Catching Jordan (20 page)

the count? 1 day until alabama
After practice on Monday, Ty and I are leaning up against my truck, making out in ful view of the junior varsity footbal team. I open my eyes slightly and see a couple freshman guys gawking at us. I grin, continuing to kiss Ty. When I open my eyes for a second time, I see Coach staring at us, pul ing off his cap and scratching his head. He focuses on his clipboard but looks up at us again several times before final y going back into the school. This must be the weirdest thing a footbal coach has ever seen: two quarterbacks making out.

When I open my eyes for the third time, Henry, who must’ve final y come out of the locker room, is staring at us. I stop kissing Ty the minute I see Henry, because the last thing I want is to hurt him.

“Woods, would you please get a room? Seriously,” Henry says.

Ty pul s away from me and grins, staring into my eyes as he says, “What do you need, Henry?”

Henry looks only at me. “Can I have a minute?”

“Go ahead,” Ty says, but he doesn’t move. He turns and puts an arm around my waist, as if to protect me. As if to tel Henry he’s not leaving me alone with him.

“Alone,” Henry says.

“Anything you want to say to her you can say to me,” Ty says, digging his fingertips into my hip bone.

“Ty,” I intervene, “I can talk to my best friend if I want to.” I jerk my head at my boyfriend, and he nods. After squeezing my hand, he shuffles across the parking lot to talk to Higgins.

“He shouldn’t be acting like that,” Henry says, glaring at Ty.

How Ty acts is none of Henry’s business. “What’s up?” I ask, leaning back against my truck.

“Can I stay over tonight? I need to get out of the house.”

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my mesh shorts, pissed that he wouldn’t hang out with me when I needed him, more than ever. What happened to “needing a break”?

“Henry, we can’t do that anymore. I have a boyfriend now.”

“So? I thought nothing was going to change.”

“That has to change. I can’t share a bed with another guy if I have a boyfriend.”

“I’m not just another guy, Woods.”

“I know, but I promised Ty you wouldn’t stay over anymore.”

Henry seems furious. He’s biting down on his bottom lip and he keeps kneading his palm like he’s getting ready to punch something. “JJ and Carter were right. They told me Ty was going to start taking over everything. He already got your position. He’s control ing the plays on the field. And now he’s taking you away from me.”

“That’s not true! He got to play on Friday because I skipped practice and messed up.”

“He didn’t throw a single pass to me on Friday!”

“That’s not my problem. Maybe you weren’t open.”

“I can’t believe you just said that. You know I was open.”

“I don’t know what to tel you, Henry. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

“Like you even know what that means.”

I’m crying now. “Excuse me? I’m not stupid. It means you can’t expect everything to stay the same.”

“We agreed that nothing would change between us!”

“Ty and I are dating now. He’s asked one thing of me—he doesn’t want you sleeping over.”

“Jordan…” Henry grasps his curls with both hands.

“And if you didn’t want him to take me away from you, maybe you should’ve talked to me when I needed you so badly on Friday.” Tears slip down my cheeks. “Maybe you should’ve taken me when you had the chance.”

“Look, Woods, we’re not ever going to be together, so you need to get over me.”

“I already was.” Lie.

Henry glares at me. “I’m glad to hear I mean so little to you that you’re already over me.”

“This is al your fault, Sam. You control al the plays here. But you haven’t even stopped to consider what I might want. You just tel me how it’s going to be. Wel , Ty doesn’t control me, and you don’t control me. I control myself.”

Henry laughs a mean laugh, staring up at the cloudy blue sky. “What a crock of shit. You let everyone else control you and tel you how to feel. Ty, Kristen Markum, Alabama, your dad…”

“Screw you. If I lose my scholarship to Alabama, it’s al your fault.”

I get into my truck and slam the door shut and bang my forehead on the steering wheel. Through my tears, out of the corner of my eye, I see Ty come back, and he and Henry start yel ing at one another outside my truck. I turn the ignition and drive off.

How could everything in my life fal apart in less than a month?

•••

Later that evening before
Monday
Night
Football
, I’m in our exercise room, slamming my fists into the punching bag.

“Asshole,” I yel , throwing a punch. “Moron,” I say, kicking the bag, causing it to swing back a few feet toward the wal . “I thought you loved me! You screwed up my chance at Alabama.” I throw a few more punches but stop when I hear a loud slurping noise coming from the doorway.

