Hooked. Liz Fichera

girl with red spiky hair and a silver nose stud standing at the locker next to mine slammed her army-green locker shut.

      I jumped when it closed and then turned to her.

      The girl rolled her eyes like I was crazy.

      She might be right.

      * * *

      “Okay, men—” Coach Lannon said but then stopped himself. He turned sideways, his thick arms folded across his chest. He cast an apologetic smile at me. “And lady,” he added, as if he was doing me the world’s biggest favor.

      I groaned inwardly.

      It’d be more comfortable standing beneath a spotlight surrounded by a marching band.

      Leaning against my golf bag like it was a lifeboat, I stood with my seven teammates on the largest of the four grassy fields that surrounded Lone Butte High School. The open field was as large as a football field. My teammates stood beside me but not too close, each straddling their own golf bags that looked newer than mine by at least three decades. Coach Lannon stood across from us in the middle of our half-moon lineup, eager to start barking out orders by the way he kept fingering his whistle.

      After spending several excruciatingly long seconds introducing me to the team, he mercifully reverted into his coach persona, the one I’d gotten to know at the country club, long enough for me to resume breathing again. Small miracle: at least he introduced me as Fred Oday and not Fredricka. That would have been beyond humiliating.

      No one said hello, not that I expected or needed pleasantries. I simply wanted to play golf and lots of it. I hadn’t joined the team to make friends. And their sideways glances when they thought I wasn’t paying attention suggested that building friendships wouldn’t be an option.

      “We got a best-ball tournament with Hamilton High on Thursday, so we got our work cut out for us this week. I hope you boys have been practicing over the summer?” Coach Lannon’s eyes scanned the boys standing to my right. A few fidgeted in place, especially the one with the brown curls named Zack. He bounced around like he had an army of red ants crawling up his leg. Coach Lannon didn’t bother staring me down. He knew exactly where I’d spent most of the summer, and my eyes begged for his silence. Mentioning it would only elevate my status to something below Teacher’s Pet.

      “Bus will leave here at two o’clock,” he continued, tapping his clipboard.

      My chest caved forward, grateful. The coach must have sensed my unease.

      “You’re all excused from your last class,” he continued. “I’ve already cleared it with your teachers. Bus will be back here by seven.”

      A few happy gasps filled the air at the thought of missing a couple hours of school.

      “But be on the bus no later than two. Understood?” Coach Lannon’s eyes widened, daring disobedience. “Any questions so far?” He said it in a way that indicated he didn’t expect any. But someone got his brave on.

      “What about Fred, Coach? Does she get to tee off from the women’s tees at the tournament?”

      A few of the guys snickered as the hairs prickled on the back of my neck.

      Women’s tees?

      Carefully, I turned sideways till my eyes landed on Ryan Berenger. His eyes shifted back to the coach when I glared at him.

      “Well, Ryan,” Coach Lannon said, scratching the side of his head, as if he hadn’t fully thought about it, and my jaw dropped. Certainly he’d spent at least one minute of his time pondering this. There was only one answer.

      “No!” I blurted.

      All seven of the boys, including Coach Lannon, turned to gape at me. Clearly no one had ever answered for the coach before. “I won’t hit from the women’s tees. I can hit from the men’s tees. I do it all the time.” My teeth ground together as my hands shook.

      One of Coach Lannon’s blond eyebrows rose with something resembling admiration as he slowly scanned the boys’ faces, reading their reactions. Collectively, their lips pressed together. A few fidgeted with their bag tags, but no one uttered another word.

      Then the coach smiled. “Well, I guess you heard her, men. And don’t underestimate her,” he added. “I’ll wager she’s got a straighter shot than anyone else on this team.”

      I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any easier.

      The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.

      “Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her hit.” He said it like a challenge.

      “Yeah,” piped in another low voice.

      “Show us,” taunted a third boy.

      My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support. It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as tall as I was. My stomach churned, 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