Hooked (Harlequin Teen) (9 page)

Then it was Ryan’s turn.

Ryan pulled out his driver, a sturdy club with a shiny metal
head.

It was probably custom-made,
I
mused.

He took two practice swings. His swing was nice. Solid. Smooth.
I tried not to gawk at it too much at practice, but now, as his partner, I
didn’t have much choice.

Ryan approached the ball, bent his knees, lowered his head and
adjusted his hands on the club. Then he pulled back the club above his
shoulders. The ball cracked into the sky, sailing far across the fairway but
veering right. It was a strong shot, but it rolled near the desert’s edge. Ryan
smacked his club against the ground when the ball landed. It hadn’t gone where
he wanted. He glared at the sky, angry.

Again I smiled inwardly.
Serves him
right,
I thought. I knew that strip of desert where his ball had
landed. The ground was hard and blanketed with tiny rocks and cactus needles. It
wasn’t easy hitting a ball out of the desert, even from the edge. I figured he’d
scuff one of his shiny irons before he’d get his ball back on the fairway. I
should have felt bad for him.

Finally it was my turn, and the tee box turned eerily quiet. It
was as if everyone suddenly sucked in a collective breath. The only noise came
from a few crows flying overhead. I tossed my ponytail over my shoulder so that
it rested down the middle of my back and out of my way. I took a few practice
swings to calm my nerves and loosen my shoulders. Then, like the others in my
foursome, I approached the ball, bent my knees, lowered my chin and adjusted my
grip. I took one last look at the flag on the green in the distance. It
fluttered as if it was waving at me. From the tee box, it didn’t look any bigger
than a white sail from a boat in the middle of a lake. I inhaled a final,
steadying breath, lowered my head and swung.

As soon as my clubface struck the ball, I knew where it would
fly. I knew by the sound—loud and solid like a crack of summer thunder. The ball
flew high into the sky and then sailed down the middle of the fairway, rolling
straight for the green. It didn’t go the farthest, but it went as straight as an
arrow and stayed comfortably clear of the rough. In one stroke, maybe two, I was
certain that I’d reach the green.

After my turn ended, several spectators gasped behind the tee
box.

I nodded politely to the tiny crowd when they clapped, just
like I’d seen golfers do on TV. Then I returned the club to my bag lying on the
ground at the edge of the tee box. I picked it up, hoisted the strap over my
shoulder and trotted off behind the others in my foursome, wiping the thin line
of sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand. My pulse still raced from the
adrenaline rush of a well-placed tee shot. I offered a silent thank-you to the
sky for not embarrassing myself. The first shot was always the hardest.

Ryan was the first one to march down the fairway. One of the
Hamilton High players, oddly, waited for me to catch up.

“So, you’re a girl,” the boy said to me with a smirky smile
that dimpled both of his cheeks. Gangly with reddish-brown hair and freckles
that matched, he made it difficult not to return that smile.

“Um, yeah?” I said, biting down on my lip.

“I didn’t know girls were allowed in this division.”

My shoulders shrugged. “I guess they are now.”

“I’m Nate. Fred, right?”

“Yep, that’s my name,”

“Strange name,” he said.

“So I’ve been told.”
A few hundred
times.

As we continued down the center of the fairway, his eyes
drifted from the top of my head all the way down to my shoes. I pretended not to
notice. “Where’d you learn to play?” We walked toward my ball. It was perched
perfectly above a tuft of fairway grass, straight in front of the putting
green.

“Here.” My tone was matter-of-fact. I looked from the ball to
the green and judged it to be roughly 120 yards.

“Your parents are members?” Like most of the other players, he
wore sunglasses, but it didn’t take bionic eyes to see the surprise behind his
eyes.

“Sort of.” I stopped. Grimacing, I lifted the heavy strap and
dropped my bag to the ground. I rubbed my shoulder where the strap cut across.
Then I pulled out a seven-iron.

The other players stood next to their balls, leaning on their
bags, waiting on me. Since I was farthest from the hole, I went first. Just like
at the tee box, I took two practice swings and then approached the ball to swing
my iron. The ball sailed straight into the air and landed just below the green.
I frowned. I’d wanted it closer. Now I had only two strokes to make par.

