“Hey,” he cal s out, jogging toward me. My hands fly to my wet hair, and I try to smooth it and get some of the tangles out, but I’m sure it looks like knotted yarn. God, I’m as bad as the cheerleaders.
“Hi,” I reply. Suddenly we’re walking right next to one another.
“You’re amazing,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
He clears his throat. “I mean, you’re a great quarterback. I haven’t seen any guys our age as good as you.”
I nod as I approach my truck, my Dodge Ram, a sixteenth birthday gift from my dad. I throw my bag into the truck’s bed.
“Hot ride,” Ty says, smiling and patting the side of my truck.
“Thanks.” I turn away from him. His smile is a virus. A virus sweeping through my body, rendering it useless. “What do you drive?” I ask.
“Nothing. No car,” he says. But he doesn’t seem embarrassed. Crossing his arms, he leans up against my truck. “So what’s your first name?” he asks. “I hope it’s not Woods.”
“Jordan.”
He nods. “You related to Donovan Woods?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “He’s my dad.” I start peeling the label off my Gatorade bottle.
“That explains your style and mechanics.”
Damn, he must’ve been watching me pretty closely. “You a Tennessee fan?” I ask. Maybe he was into the Oilers before they moved from Houston to Nashvil e.
He laughs. “Of course not. Cowboys al the way, man. I remember watching your dad play for my team back when I was a little kid.”
My dad is the last thing I want to talk about right now. When people meet me, that’s al they think of—the great Donovan Woods, two-time MVP of the NFL Two-time Heisman Trophy winner. The great Donovan Woods, surely a first-round Hal of Fame selection.
The
great
Donovan Woods who doesn’t believe in me or my dreams of playing bal at the col egiate level.
“I’d better get going, Ty. Nice work today. I’m glad you made the team.” I’m keeping it smooth and professional. “If you don’t have a car, how’re you getting home?”
He shrugs. “Walking, I guess.”
I gasp. “No one in Tennessee walks—sidewalks barely exist here. You’re not walking.”
He’s a teammate now, and teammates take care of each other.
I scan the parking lot. Henry is the only guy out of the locker room so far—he’s talking to Kristen and Marie. What the hel do the guys do in there anyway? How could it possibly take me less time to get ready than them? “Henry,” I cal out.
Henry abandons the cheerleaders and jogs over, then steals the Gatorade bottle from my hand, takes a swig, and hands it back to me while staring Ty down.
“Make sure Ty gets home okay,” I say.
“What about our plans?” Henry asks. He cradles the back of his neck with a hand and smirks at Ty.
“I don’t feel wel ,” I reply, touching my stomach. I just need to be alone right now, so I can think about what’s happened today—how this guy swooped in to steal both my position and my cool.
“That’s al right,” Henry says, but he looks hurt. “Kristen and Marie just invited me to study anyway.”
“Can you take Ty home first?”
“Why can’t you take him home?”
Um, because he’s driving me nuts? “Take him on your
study
date. It’l be good for him to meet some of the local bimbos.”
Ty smiles.
“Fine, but I get Marie. Give me just a sec, Ty.” Henry puts his arm around me and leads me away from Ty. “What do you mean you aren’t feeling wel ? Was it the hit you took?” he whispers.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Guess I’m not coming over for dinner then?”
“Just go have a nice time with Marie, okay? I want you to date someone who makes you happy again.” Henry nods and rubs his chin, looking up at me, staring right in my eyes. Ever since Carrie dumped him, he’s seemed so sad.
“Thanks, Woods. Maybe we’l catch up sometime soon,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze before he walks off. “Ready to go, Ty? I think you’l like Kristen.”
Ugh. Kristen has the same IQ as a tree stump. I’ve gotta get out of here before I punch her or something. I climb into my truck, lean my head out the window, and smile. “See you tomorrow, guys.” Through my rearview mirror, I see Ty staring at me as I drive away. Why didn’t I just offer him a ride?
I know why.
I have to focus. I can’t risk my season. I can’t blow it again this year. I
need
to get a footbal scholarship.
And to do that, I have to win the state championship.
•••
Walking in the back door of my house, I drop my bag on the floor. I have a date with my bed: hiding beneath my pil ow and listening to some Guns N’ Roses. That’l make me feel better.
