry Graser climbed aboard the
bus, followed by Zack Fisher and Troy Bean. They talked animatedly and breezed
by me like I was invisible. I pretended to stare out the window. Naturally, they
chose the empty seats at the back of the bus.

My temples pounded as I stared at the emergency-exit
instructions above the bus driver’s seat. I had it memorized.
In case of emergency, remain seated...

In case of emergency, throw your body
through the glass and don’t stop running till you reach the next galaxy...
Okay, I made that part up, but I was certainly thinking it might be
necessary.

Then Ryan Berenger climbed the stairs. He boarded casually, his
eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, enhancing his blondness all the more. I
turned toward the window like I needed to shield my eyes from an eclipse and
waited until Ryan’s footsteps faded into the bowels of the back of the bus. Then
I remembered to breathe. What was it about him that was so irritating? Being his
partner for a whole afternoon would be pure torture.

Mercifully, Coach Lannon barreled aboard the bus with Scott
Paterson, Bob Bernacchi and Dan White trailing behind him. Like the rest of the
boys, they darted for the back, too, barely glancing in my direction.

Once everyone was seated, Coach Lannon made a dramatic show of
looking at the back of the bus with one hand over his eyes. “What are you boys
doing way back there?” It really wasn’t a question. “Get up here!”

I didn’t turn to watch them fill the closer seats, but my skin
prickled as I listened to their sluggish footsteps.

“Berenger, you sit up here with Fred.” He patted the back of my
seat. “Get better acquainted. You’re partners today.”

Don’t remind me.

Somebody snickered in the seat behind mine as if Ryan had lost
a bet.

As Ryan slid into the seat, I scooted closer to the window,
putting as much distance between us as possible. Only six inches separated us,
the closest we’d ever been, if you didn’t count the cake incident. Still clad in
sunglasses, Ryan faced forward and then rested clenched fists on his knees.

Nice.

I faced forward, too, trying to ignore Ryan, wishing that Coach
Lannon would say something—anything—that would make the bus move faster. Once I
started playing golf, everything else would disappear, even Ryan and his
permanent scowl.

The coach proceeded to call out tournament pairings. “Graser,
you’re with Bean. Bernacchi, you’re with White.” He glanced down at his
clipboard. “And, Fisher, you’re with Petersen. You’ll be assigned to your
Hamilton High twosomes once we get to the course. Understood?”

Everyone nodded. A few mumbled and muttered.

“Just a reminder that the Ahwatukee Golf Club is a par 72. The
first hole is a par 4 with a dogleg right. Don’t forget there’s water on the
third and sixth holes. Nothing any of you can’t handle. I played the course last
weekend and the greens were running fast, so don’t go heavy on your putts.
Remember—slow and steady wins the race. Control is essential.”

So far he hadn’t said anything that I didn’t know. I’d shot the
course under par a couple of times. Getting par wasn’t impossible, but it
wouldn’t win tournaments.

“Questions?” he asked.

Ryan raised his hand.

The coach nodded at him. “Ryan? And would you take off those
glasses? Who are you trying to channel—Brad Pitt?”

Ryan smirked, but I saw his cheeks flush a little.

Good,
I thought.
He’s embarrassed himself. He should be
embarrassed.

Reluctantly, Ryan removed his sunglasses, letting them dangle
against his chest on the end of a black leather strap. “What about giving up
strokes, Coach?” He paused and tilted his head in my direction. “Shouldn’t we
have to give her, say, two strokes every nine holes to keep the play fair?” His
tone was equal parts annoying and condescending. I could tell he was trying to
sound like he was doing me a favor by asking.

I knew better.

Every part of me prickled with red-hot, sizzling anger. Ryan
was totally messing with me. He was trying to psyche me out.

Coach Lannon’s chin pulled closer to his chest. His voice
stayed calm, almost as if he’d been expecting this, but I could tell Ryan’s
question made him angry. With a tight smile, he said, “Are you referring to
Fred?”

Ryan nodded. “Well, yeah. She’s the only girl on the team.” He
turned sideways to acknowledge the rest of the bus, getting a few supportive
laughs.

“Glad you noticed,” the coach said, pulling at his chin. “So
you think we should make special accommodations for her?”

Ryan shrugged. I hoped it wasn’t my imagination that he paled
another shade.

“That’s interesting, Mr. Berenger. I think I already know her
answer, but why don’t you ask her yourself?” He folded his arms and glared down
at him. “Why don’t you ask Fred if she wants special treatment at the
tournament—because that is what you’re asking, isn’t it?”

Out the corner of my eye, I watched Ryan’s Adam’s apple travel
up and lodge at the top of his neck like a peach pit. Clearly he hadn’t expected
that. He turned to me, looking a bit like he was afraid to take me straight
on.

My eyes met his, challenging him—goading him to look away. I
wanted him to ask me his stupid question almost as much as I wanted to tell him
my answer. I didn’t lower my gaze, even though every part of me wanted to. My
hands were trembling, so I wrapped my fingers around the edge of my seat.

Ryan’s face registered something I’d never seen before. For
less than a heartbeat, it looked like respect. But then the flicker vanished,
leaving the old Ryan Berenger in his place.

“I guess she doesn’t,” Ryan mumbled. “Forget I even asked.”

With pleasure.

Neither of us said a word as the bus grew so quiet that we
could hear the freeway traffic through the windows.

In a low voice, Coach Lannon finally interrupted our stare-down
and said, “I believe you have your answer, Mr. Berenger. Now, can we close the
chapter on Fred and her participation on this team and win a tournament
today?”