The other boys hit their balls. Ryan’s ball landed on the green
while Nate and his partner overswung and sent their balls sailing over the hole
like errant water jets. They all proceeded toward the flag. Walking along the
cart path, a small group of parents, along with the gray-haired guy with the
notebook, followed my foursome. Coach Nickerson drove along in a golf cart,
stopping to watch while feverishly jotting notes on his clipboard before
speeding ahead to monitor the next group.

I pulled out my wedge and pitched my ball right up onto the
green, exactly as I pictured it in my mind. It landed with a satisfied
plop
and rolled within two feet of the hole.
Easy putt,
I thought, relieved. Someone on the cart
path clapped, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t want to break my concentration. I was
too busy picturing how I would sink the ball into the hole with my putter, just
as soon as the other boys landed their balls onto the green.

I marched straight up to my ball and marked its spot with a
penny, my marker, and dropped the ball in my front pocket. All of the other boys
used gold and silver markers, probably engraved with their names like everything
else. I should care but I didn’t. Not when I could taste the par I was about to
make while the other boys in my foursome would be lucky to bogey. My fingertips
tingled around my putter, waiting.

Ryan reached the hole in two strokes, but he had a long putt.
The Hamilton High boys reached the hole in three strokes but with shorter putts.
I was the only player with a reasonable chance at par. At the end of the cart
path closest to the green, Notebook Guy scribbled furiously across a page.

Ryan putted first. His putter made a high-pitched
clink
when he struck the ball. The ball rolled several
feet past the hole, and I smiled inwardly again even when I knew I should have
been more supportive. Nate made his putt, making par; his partner did not. I
waved on Ryan to make his putt. He sank it, saving par.

And then it was my turn. Notebook Guy stopped writing long
enough to watch me. I took two practice swings, my habit before every hole,
studied the green and looked for ruts or curves that would interrupt the line of
my ball. Then I approached the ball, closed my eyes briefly and pulled back my
old putter. It didn’t make the pretty tinkling sound that Ryan’s did, but a
fancy putter didn’t matter when your ball rolled confidently across a green,
caught the edge of the cup and then dropped right in as if there was no other
place for it to go.

Lone Butte High School won the hole.

Chapter 14
Ryan

I SHOULD HAVE
WAITED FOR FRED
and walked with her to the second hole to discuss
strategy, but I couldn’t. Graham Frazier was too busy yapping in my ear.

“Jeez, a girl on your team. That’s pretty brutal,” Graham
said to me as if our team should be embarrassed. “I bet Seth was pissed.” He
grinned as he chomped on an enormous piece of gum, spitting as he talked. My
nose wrinkled from the overwhelming smell of peppermint.

I knew Graham was trash-talking, just like Nate was probably
doing to Fred. I watched him gab to her on the fairway. The Hamilton High
players were known for it. And why not? It worked. They’d succeeded in whipping
our butts the past two years.

I noted with some satisfaction that Nate’s charms didn’t
seem to be affecting Fred. It was like she was in a parallel universe with her
frozen expression. Her eyes never stopped scanning the fairway. I bit back a
satisfied smile. Her disinterest must have been driving Nate crazy, never mind
that her swing had so far been pretty near perfect. She hadn’t given up a single
shot. Nate and Graham had to be worried.

Oddly, Fred didn’t seem to notice that her golf bag had
gained at least ten pounds since this morning. How could she not notice? I
wished she would. I’d almost told her about it during the bus ride, but my words
had come out all wrong. Instead of telling her about the bricks, I’d made up a
lame question and a roundabout way of getting her some strokes on her score. I
didn’t see how she was going to make it through the tournament without a little
help.
I am such a
tool!
If I had just been honest about the bricks, maybe we could have
had a good laugh and moved on.

I caught myself before my emotions went whack and ruined my
game. I shouldn’t be thinking that way about Fred. I shouldn’t be thinking about
her at all. It was wrong, all wrong. Because of her, Seth had lost his spot on
the team. I should despise her, not defend her. Let her fend for herself and
find her own way.

“Maybe Fred is just having a little bit of beginner’s luck?”
Graham snickered over his shoulder at Fred and Nate. He blew a wet bubble with
his gum.

I nodded and forced a tight smile when I really wanted to
take my club to Graham’s slimy mouth.

“Hey, is she Indian?”

I didn’t answer.

“Never seen an Indian girl golfer before. That’s a new one.”
He paused. “What’s the next hole?”