Peeking around the bag, I find Carter leaning up against the doorframe drinking a Slurpee through a straw. Glancing at the clock, I see the game wil be on in a few minutes. Thank God, the Vikings and Chargers wil be a great distraction from thinking about how mad I am at Henry.

“Hey,” I say, ripping off my gloves, then wiping sweat off my forehead using my tank top.

“Hey,” he replies, walking over and handing me a Styrofoam cup. “Thought a Slurpee might cheer you up. It’s pink lemonade.” He smiles as I start sucking it up through the straw. Damn, it’s good.

“Thank you,” I say as I take a seat on a weight bench and lean over onto my knees. “I’ve gotta talk to Dad about buying a Slurpee machine from 7-Eleven. We could put it out by the foosbal table.”

“But then JJ and I would never leave your basement,” Carter says with a laugh.

“Fine with me. At least you guys haven’t become total boneheads.”

Carter lets out a deep breath, then starts slurping again.

“Is Henry okay?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know what happened after I left today.

“Wel …”

“Just give it to me straight, man. Does he hate me?”

“Of course he doesn’t hate you.” Carter stares up at the ceiling, not looking at my face. “He loves you more than anything,” he says quietly, then pul s the lid off his cup and starts shaking it, trying to get more Slurpee out.

“What aren’t you tel ing me?”

Carter takes another deep breath. It’s so weird for us to be talking about this stuff. I mean, shouldn’t we be planning how we’re going to beat the shit out of Cool Springs on Friday?

“Um, wel ,” he says, “Henry sort of punched Ty in the jaw, so then Ty busted Henry’s nose, and then Henry gave Ty a black eye, al before we could break them up. They’re not real y hurt, but they both got suspended from school for a week and can’t play on Friday.”

“Good.”

Carter clears his throat. “Good?”

“Yeah, good,” I say, getting up and kicking the bag again. The chains hanging from the ceiling groan as the bag swings around in circles. “That means I’l get to play the whole game, and I won’t have to throw the bal to Henry. Jerk.” As the words tumble out of my mouth, I immediately regret them. This must be how Jake Reynolds feels every time he speaks. A sob rises in my throat as I plop back down on the weight bench. I can’t believe how much I’ve hurt Henry and Ty.

And Alabama wil never want me now.

Sitting down, Carter slides up next to me, slipping an arm around my waist. I lean against his shoulder and say, “I promise I’m never gonna lose sight of footbal again.”

Carter nods, then grins. “Yup, who needs a girlfriend when you’ve got good friends and footbal ?”

JJ suddenly appears in the doorway, chuckling. “Should I leave you two alone so you can get it on with a footbal ?” He yanks his wal et out of his pocket and finds some condoms, which he throws at us.

“Shut up, man,” I say, dodging the condoms, “or I’l kick your ass out of here for good, which would suck for you because I’m gonna get Dad to buy us a Slurpee machine.”

JJ has a hurt look on his face as he stares down at the cups in our hands. “Where’s my Slurpee?”

Carter shakes his head and points toward the door. “Can we just watch the game and play some foosbal already?”

“Let’s do it,” JJ says, clapping his hands together as if we’re in a huddle. I love my friends—I feel better already. Now al we’re missing is Henry.

Even if we both acted like total jerks today, I want to know that he’s al right and right here beside me.

After I kick JJ’s and Carter’s asses at a few rounds of foosbal , the Vikings are winning by ten points, and Henry stil hasn’t shown up.

“Is Henry coming?” I ask JJ quietly. I bite my lip so I won’t let another sob out.

After throwing a dart at the dartboard, JJ finds my eyes for a sec, then looks away. “I don’t think so, Jordan.”

The plan?

I’m going to tel the athletic director and coaches that Friday night was a fluke ’cause I got food poisoning from Joe’s Al -You-Can-Eat Pasta Shack, that it won’t ever happen again, and pray to the footbal gods to give me another chance.

The only reason they might is because my dad is the
great
Donovan Woods.

Can’t believe I’m banking on my name to get me through today.

Mom and I have just arrived at the University of Alabama…with Dad. When he got into the car with us, I gasped so hard I’m surprised I didn’t puncture a lung.

I hope I get to throw a bal around and meet some of the other players today, but mostly I’m excited to see the stadium.

