Hooked - Liz Fichera

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type of bird—a crow, grackle, hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.

      And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over left, approached the golf ball, bent my knees, lowered my forehead and smacked that friggin’ white ball high into the sky and clear across the field. It pierced deep into the sky like a gunshot.

      “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Lannon roared, walking toward me with quick steps, his eyes still tracking the ball. He even clapped a couple of times.

      I ignored him. I ignored everybody. I didn’t need their praise. Instead, I waited for the ball to drop from the sky, still holding on to my follow-through with the club arched over my right shoulder. Picture-perfect form.

      “I don’t think you’ll find that ball! That one’s a goner!” Coach Lannon grinned.

      “Shit,” someone muttered. “Where’d it go?”

      “Dunno,” said another disappointed voice.

      I didn’t turn to Coach Lannon and wait for any more of his compliments. Truth is, I hated compliments. I didn’t boast either or flash my teammates an I-told-you-so smirk. Instead, I reached down for another ball with a trembling hand and teed up my next shot. Then another.

      And another.

      It was like my arms were on fire.

      “The rest of you goofballs, quit your gawking and start swinging! Let me see what you got! We got a tournament in three days!”

      I swung at another ball. Harder. The next one sailed farther than the last.

      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

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