Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7) (7 page)

“Pass the ball to Chloe!” I scream at her, but she ignores me.

My yelling seems to inspire both Sydney and Coach Walker. “Pass the ball!” they holler.

Chloe gives me a shrug at one point, obviously grateful for my efforts, but why won’t she yell back? Why is this team made up of wimps when it comes to Nicole? I will admit that great players can be intimidating. The better a person is at a sport, the less likely other players are to want to cross them. It must go back to the
survival of the fittest
or something. I mean, would anyone question LeBron to his face?

While I’m thinking about this, Lynchburg makes another play for our goal. Two players barrel toward me, passing the ball, talking to each other, completely in sync.

I charge at one, but she passes at the last second, and the other girl slams the ball into our goal.

2–0.

Hell.

“C’mon, Alyson! You still got this,” I say, giving her a pep talk. “They’ve taken, like, a hundred shots, and you’ve stopped most of them.”

Instead of yelling at me, this time she nods and jumps up to slap the crossbar above her head. Then she claps to get back into the zone.

Chloe kicks off, barely tapping the ball to Nicole. Nicole immediately makes a break for it, dribbling up the middle of the field. A Lynchburg defenseman boots the ball back to our side. I’m closest, so I run to meet it. I prepare to pass it to Brittany, but then I think,
why?
She’ll just pass the ball to Nicole, because she’s a lemming.

I hate lemmings.

I take off with the ball.

“What are you doing, Lukens?” Nicole yells.

I ignore her and dribble past our forwards, totally leaving my position, heading for the goal. I lean back, plant my foot to aim, and boot the ball toward the upper left corner of the net. It sails in, and I jump up and down.

“Score!”

I turn around, expecting my teammates to surround me with celebratory hugs, but I get nothing. A few look relieved, but most are staring at Nicole, who looks insanely pissed off. Ugh.

“Get back on D, Taylor!” she shouts.

I run past her on the way to my position and say low enough so only she can hear, “Fine by me if you want to lose.”

Okay, that was pretty bitchy of me, I’ll admit it. But I want to win. I want to have something positive to write on my college applications. But even more than that, I want to be part of a team. A team that shares secrets and confides in each other, trusts each other, laughs together. Hundred Oaks is not a team.
Team members pass the damn ball.

At that moment, I hear a familiar British accent. I look off the field to my right to see my old teammates passing by with cleats hanging around their shoulders. Arm in arm, Steph is laughing with Madison. They don’t even notice me…

The ref blows his whistle, and Lynchburg kicks off.

I tell myself to start running.

I didn’t get to talk to Madison and Steph after the game.

By the time ours was over, their game had started, and our bus was getting ready to leave. I couldn’t believe Coach didn’t want to stick around to check out the competition we’ll face this season. He probably has plans to spend the rest of his day checking Facebook.

The only good thing that happened is Alyson, the goalie, sat with me on the bus for a few minutes to say thanks for the good defense today. Even though she’d been kind of bitchy earlier, she seemed grateful for my efforts against Lynchburg. I told her she played awesome, saving twice as many goals as St. Andrew’s did against that team last year. When she moved to sit with the rest of the seniors in the back, I filled the silence by listening to music.

Later that afternoon, I find Dad sitting at his desk, typing on his computer. Both of his cell phones are beeping, and the TV is blaring Fox News. A squawking voice spills out of the speakerphone on his desk.

“Is that a parrot on the line?” I joke. “Hey, can we get a pa—”

“We’re not getting a parrot,” Dad replies. My parents know me and my animal obsession too well.

“Senator, we need to get out in front of this,” a voice on the phone says. “You have to make a statement about what happened. Remind people of your strong antidrug stance. Wallace’s people are just waiting for your poll numbers to go up again. Then they’ll leak something to the press about her drug use—”

“Perhaps she should go to rehab,” another voice fires back. “That’ll show how seriously you take this.”

“She doesn’t need rehab,” the other man retorts. “The tests found only nominal amounts of Adderall in her system and nothing else. We just need to make a statement!”

Dad looks horrified that I overheard all that and starts jabbing a button on the phone, turning the volume down. I can still hear them. Dad sighs and gives up trying to get the phone to cooperate. “Randy, Kevin, let me call you back,” my father says before hanging up.

Randy is Dad’s campaign manager, and Kevin is his chief of staff. It’s late on a Saturday afternoon, and all these people do is work. It sucks, but I get it. You either work hard, or you don’t succeed. Losing the election would not only leave Dad without a position, but all of the people in his DC, Nashville, and Chattanooga offices would lose their jobs too.

It makes me feel guilty that Dad and his guys have to give up their day off to talk about me. I’m the reason they’re doing damage control in the first place. At the same time, I hate that I’m a pawn in their political game. It’s humiliating.

I sit down in the armchair across from Dad. He looks at me with a tired expression. Campaign season always runs him down, making his hair turn grayer and the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced. Campaigning is worth it to him though. Hardly anyone knows the president asked him to be Secretary of the Treasury, but Dad turned him down. He prefers being a senator so he can set his own agenda and focus on what he thinks is best for Tennessee, like the farm bill and tax policy. He loves his job.

