by Liz Fichera
“Same to you, Ryan.”
“Don’t forget to crank the ball.” He squeezed my hand.
“I intend to.” It was impossible not to smile. It was also impossible not to love Ryan Berenger.
With my hand in his, we walked through the crowd toward the first tee with our golf bags threaded over our shoulders, two puzzle pieces that found a reason to fit.
*
1 Pueblo Blessing.
Golf Girl Gab
BACK NINE
The last nine holes of an eighteen-hole golf course.
BIRDIE
One under par.
BOGEY
One over par.
CLEATS
The pointy metal prongs on the bottom of golf shoes. They help the golfer grip her stance.
DIVOT
The round mark left on the grass in the tee box or the fairway after a golfer has swung at her ball. All golfers are expected to return the clump of grass to its rightful place after hitting the ball.
DOGLEG RIGHT/LEFT
When a hole on a golf course is said to be dogleg left or right, it is just that: it veers to the left or right along the fairway, just like the shape of a dog’s hind leg.
DRIVER
Usually a golfer carries two to four drivers in her golf bag. They are the clubs with the wider face, usually used for long distances. Sometimes called woods.
DRIVING RANGE
The wide-open spaces where golfers go to practice their swings without fear of hitting anybody. They’re usually adjacent to a golf course.
EAGLE
Two under par.
FAIRWAYS
The space between the tee box and the putting green, usually the longest part of a hole.
FRONT NINE
The first nine holes of an eighteen-hole golf course.
GOLF GLOVE
Some golfers wear gloves on both hands; most just wear one. If you’re right-handed, you wear a glove on your left hand. If you’re left-handed, you wear the glove on your right. The glove helps the golfer grip the club.
GREEN
The place where a golfer putts. The grass on the green is usually cut with a special lawn mower so that the grass is very low.
GREEN FEES
The amount a golf course charges to play nine holes and/or eighteen holes.
HANDICAP
The number of strokes a golfer is allowed in order to compete with golfers of all levels.
IRONS
Usually a golfer carries around eleven irons in her golf bag. They have smaller faces than woods.
MARKER
A flat plastic or metal piece the size of a penny with a small prong on the underside that’s used to mark balls on the putting green. Some golfers use coins like pennies or dimes.
PAR
The number of strokes it takes to reach a hole on a golf course. For example, if a hole is a par 5, a golfer will need to reach the hole and sink the putt in no more than five strokes in order to “par” the hole.
PUTTER
This is the club you use when you reach the green.
SAND TRAPS
These are also considered “hazards.” Oftentimes you’ll find sand traps near putting greens.
SAND WEDGE
The club you use when your ball has dropped or rolled into a sand trap.
SCORECARD
The card that a golfer uses to record her strokes for each hole. The fewer the strokes, the better the score.
SCRATCH GOLFER
A golfer (e.g., a professional golfer) who doesn’t have a golf handicap.
TEE BOX
The starting place, usually a flat, grassy area, on a golf course where a golfer uses her drivers or irons to launch her golf ball onto a fairway or green.
Acknowledgments
AS I WAITED FOR THIS BOOK TO be published, the impossible happened: my parents died. They died within six months of each other and my world got rocked in ways that I never imagined. Regardless of age, a child always believes her parents are indestructible, even immortal, and I was no different. I was blessed to have a wonderful mother and father, and that is why I’m proud to dedicate this book to them. You’ll find their smiles, quiet wisdom, love and laughter within its pages. I miss you, Mom and Dad, each and every day.
It takes a village to publish a book, and I am honored to share mine with many talented and wonderful people:
Superwoman Literary Agent Holly Root for being the first person besides my parents to believe in me and love my stories. Thanks, Holly, for sticking with me through thick and thin.
Tashya Wilson and the entire Harlequin TEEN Dream Team. Thank you for loving Fred and Ryan and helping their story to shine brighter. Every author should be so fortunate to have such a supportive publishing house.
Dana Kaye with Kaye Publicity. I am so grateful our paths crossed.
My early readers for their invaluable input and willingness to eat out: Mary Fichera Zienty, Olivia Zienty, Susanna Ives, Tamera Begay and Jessica Bradley.
The Native American communities throughout Arizona and the American Southwest. Thank you for sharing your enduring spirit, beautiful cultures and lands.
All of the book lovers, librarians, teens, bloggers and online writing community members that I’ve met these past couple of years. Because of your love of stories, being an author is the best job in the world.
My crazy family, Mary, Joe, Joe Z, Kaz, Olivia and Andrew. Thanks for your infinite supply of love, unwavering support and tolerance for my constant Seinfeld references.