I go through the kitchen, grabbing a banana and Gatorade on the way to my room, and run into my brother, Mike, and his friend Jake, who’s an awesome wide receiver. Like my bro, Jake also plays for the University of Tennessee at Knoxvil e. Jake is original y from California, so he’s spent most of his summer living here so he can be closer to school for footbal practice.
“Hey, sis,” Mike says, giving me a side hug. “Mom said you took a bad spil at practice. You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“How’s it goin’, Jordan?” Jake says, eyeing me up and down. Remember how I said that guys are interested in me? Yeah, he’s one of them. I think Mike would kil him if he tried something, though, and I wouldn’t want Jake to go after me anyway. He’s hot, but he seems like one of those guys who’s been with about a hundred girls.
“Good,” I say.
Jake slips an arm around my waist. “Mike says you’re having problems with algebra? Want some help?”
“What the hel do you know about math, Reynolds?”
“Not only can I teach you math, I can teach you math in bed, Jordan. You know, I’l add the bed, you subtract the clothes, you divide the legs, and I’l multiply.”
This is standard Jake Reynolds behavior, so Mike does the typical rol ing of his eyes as I say, “Charming,” and shove Jake against the dishwasher.
Then I run upstairs to my room and flop down on my bed, which is covered in a new fluffy white duvet. I used to have this blue checkered bedspread that looked like graph paper. One day this past summer when Henry was over, he said that graph paper bedding turns guys off and that if I ever want to get laid, I can’t bring a guy home to a room that reminds them of algebra and the nerdy girls on the math team. Not that I care what guys think of my bedding, but the math team is the last thing I want to be associated with, so I got rid of the old spread for something neutral.
Grabbing my stereo remote, I flip on the classic eighties station and stare out my window into our backyard, which ends at the banks of a lake.
My
lake actual y—Lake Jordan. Having a dad who plays pro means we aren’t lacking in amenities. Our house is huge, with hardwood floors everywhere and giant windows overlooking the woods and trails. The best thing about our house? My parents’ room is on the other side of it, so it’s like Mike and I have our own private wing. Dad never comes up here.
Sometimes I’m embarrassed about how lavishly we live, because a lot of families around here don’t have much. Tennessee’s a weird place—it’s like you’re real y rich, like me, or you’re real y poor, like Henry. There’s not much in between. If Dad wanted to, he could be making fifteen or twenty mil ion bucks a year. But with the NFL salary cap rules being what they are, he chose to take a pay cut so the Titans could pay other players more money. He’d rather have a kil er offensive line protecting him than a bit more cash.
Lying on my bed, I try to drown myself in the ancient rock music, and try to forget that I got sacked today. Try to forget about Ty’s body.
I bury my face in a pil ow and hit it with a fist. Rol ing over, I jump out of bed and pace back and forth across the hardwood floors, biting my knuckle. Then I flop back down and grab my Gatorade from the bedside table and start slapping the bottle against my palm.
I squeeze the bottle to see if I’m strong enough to bust it. I dig my fingertips into it, but it doesn’t budge, so I hurl the damned thing across the room at my dresser, knocking a bunch of the lotions and perfumes and other shit Mom buys me to the floor.
I go pick the girly stuff up and put it back on my dresser, and the birthday gift from Mom peeks out from behind my sophomore MVP trophy, taunting me. For my seventeenth, she bought me this lame journal.
“Jordan,” she said, “writing al ows me to blah, blah, blah, think deeply about karma, blah, blah, blah, and helps me figure out my problems.”
Mom should get a job creating lame-ass mantras for the bottoms of juice-bottle lids.
But was she right?
I pick up the Moleskine and thumb through the blank, crisp pages.
Sitting back down on my bed, I open the journal. It’s not like the paper wil judge me, or question my sanity, or doubt my ability to lead a footbal team. No one could know about it—the guys would make fun of me for eons if they found out.
At least by writing stuff down, it’s out of my head, out of my body.
I reach over to my bedside table and push a stack of
Sports
Illustrated
magazines aside to find a pen, then I write: I’ve never seen anyone so freaking gorgeous. No one’s ever distracted me like this…But I’m so far behind everyone else—I’ve never even seen a guy naked…Well, I guess I’ve seen Henry in his boxers bunches of times, and his body is hot—scalding hot wings hot, so Ty must be gorgeous. And I want to touch— God, what the hel am I writing!?
