Hooked. Liz Fichera

my daughter?” he said as he pulled the van alongside the curb.

      “Fine, Dad,” I said with a tinge of forced brightness.

      “Hey, Sam.”

      “Hey, Mr. Oday.” Sam grabbed my backpack from the sidewalk. This time he didn’t ask, and I was too tired to protest.

      Sam followed me as I opened the rear door. With one hand, he tossed my pack into the back of the van. I placed a purple Lone Butte High School golf shirt from Coach Lannon on top of it. It was a men’s large, but it had been the only shirt left. I was supposed to wear it to all the tournaments. I’d have to hem the sleeves a couple inches before Thursday’s tournament. Otherwise the shirt would hang past my elbows.

      Dad’s brow continued to furrow as he watched me over the front seat. “Really?” he said. His tone was doubtful. “Everything’s really fine?”

      I slammed the door, because that was the only way it closed. Then I climbed into the passenger seat, anxious for once to get home. Sam slipped into the seat behind mine. “Really,” I said, still a bit forced.

      “How was practice?”

      “Fine.”

      He chortled. “That’s it? That’s all you got for me? Fine?”

      I nodded and looked out the passenger window as he pressed the accelerator and proceeded to the exit.

      “How’d you do?”

      “I did okay.”

      “Just okay?” His eyes widened. “Look, are you going to tell me how practice went or not? I’ve been worried all day.”

      I dragged my tongue across my lips, then turned to him and smirked. “It was about what I expected.”

      “And what did you expect?”

      I sank lower in my seat as we approached the stoplight, hiding the bottom half of my face below the dashboard. Ryan Berenger’s silver Jeep sat at the red light only two cars ahead of us.

      Dang it!

      I swallowed again, not taking my gaze off the back of his vehicle. There was a gold Ahwatukee Golf Club Member sticker on his rear window.

      “Well, Coach Lannon had us warm up on the school’s driving range. Then we practiced our short game and putting.” I shrugged my shoulders like practice was no big deal. “I did fine. I think.”

      Sam grunted behind me like he thought I was being too modest.

      I’d done better than fine, even after my embarrassing first practice shot. I’d attacked the ball at every opportunity, because I didn’t have a choice. The boys had expected me to fail—wanted me to fail. I’d sensed it. And I wasn’t about to give any of them an ounce of satisfaction.

      “And what about your teammates? What are they like?”

      My lips sputtered while I crossed my arms over my chest. I really didn’t want to say too much in front of Sam. It felt kind of weird. And embarrassing. “They’re just...” I paused, looking ahead for Ryan’s Jeep. “They’re just a bunch of guys. You know...” My voice trailed off.

      The light changed to green, and the cars began to cross the intersection. Dad stayed in the left lane to take the freeway home; Ryan turned right toward the Ahwatukee Golf Club and the sea of pink-tiled roofs.

      And breathing became easier again. I rose a notch in my seat.

      “How’d they feel about having you on the team?” Dad asked quietly.

      My shoulders shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Coach Lannon didn’t give them much of a choice. How could they feel?”

      Dad didn’t say anything. And neither did Sam.

      Still, I could see both of their brains churning, even if they didn’t utter a single word.

      Chapter 8

      Ryan

      ZACK FISHER WOULDN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT Fred Oday. I cranked up the car stereo another notch.

      Zack sat in my passenger seat. He’d needed a ride home, but I regretted my offer to drive him.

      “Man, I hate to say it, but she’s badass,” Zack yelled over the music, reaching for his seat belt as I pressed my foot against the accelerator, hard. The Jeep lurched forward.

      My hands gripped the steering wheel till all my knuckles turned white. First Henry Graser, and now I had to listen to Zack Fisher all the way home. All anyone could talk about was Fred Oday.

      “Did you see her sand shot?” Zack shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

      Yeah, I saw it. My jaw clenched.

      “I don’t think she missed a single putt either.” He whistled annoyingly through his teeth. “And I used to think you were the best putter on the team,” he said even louder. “Not anymore, dude. Sorry.” He chuckled darkly, slapping his hand against the door frame.

      I raced to the stoplight just past the school exit. The light turned red, and my foot pressed the brake when it really wanted to stomp on the accelerator and fly down Pecos Road.

      “You think with her on the team we might actually take State this year?” Zack turned to me.

      My expression stayed frozen till my gaze traveled to the rearview mirror. Then I shook my head and sighed.

      “What?” Zack asked.

      “Nothing.” I frowned. I wasn’t about to tell bigmouthed Zack that I was starting to see Fred Oday everywhere—at restaurants, in class, even in my rearview mirror. And she was in the passenger seat of a rusted-out van—at least, it looked like her. Dark hair, coppery skin, hair pulled back, forehead lowered. Always lowered. And for some reason, that ape of a guy Sam Tracy was in the van, seated behind her. It was kind of hard to miss him. His neck was as wide as a tree trunk.

      “So, what do you think?” Zack prodded again.

      “About what?” I mumbled as the light turned green. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

      “About the team? About winning?”

      I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what to think, so just shut up. I’m trying to drive. Do you want a ride or not?”

      Zack’s neck pulled back, and his eyes widened. “Sure. That’s cool.” His eye roll told me he would have preferred walking home. “You wanna hang at my house for a while?”

      “No, I’ve gotta get home,” I lied.

      I’d promised to stop by Seth’s house after practice. I didn’t know which would be worse: avoiding Seth’s questions about golf practice or listening to Zack’s nonstop babble.

      When the light finally changed, I made my turn and checked the rearview mirror. Fred was gone, and I could think clearly again.

      Chapter 9

      Fred

      AFTER THE USUAL quickie dinner of hot dogs and canned corn, I begged Mom to drive with me back to Phoenix to shop for a new pair of shorts for school. That was the only way Dad would let me go, and, surprisingly, Mom agreed. I’d had my license for almost a year, but Dad had a thing about me driving long distances at night. And when you lived in the middle of nowhere, everything was long-distance.

      Being September, it was still too warm for jeans, and my two pairs of shorts had become embarrassingly faded and frayed around the edges. My khaki pair I’d worn since the eighth grade.

      I was certain my fashion faux pas hadn’t gone unnoticed at school where most of the girls, especially the popular ones, rotated fashion as often as their boyfriends. I simply had to have something new to wear, at least an updated pair of shorts, maybe even a new tank,