My sister, Mary, especially, for being the one I’ve always been able to count on.
And, finally, my husband, Craig. My light and my rock. Thanks for putting up with my nocturnal ways. Life wouldn’t be any fun without you.
Ryan and Fred have found each other, but is there someone out there for Ryan’s little sis, Riley? Perhaps…Sam Tracy?
Read on for an exclusive excerpt from Liz Fichera’s next Harlequin TEEN novel, PLAYED
Coming soon!
Riley
OH. MY. GOD. Outrage stuck like gum inside my head as Sam shifted beside me. What a jerk. Drew was never going to believe this. I pulled out my cell phone and began to text her.
I should have taken that seat way in the back of the bus after all, despite the sea of juniors and seniors. I’d had no idea that Sam Tracy was so in love with himself. I know who you are?! Seriously? I mean, get some manners.
I had seen him talking with Fred a couple of times in the cafeteria, and he’d seemed nice enough on school territory, but what was the deal with off-hours? Total loser.
My nose wrinkled. Great! And he reeked, too. Eau de Charcoal Grill.
I wanted to scream, Just because you’re a junior doesn’t make you smarter than everyone else. Because he was so tall, I supposed he’d want to claim most of the legroom underneath the bench in front of us, too. Not gonna happen.
Once I got my internal hyperventilation under control, I curled my legs underneath me, finished a quick text that Drew wouldn’t see until at least noon and then pressed the volume button on my Friends episode. I’d rather listen to Chandler and Joey any day and sketch in my notebook. But no such luck.
Mr. Romero turned around. He looked at Sam and me over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Could you pass these back?” he said, handing us a stack of papers. “It’s the agenda for the weekend.”
I removed one earbud, one eye trained on my iPod screen as I grabbed the papers with my right hand. And it was my favorite Friends episode, too, the one where Ross gets his teeth whitened so pearly-white that they glow in a black light. Hilarious. Enough to forget about Sam Tracy and his smug attitude. Almost.
Mr. Romero stood. “Can I have your attention?” His chin lifted while his gaze swept over the rows. “Pause the texting for a moment, people. I promise your brains won’t self-destruct.”
A few people chuckled anxiously, as if they didn’t quite believe him, and the bus grew quiet.
Mr.
Romero moved to the center of the aisle, still hanging on to the back of the seat with his free hand as the bus headed down the freeway toward the rising sun. “Since we’ve got two hours to kill till we reach the campground, we might as well go over a few details. As many of you know, we’ve reserved two large cabins—one for the girls, one for the boys.”
“Damn,” someone behind me said. People around him laughed.
Mr. Romero smirked. “Watch the language, Mr. Wolkiewski.”
“Sorry, Mr. Romero,” Peter said, but he didn’t sound the least bit sorry.
Mr. Romero continued, “Anyway, we’ve got a busy weekend planned, and you can read all about it on the agenda that’s being distributed as I speak. There will be competitions and contests, and tonight we will have a barbecue. Keeping up so far?”
No one spoke. Most of us were too busy looking over the agenda. It seemed that at any given minute there was an activity—from rope climbing to scavenger hunts to leadership tests that were supposed to reveal our leadership styles. I had a style? It kind of looked as if it might have the potential for fun, in a weird, dorky way. I always preferred variety.
“As soon as we arrive at the campsite, we’ll unpack the buses, get you settled and then get started on a scavenger hunt so that you can become familiar with the campground. Everyone has been organized into teams. They’re listed on the back of the agenda.”
I flipped over the page and scanned for my name. There were six groups of ten. I was on the Green Team. I only recognized one other person on my team: Sam Tracy.
It was impossible not to groan.
I swallowed back a sigh and stole a sideways glance. Sam and I locked eyes for a millisecond. He had these impossibly dark eyes, the intense kind that looked as if they knew what you were thinking, even before you did. And it happened so fast that I had to wonder if we’d eye-locked at all.
I guessed he was as excited about seeing our names together as I was. I just wish I knew what I’d done for him to hate me so much. But I was probably making something out of nothing. I did that a lot. It was a sickness.
To stop stressing, I sneaked a glance in my periphery and began to sketch his profile, starting with his long, flat forehead.
Sam
I FOLDED MR. ROMERO’S FANCY AGENDA and stuffed it in the back pocket of my jeans. Then I sank lower in the chair until my feet practically popped out from underneath the bench in front of me. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes and begged for sleep.
The next thing I knew, my head was bouncing off Riley’s pink shoulder and onto the back of my seat. It was like pounding against a two-by-four.