My fingertips ached as they gripped the edges of my seat. It
took all of my willpower not to throw Ryan Berenger out the window.

* * *

As soon as the bus pulled in front of the clubhouse at
the Ahwatukee Golf Club, Ryan bolted off the bus after Coach Lannon, taking a
blanket of heaviness in the air with him.

I pretended to fiddle with the button on my golf glove as I
waited for everyone to leave the bus. The other boys filed past me with sideways
glances, saying nothing. When I was finally alone, I sucked back a steadying
breath and reminded myself why I joined the team, why I was at the tournament.
Most of all, I reminded myself that I needed to win.

Outside the bus, Coach Lannon handed everyone their golf bags
and a tournament scorecard before we all walked to the first tee. The Hamilton
High bus was parked next to ours, and it was already empty.

The first tee was on an elevated hill, just past the clubhouse.
All eight members from Hamilton High and their coach waited for us behind the
tee box. They were dressed in matching green golf shirts and shorts, one face
paler than the next. The coach waved at Coach Lannon and then tapped his
wristwatch.

But everyone’s eyes weren’t focused on Coach Lannon or the Lone
Butte High School players who trudged to the tee box in groups of two and three.
Everyone’s eyes were fixed on me and my plaid golf bag. Trust me, it was not my
imagination.

I figured this would happen. When I hadn’t been able to sleep
last night, I’d practiced how to handle the unwanted attention. I had promised
myself that I would not blush, I would not lower my eyes in embarrassment, and I
would not fidget with my hands. I had planned to walk right up to the other boys
and pull out my driver like it was a sword, challenging anyone to doubt my
skills with my first drive. That was how I’d practiced it in my mind. It had
worked well in the safety of my bedroom. But here’s what really happened...

With my golf bag slung across my right shoulder, I walked alone
up the tiny hill to the front of the first tee. I stuffed my hands in the front
pockets of my new shorts to keep them from shaking. Sweat began to form behind
my ears. My eyes alternated from scanning over sixteen curious faces to
assessing the toes of my tennis shoes. Dryness invaded my throat as if I’d just
swallowed a glass of sand.

Coach Lannon dropped back and walked alongside me for the last
few yards to the tee. I was never so happy to be near him.

When we reached the other players congregating at the top, I
hoped that no one would ask me to speak. I’d forgotten how, especially since
every pair of eyes—blue ones, green ones, brown ones, some hidden behind
sunglasses—tracked every movement and studied every inch of my body, clearly
wondering if I was some sort of joke.

Some probably hoped I was.

Then there was my golf bag. Everybody gawked at that most of
all, like it had just dropped from a spaceship pod.

A handful of the parent spectators stared, too, although more
discreetly. I pretended not to notice them as I scanned the fairway for Dad. I
hoped he was somewhere close on his work cart. There was some comfort in knowing
that he breathed the same air.

“Coach Nickerson,” the coach said, breaking the silence on the
tee.

“Larry,” he replied with a head nod. “Hey, boys.” He paused,
face frozen, while I waited for it. “And...”

Coach Lannon finished his thought. “Let me introduce you all to
Fred Oday,” he said, answering the obvious question. He placed a heavy hand on
my left shoulder and pressed down. “The newest member of our team.”

Member. Team
. Right.

Coach Nickerson nodded at me, stared a second longer than he
should have and then, thankfully, lowered his tanned face to the clipboard and
began to call out the tournament foursomes, checking off each one with a
flourish of his pen after he announced them. Teeth clenched, I waited for my
name to be called.

“Berenger. Oday,” Coach Nickerson said. “You’re with Bellows
and Frazier. You’re up last.”

I exhaled. Last was good. Last meant that Ryan and I would be
the last to tee off from the first hole and the last to finish the eighteenth
hole. I figured that my nerves would have settled to something below Richter
scale proportions by then.

To stay focused, I pulled out my driver and a fresh white tee
from my bag. I stood a safe distance from the tee box for some practice swings.
Small bonus: the school provided each player with a sleeve of brand-new golf
balls and a water bottle. As I waited for the first few foursomes to tee off, I
noticed the small crowd of spectators hadn’t moved, including one guy with
graying sideburns and a palm-size notebook. He stood by himself underneath a
mesquite tree. The man jotted something down and continued to watch me when he
thought I wasn’t looking. Odd.

Focus, Fred. Focus,
I reminded
myself, half pretending to watch the other players tee off. I couldn’t concern
myself with the stares from spectators or players. Surely the novelty of a girl
on an all-boys’ golf team would wear off eventually. Wouldn’t it? And why did it
have to be such a big deal? Didn’t girls play on boys’ teams in other schools? I
had read once about a girl on an all-boys’ football team. That had to be a
thousand times weirder.

Coach Lannon finally called out our names. “Berenger, Oday,
Bellows and Frazier. You’re up next. Hamilton will tee up first.”

I grinned inwardly. Even better.

I grabbed my club and my bag and walked behind the first tee to
give the Hamilton players room to swing. The tall one with the reddish hair was
up first. I noted that their swings weren’t half-bad. They both smacked the ball
solidly with their drivers, but both balls hooked left down the fairway,
narrowly missing a thin strip of rocky desert that lined both sides of the
grass. It was a par-4 hole so they had to get to the green in no less than three
strokes to have a chance at par. Their grimaces after their opening swings
reflected their challenge at achieving par.