“How was the soccer game?” he asks.

“We lost. It’s every girl for herself out there. Nobody passes the ball.”

His mouth fades into a frown. “Maybe you can figure out a way to lead the team.”

“But I’m not the captain.”

“It’s just a title…you don’t need that in order to lead,” Dad says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it today.”

“Me too,” I mutter. “It would’ve been a perfect campaigning opportunity. But you probably don’t want to remind voters we’re related.”

“Taylor!” Dad pauses to rub his eyes. “This situation is already hard enough without your attitude. What did you need? I have to call the guys back.”

“Can I apply to Webb?” I ask.

Webb is a boarding school about an hour from here. I don’t know anyone there, but I feel like I might fit in better than at Hundred Oaks.

Dad scrunches his forehead. “Why?”

“They have a better soccer team.”

He turns his attention back to his computer. “I’m not paying tuition for another boarding school.”

“I checked their website. They offer scholarships to students with outstanding grades and test scores. I figure it’s worth a shot to see if they’d be interested in having me.”

The determination in my voice gets his attention. He swivels in his chair to face me. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. “I’m sorry, but no. You’re staying right here where your mother and I can keep an eye on you. If I’d known the sorts of…activities you were involved in, I never would’ve let you stay at St. Andrew’s.”

“Webb has more AP courses and a debate team,” I say, my voice taking on a desperate tone. “I think if I go there, I’ll have a better chance of getting into Yale.”

“You should’ve thought of that before becoming involved with drugs.” Dad rubs his eyes again. “I still don’t understand. You’ve never shown any interest in…in that lifestyle.”

“I needed to stay awake and study,” I say quietly.

“All the more reason for you to stay here and go to Hundred Oaks. It should be more manageable for you.”

I shut my eyes. All my hard work. Years and years of pushing myself. All down the drain, because people never notice good news. They flock to the bad.

“You’ve been seeing the school counselor, right?” Dad asks quietly, his gaze meeting mine.

I’m insulted he has to ask. I look him straight in the eyes when I respond, “Yes.”

“Good.”

I stand up. “What time are we leaving for the Goodwins’ party?” Mr. Goodwin, a millionaire horse-farm owner, is hosting his annual Tennessee Harvest party and most definitely invited lots of people Dad will need to schmooze with in advance of the November election. It’s only a little more than a month away. “I saw the invite on the kitchen counter.”

Dad clicks his pen on and off. “Why don’t you sit this one out.” It’s not a question.

“But I love going to the Goodwins’. I haven’t seen Jack in forever.”

“Randy and Kevin are worried people will learn you got kicked out of school.”

“People already know. It was on Facebook.”

“We don’t want the news to spread any further. You need to keep a low profile, or this could turn into a scandal, which would damage my campaign.”

“Me getting kicked out of school a scandal? C’mon. That’s nothing compared to what the governor’s son did. I mean, Simon got drunk and streaked through downtown Nashville.”

“And then he went to Europe for six months until everyone forgot about it. It’s only been a week since you were caught with pills. Speaking of which, I’m glad to hear Marina hasn’t found any more drugs when she’s gone through your room.”

I gasp. They’re going through my stuff? Frantically, I try to think if I have anything embarrassing in my drawers. Did Marina find my condoms? Would she tell Mom and Dad about them?

“Still,” Dad goes on, “your mother and I want you to be tested on a regular basis. We’ll go next week.”

Fuck. They want me to do pee tests?

Taking those pills and taking the blame for Ben didn’t just get me kicked out of school. It didn’t just mess up my dad’s job. It changed people’s perception of me. From here on out, I’ll be the
druggie girl
.

This is why Dad never wanted us to act entitled, because a last name won’t protect you. I never imagined how badly—how quickly—this would screw up my life.

“Did you need anything else?” Dad asks. “I need to get back to it.”

My face flushes hot at his dismissal. This situation has morphed from what felt like a simple sacrifice to help my boyfriend to my life spiraling out of control. My anger and embarrassment are starting to outweigh my conflicted feelings toward Ben.

I storm up the stairs and into my bathroom and turn on the shower, because I don’t want my parents or Marina overhearing what I have to say.

I sit down on the toilet, swipe on my phone, and tap Ben’s name. He picks up after two rings.

“Tee?”

Hearing him say my name just about undoes me. Tears burn my eyes and throat.

“Hey,” I reply, choked up.

“How are you?” he asks. “I’ve missed you so much.”

I love you
, I want to say. But he doesn’t deserve that.

“Those Adderall pills you gave me.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

“Why did you have so many?” There’s such a long silence, I check to make sure we didn’t get disconnected. “Ben? C’mon. What’s the deal?”

He inhales sharply. “I bought them from someone in Birmingham to sell at school…to make some extra cash.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper. How could I have dated this boy for a year and not have known he was a drug dealer? I mean, they didn’t find cocaine or heroin in his bag, but prescription drugs are enough to get you in trouble. I should know. “Why did you do it?”