Because of Dad and Mike, I’ve been on pro and col ege fields hundreds of times, but this is the first time it wil be
my
field. Box seats and beer and VIP boxes for my fans are a big step up from the metal bleachers and cheap frozen pizza at the high school level.

Since Alabama expects me to act like a lady al the time, I’m wearing a new grey dress and heels, so I’m stumbling along as we enter the quad, which is covered in red and white Rol Tide flags. I’m drawing tons of attention to myself, including the stares of some hot guys. I mean, they’re nothing compared to Ty, but I’m glad to know there wil be more of a selection than at Hundred Oaks. Some of them smile at us.

I elbow Mom. “Dad better watch out. These col ege guys are total y into you.”

Mom laughs. “That would certainly be a scandal. The wife of the Tennessee Titans’ quarterback runs off with a twenty-year-old col ege boy.”

Then a dark, tal guy with wavy black hair walks by us. He puts Ty to shame. “Uh, Mom, if you ran off with that guy, no one would blame you.”

And then Dad gives me a noogie and says, “What did you say?”

“Dad! Stop,” I exclaim, smoothing out my hair. “Everyone’s staring!” I add, which makes him laugh even harder.

We find the athletic department, where the director greets us enthusiastical y, offering us coffee and soda and food, and if we didn’t cut him off, I’m sure Mark Tucker would’ve offered us a trip to a spa and a vacation and a new Ferrari.

I did my homework. Before Mr. Tucker became the Director of Athletics for Alabama, he was an Olympic skier. Then he total y wiped out in the final seconds of a race, blowing the gold medal. So he retired, vowing never to ski again or some shit like that. Afterward, he went back to col ege and got a degree in school administration.

“We’re so glad you could visit,” Mr. Tucker says, shaking my hand and patting my shoulder simultaneously. “Come on in my office.” He ushers us in, and I can’t help but notice al the people in the outer office gawking and pointing at me. What’s that about?

Mom, Dad, and I take a seat, and then I hear Mr. Tucker raising his voice, so I turn and see he’s speaking with his assistant. “Where is he?” Mr.

Tucker says quickly, quietly.

“He said he doesn’t have time for this,” the assistant replies.

“I don’t care what he says,” Mr. Tucker exclaims. “Tel him to get over here. Now.”

Who doesn’t have time for what?

Dad furrows his eyebrows as he turns from watching the exchange. He glances at me.

Mr. Tucker shuts the door and sits at his desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket. “So, Jordan, what are you thinking of majoring in?”

I kinda want to say creative writing, but the last thing I need is my future teammates to hear that I’m beginning to like poetry. “I’m not sure yet, Mr.

Tucker. Maybe physical therapy? I dunno.”

Mr. Tucker laughs lightly. “No need to worry. You have a lot of time before you have to figure that out. So, I trust you know how excited we are that you’re considering joining our program?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Sir, about the game on Friday, I wasn’t feeling wel and didn’t play my best, but it won’t happen aga—”

He waves a hand at me. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

I played like complete suckage on Friday night—how could he not care? Maybe he’s sympathetic ’cause he flew off the Super G ski track and landed in some pine trees. “But—” I say.

“Your performance on Friday night isn’t an issue,” Mr. Tucker adds.

“But she threw two picks,” Dad exclaims. Confusion and anger cloud his face.

Mr. Tucker waves his hand again. “So you know we want you to be part of our recruiting team here at Alabama?”

“Um, yes, sir. But I don’t know what that means exactly. Would you want me to talk to potential players or something?”

Mr. Tucker fiddles with a paperweight on his desk. “Wel …yes, but that’s not al .” The office door slams open to reveal a man in khakis, a windbreaker, and a basebal cap. Typical coach-wear. It’s the head coach, Rob Thompson. He’s one of the best coaches in the game; his specialty is rearing future NFL quarterbacks. Some of the best have come from this school.

I jump to my feet and smooth out my dress, but before I can introduce myself, Coach Thompson says, “You’ve got five minutes, Tucker. I have practice.”

My mouth fal s open. The coach doesn’t have more than five minutes to speak with a potential quarterback? One they are prepared to give a ful ride to? What the hel does that mean?

“Can you give us ten minutes, Rob?” Mr. Tucker asks. “And I’l give Mr. and Mrs. Woods and Jordan the tour of the grounds and stadium.”