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
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
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