He clears his throat. “Everything my parents earns goes toward rent and food. I was saving money for college next year. Even if I get a scholarship, I’ll need something to live on.”

Ben and I aren’t that different. We both work hard to prove ourselves. Both willing to do whatever it takes. I pushed myself to stay up all night to study. He broke the law in order to make money.

In that moment, I realize how crazy it is that we work so hard for our futures. The pressure we’re under. Sure, I loved St. Andrew’s, but I often stayed up all night studying and did tons of extra activities to show that I deserve to go to an Ivy League school. Just how much do we give up by living this way?

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I can hear his remorse. But it’s not good enough. I thought I could handle my sacrifice, but I can’t.

“Don’t sell drugs ever again,” I say. “Get a job or something. Listen, I need to go.”

“Wait! Tee, I love—”

I hang up and start crying all over again. With shaky hands, I tap out a message:
Please don’t contact me again. Good luck.

And just like that, my first love is over with a text.

• • •

Against my dad’s wishes, I decide to go to the Goodwins’ party for several very important reasons:

1. They own a bunch of horses and dogs;
   
2. they always have a chocolate fountain at their parties;
   
3. I want to get out of this mausoleum of a house;
   
4. I need to get my mind off Ben; and
   
5. did I mention they have a chocolate fountain?
   

I wear ankle booties that cover my tattoo and a black sparkly halter dress with a tulle skirt that has a high neckline and a plunging back. I’m showing lots of skin, but I don’t care. I love this dress. I like the way I look and feel in it.

At the Goodwins’ mansion, I pull into the circular drive and hand my car keys to a cute valet. He gives the Buick a dirty look, then he gives me a look that says
Really? You drive this dinosaur?
I return the dirty look he gave my car. I don’t care how cute he is. Nobody sticks his nose up at my Beast.

I give my name to a man resembling an 1800s Regency-era butler so he can check me off the guest list. Then a waiter leads me in the front door, through the foyer, and toward the rear of the house. The party’s out back in a clearing between the mansion and the Cedar Hill barns. The stalls Mr. Goodwin rents to horse owners cost more than most families’ mortgages per year. The Queen of England stables some of her Thoroughbreds at a farm near here, but Mom heard a rumor that she might move her horses to Mr. Goodwin’s farm. Wouldn’t it be crazy, the Queen visiting here?

In a way, the Goodwins are Tennessee royalty.

I step out the back door onto a terrace overlooking fields of haystacks and one of their barns. A large tent is set up under the stars. I walk inside it, holding my silver clutch. I smile as I wander across the dance floor beneath sparkling lights and a chandelier. The smell of horse poop wafts inside, but it’s part of the charm of being here, and I love it.

I spot Dad and Mom schmoozing on the other side of the party next to the bar. I decide to loiter on the opposite side of the tent, because my parents aren’t likely to leave the bar and the food is over here. I start loading a china cocktail plate with shrimp, tenderloin, a brownie, and exactly one carrot, because I don’t need anyone judging me on my food choices. Hey, I ran for ninety minutes during soccer today. I earned this pile o’ shrimp.

I turn around with my plate and narrowly avoid smashing into Jack Goodwin, my sister’s ex.

“Tee, hi!” he says, helping me balance my plate before shrimp go flying.

“Thanks for saving my dinner.”

He laughs, and so does the girl he’s with. She’s petite, with a headful of fire-red hair. This must be the new girlfriend Mom’s friends can’t help but gossip about. Apparently Jack has been “shacking up with the help,” which is “just unheard of” because “Jack comes from well-bred stock.”

Jack and his girlfriend go to college together about an hour away in Kentucky, and from what I’ve heard, she practically lives at his apartment. Regardless of how scandalized my mother is by that, I think Jack’s girlfriend is gorgeous and has a friendly smile. I heard she’s a jockey here at Cedar Hills Farms, which is so badass.

“Tee, I don’t think you’ve met my girlfriend, Savannah.”

Carefully balancing my plate, I shake her hand. “I’m Taylor. Nice to meet you.”

“You too. We’re sitting over there with friends if you want to join us.” She points at a rowdy table of people who are laughing and boozing it up. Their behavior is a little more raucous than I’m used to at these parties.

“Uh, sure,” I reply. “Okay.” It’ll be good to hide from Mom and Dad in plain sight. I follow them over to the table, where Jack makes introductions. I already knew Colton Bradford, the mayor’s son, but I haven’t met his girlfriend Kelsey before. Nor have I met any of their other friends. All of the girls are beautiful and seem happy. Along with Jack and Colton, there’s one other clean-cut boy, Rory, and his girlfriend Vanessa, but the fourth guy—Jeremiah—has his hair pulled back in a half ponytail and his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off three circle tattoos on his forearm. He reminds me of one of my favorite soccer players, Graham Zusi. His arm is lazily draped across the back of his date Annie’s chair.