I scribble through the shitty words.
As I chew on my pen, thinking what to write about Ty, something that isn’t complete crap, I hear a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I say, stuffing the journal under my pil ow.
“Mike.”
“Enter.”
My brother comes in and sits down next to me on the bed.
“Where’s your other half?” I ask.
Mike laughs. “Jake? In my room, cal ing up some girls we met the other night. So what happened at practice today?”
I bury my face in my pil ow. “You have to promise not to make fun of me.”
He rubs my shoulder. “I promise.”
“Carter accidental y sacked me.”
“Carter sacked you? Where the hel was JJ?”
“It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention,” I say, groaning into my pil ow.
“That’s hard to believe. When you’re in the zone, you’re in the zone. I mean, I’ve never seen you lose concentration.”
I turn over and stare up at Mike. “Um…a new quarterback tried out for the team today. He just transferred here from Texas. And he’s good.
Damned good. Better than me.”
Mike whistles and runs his fingers through his hair. “The coach would be pretty stupid to make a QB change two days before the opening game.
You’re going to start, sis.”
I slap Mike’s arm. “Of course I’m starting.”
“I don’t get it then. Are you threatened by him?”
I take a deep breath, sit up, and lean back against my pil ows. I can tel my bro about Ty—Mike won’t mention him to anyone else. I just can’t tel him about wanting to tackle Ty in the guys’ locker room.
“I think I like him.”
Mike starts coughing, then smiles. “You? Jordan Woods? Has a crush? Yeah, right.”
“I told you not to make fun of me.” I shove him off my bed.
Grinning, Mike stretches out on the hardwood floor and puts his hands behind his head. “I’m not making fun. I think it’s great. It’s about time you started noticing guys.”
“Oh, shut up. I notice guys. It’s just…this was so weird, when he walked onto the field, I just lost it…”
“So whatcha gonna do about it?”
“I dunno. Try to keep my head on straight for practices and games. I can’t date a guy who’s on my team. Especial y not a rival for my position.”
Mike nods. “Good luck. Just keep your head in the game and you’l be fine. And don’t look at the sidelines too much. You might get hungry for this hunk of man meat.”
“Dude! Shut up!” I yel , throwing my pil ows at him. “You’re awful.” I cover my face with my hands. God. Why couldn’t Ty have moved here after the season was over?
“What’s his name?”
“Tyler Green. Ty.”
“Wel , Ty’s a lucky guy if my sister is interested in him. I can’t wait to meet him at the game Friday night.”
“You aren’t heading back to school before then? Don’t you have a game Saturday?”
“Coach says it’l be okay if I drive back on Saturday morning. Besides, this’l probably be the only game of yours I’l get to see this year. I wanna see which schools have recruiters checking you out besides Alabama. I’l chat them up a bit.”
I smile at Mike. “Thank you!”
“You’re going to have your pick of scholarships. Imagine it. You’l be the first girl to ever play QB at the col egiate level.”
I sigh. “I wanna go to Alabama so bad. I just wish Dad would support me. Doesn’t he think I’m good?”
“He knows you’re good,” Mike says, ruffling his hair, avoiding my eyes. “Dad’s just…scared. He knows you can take al these fools at the high school level, but col ege is a different beast.”
I nod slowly, then smile at him. “I can’t wait for your game on Saturday. You’re gonna kil the Gators.”
Mike waves a hand, but he looks pleased. “Thanks. We’ve got it. As long as we play good.”
“Mike, Jordan, Jake! Dinnertime,” Mom yel s from downstairs.
“Don’t tel Mom and Dad about Ty,” I warn Mike.
“But they’l be so glad to hear you aren’t gay!”
•••
You know those scenes on the news where people from “Food for Peace” take big bags of wheat to starving children in Somalia? Hundreds of people crowd around the trucks and knock each other down to get one bag of corn.
That’s what dinnertime is like at my house. When I sit down at the table, I’m like a stealth bomber as I secure four pieces of bread, because if I don’t do it now, I won’t get any later. Mike and Jake spoon big globs of mashed potatoes onto their plates, and I take three chicken legs. We won’t start eating until Dad gets his ass in here, but we’re al poised to dig in.
Mom brings in a pitcher of lemonade and pours me a glass. She looks at al of us and sees Henry’s empty chair. “Where’s Sam?” Mom asks.