“You mind?” She glared at me, her blue-green eyes open wide below the brim of her baseball cap as she held a thick pencil in midair. Jeez, she looked exactly like her brother, that same know-it-all, confident face that always stomped on my last nerve.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, sitting upright, facing forward, hoping that drool hadn’t made an appearance.
Just then, the bus exited the freeway. My ears began to pop. I was beyond pleased to see that we had already reached the top of the Mogollon Rim. A brown sign with white letters welcomed us to the Woods Canyon Lake campsite. The bus shook from side to side as it made its way deeper into the campground on a stretch of narrow two-lane road that alternated between pavement and dirt. Exactly as I remembered.
I hadn’t been to Woods Canyon since I was a kid. One August weekend, my parents and Martin’s parents had lugged all the kids, including his older brother and sister and my older sister, Cecilia, to the campground. Martin and I had probably been around twelve years old. We’d thought it was killer to be camping in tents and fishing for trout. Our parents had been thrilled to escape the desert heat and probably a weekend of night shifts at the casino. Who knew then that I’d be back five years later with two busloads of students that I barely knew?
Mr. Romero stood, stretched his arms overhead and then turned to face us. He had a look on his face that demanded our attention. “Look, I know you’re all probably pretty anxious to get off this bus and have some fun. I am, too. So that’s why I’m going to ask you to dump your stuff quickly once we reach the cabins. Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to it.” He rubbed his hands together. His eyes squinted. “And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your cell phones probably won’t work way out here.” He air-chuckled darkly.
A few people gasped, and I rolled my eyes.
I was probably the only person on the whole bus without one—not like I didn’t want one. But it was the kind of luxury that I couldn’t really afford. Maybe when I started college. That had to be a given, especially since I’d be able to work full-time during the summer before the first semester. Vernon Parker was the only one of our friends back on the Rez who had one, although I wasn’t sure why. Who was he calling, if not us?
“I want you to find someone within your group and pair up.” Mr. Romero looked at Riley and me and smiled.
I sank lower.
“If it happens to be the person sitting right next to you, all the better,” he said. “If not, start to get to know those around you. You’re some of the smartest kids—the leaders—from your respective schools. I’m sure you can figure out how to meet those around you and find a partner without bursting a blood vessel.”
Students began calling out. “Who’s on Blue Team?”
“I’m on Red Team. Anyone else on Red?”
“What about Yellow?” said another.
Through the moans, laughter and general commotion, Mr. Romero said, “Let’s get started!”
And with that, the bus pulled up in front of two cabins that looked as if they’d been built with red LEGO. I didn’t remember them from five years ago. Each one was as big as a two-car garage. Like one huge room. I would have preferred to sleep outside under the stars like Martin, Peter and I did a lot during the weekends on the Rez.
A flash of pink stung the corner of my eye. “So I guess we get to do this first activity together?” It was the third time Riley had spoken the entire trip.
“Yeah. Guess so,” I said, matching the disinterested tone in her voice. I turned to the others at the back of the bus, wondering if it would be too terrible to partner with someone else. Maybe Riley would prefer to be with a girl, maybe even a sophomore.
“Looks like we have to find stuff around the forest.” Her nose wrinkled, and I guessed she wasn’t much for nature hikes. “Pinecones, bark, berries and…stuff.”
“Yeah,” I said again, although I hadn’t really read through the pages that were attached to the weekend agenda. I mean, how hard would it be to find stuff that littered every foot of the forest?
“Even petroglyphs,” Riley added.
I looked at her. Okay. That could be a challenge.
“How do we take a petroglyph from a rock?” She paused from reading her agenda, which, I noted, was already highlighted in places with a pink highlighter, along with some pretty intricate curlicue doodling and fancy arrows around the margins.
My shoulders shrugged. “I suppose we have to figure that out. You got a camera?” I nodded at the killer stash of electronics on her lap—an iPod, a cell phone and no doubt she’d brought an iPad somewhere in the pink blob that peeked out from below our seat.
She nodded.
“Then we’ll take a picture. Problem solved.” I reached for my backpack, but I couldn’t help noticing that Riley looked mildly impressed, even if she tugged her cap lower on her forehead.
The bus came to a stop. Riley and I were the first to get off after Steve and Mr. Romero, thank god. My legs ached from being in the same position for two hours.
When I got up, all the bones in my neck and shoulders cracked. I stood behind our chair and waited for Riley to go first as my arms stretched overhead. “Let’s get this over with.” I yawned.
Riley hitched a pink bag over her shoulder, not bothering to hide the eye roll from beneath her matching hat. “Absolutely. The sooner, the better.”
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ISBN: 9781460303443
Copyright © 2013 by Liz Fichera
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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