Hooked (Harlequin Teen)

by Liz Fichera

  “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.

  Chapter 10

  Ryan

  SETH AND I DROVE TO THE mall off the I-10 freeway. I’d picked him up at his house after golf practice, and we’d gone to mine. But chilling at the mall was way better than hanging around the house and listening to Mom nag about homework that bored me and college entrance exams that I didn’t want to take. Seth felt the same way. It was one of a million things we had in common.

  I’d lied an
d told Mom that I already signed up for the SATs, just so that I could get out of the house. Fortunately, she’d bought it. I should feel guilty about lying to her all the time, but I didn’t. Not really anyway. Maybe because the more I lied, the easier it got.

  Seth only wanted to hang because he wanted to hear all about Fred. I was going to have to lie to him, too. The truth would only crank him.

  “Movie?” Seth asked me as we passed through the food court.

  “Maybe.”

  “What, then?” Seth stuffed his hands in his front pockets.

  My shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Let’s just walk around.”

  We started on the first floor and walked to the south end of the mall.

  “So Zack texted me after practice and said the Indian wasn’t so bad.”

  I cringed a little when he said Indian and kind of looked around to see if anyone had overheard. Seth hated Native Americans, all of them, mostly because a drunk one had killed his real dad when he was driving home from work one night on the freeway. Hit him head-on. It had happened when Seth was a baby. He knew his real dad only from pictures.

  I didn’t answer him. But Seth wouldn’t let it go. “Well, what do you think?” he said. “Is she as good as Coach thinks?”

  I considered it as if I really hadn’t given Fred much thought. “I don’t know,” I said finally. “She did okay, I guess.”

  “Okay?” Seth stopped abruptly and faced me, toe to toe. I had no choice but to stop. “She does okay, and she gets handed my spot on the team like I don’t even matter?”

  I searched his widened eyes but said nothing. I certainly wasn’t going to rub it in that he was the worst player on our team apart from Henry Graser. But Henry was Principal Graser’s son.

  The problem with Seth was that he really didn’t even like golf. He played to please his stepdad. Why, I would never understand. Seth’s stepdad was the baddest guy I’d ever met.

  “Coach Lannon told me to go out for wrestling,” he snarled. “Said I was built for it.”