“A par three,” I said without looking at him. Suddenly
walking alongside Fred didn’t sound so bad. At least she was quiet. I glanced
casually at her as she stood in the next tee box, staring down the fairway,
probably picturing where she was going to place her next drive.

“You’re up first,” Nate said to Fred as the rest of us
dropped our bags and began rummaging for the appropriate club.

Fred pulled out her driver again. The handful of spectators
from the first hole had grown larger, and they weren’t watching us. Everybody’s
eyes were drilled on Fred. If she was bothered by the attention, it didn’t show.
There were a couple of parents, a few students from school, a reporter from the
school newspaper and some older guy with a notebook. He seemed to be
particularly interested in Fred. A college recruiter, maybe, but that didn’t
seem right. It was too early in the season.

Fred tossed a few blades of grass in the air, checking for
wind direction as the green slivers floated to the ground. Then she wound the
end of her ponytail in her right hand as she squinted across the fairway and
pursed her lips. Her hair wrapped like a silk rope around her finger, all black
and shiny. The breeze lifted the wispy strands around her face as everything
around her moved in slow motion: the branches from the mesquite trees, the wave
of the grass, even the way the sleeves of her golf shirt fluttered at her
elbows. Just like at the golf store when she had fingered the white pair of
shoes.

I blinked, reminding myself not to stare. And to seriously
get a better grip on reality.

I watched Fred approach the ball one final time. She took
her typical two practice swings. Then she pulled back her long driver above her
shoulders and swung, bending her elbows at exactly the right angles. Her ball
made a perfect arc into the sky before landing in the middle of the green.
Another straight shot. The spectators clapped quietly. They usually never
clapped.

“Good shot, Fred,” Nate said, and my jaw clenched from the
sound of his voice. I didn’t trust Nate.

I swung next, followed by Nate and then Graham. Only Fred
and Graham reached the green on their first shot, but Graham had the longer
putt.

After teeing off, I quickly slipped my club into my bag and
then caught up to Nate and Fred as they started down the fairway, my clubs
clanging around in my bag as I jogged.

“I need to talk to Fred,” I said behind Nate. He didn’t get
the hint.
“Alone,”
I added, walking between them, forcing Nate to pull
away.

Nate finally pulled back but not without flipping me the
finger.

Fred adjusted the strap higher on her bag, but she didn’t
stop. Her eyes stayed focused on the fairway, the greens, anything but me. I
might as well have been invisible.

“You should watch what you say to Nate,” I told her as soon
as Nate left us.

Fred’s neck pulled back. “Why?”

“Because he’s trying to mess with your head.”

Fred shook her head as if I was crazy. “He’s only being
nice.”

“Nice,”
I sputtered with an automatic eye roll. “Sure,” I said.

But her voice got louder. “Yeah,
nice.
You’ve heard the word,
haven’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” We approached the ridge just below
the putting green where my ball had landed.

I sighed. I tried to concentrate on my ball, on the next
swing—anything but Fred Oday—as we rested our bags next to my ball. Then Fred
rubbed her right shoulder, exactly where the strap cut across her chest. I
cringed inwardly, knowing why.

Nate’s ball was farthest, so he swung first.

“Everything isn’t what it appears to be, Fred,” I whispered,
“especially at tournaments.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered.

“With the Hamilton players, I mean,” I added quickly.
“They’ll do and say anything to win.”

“Maybe not today.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

Fred leaned against her bag. “Why are you so concerned? Why
are you talking to me all of a sudden like you care? You’ve been glaring at me
all day. All week.”

I pulled back.
She noticed?

“I think it’s you I need to worry about,” she said, and I
should have told her she was right.

Instead, I dragged my tongue across my dry lips. “Maybe I
want to win, too,” I said, lifting my bag onto my shoulder after Nate swung at
his ball. It dropped on the far end of the green, giving him another long putt
he’d be lucky to sink with one shot.

Fred chuckled. “Well, that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard
you say all week.” She rotated her right shoulder.

I looked from Nate’s ball to Fred and then to the bottom of
her sagging bag. How did she not notice? I had the urge to tell her about the
bricks, but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. Because if I did,
then Fred would think I was worse than Nate Bellows or any of the other players
on the Hamilton High team.

And she’d be absolutely right.