Читать книгу Hooked - Liz Fichera - Страница 13

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.