Hooked. Liz Fichera

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СКАЧАТЬ and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.

      “Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.

      Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like the newer ones.

      As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to throb.

      Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half hour.

      I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.

      And muffed it.

      Crap!

      The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.

      Totally embarrassing.

      Someone chuckled.

      “Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed, the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.

      My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.

      I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any 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 СКАЧАТЬ