Ty’s bigger, obviously stronger, and, unlike me, he probably didn’t screw up in the final two minutes of a state championship game. Johnson City beat us 13–10 because I threw an interception and they returned it for a touchdown.
What if Coach gives my position to him? I try to shake this thought from my mind—I’ve worked years for this. I’ve earned it. For the coach to give away my position, I’d have to mess up in a spectacular way. Like five interceptions followed by a fumble.
Finally, Coach Miller comes back over. “Woods, Ty—let’s talk,” he says, gesturing for us to walk away from the rest of the players. Henry glances at me as we move toward Coach.
“Ty—that’s quite an arm you’ve got there. And you’ve got highly developed instincts as well,” Coach says.
“Thanks, sir.”
“You’re a senior?”
“Yeah.”
“And you started for your team in Texas when you won the championship last year?”
“Yeah.”
Now it’s my turn to stare at the grass.
Thanks to our boosters, mostly wives of former Titans players who still call Franklin home, Hundred Oaks has the best high school football program in Tennessee. We have shitloads of money to put toward buying state-of-the-art equipment and paying first-rate staff. Coach Miller used to coach college ball, but gave it up for a slower pace of life when his wife got sick. His expertise has led several players to get full rides to college.
I bet that’s why Ty wants to play for Hundred Oaks. It’s like we’re in the same league, but he’s one step higher. Tears sting my eyes. I need to focus. I can’t cry in front of my team.
Damned estrogen.
Coach narrows his eyes. “Why would you give all that up? Your parents couldn’t stay in Texas one more year to ensure you got your choice of colleges? And why Franklin? If you had to move to Tennessee, I’m surprised your parents didn’t search for a school district lacking a star quarterback.”
The pain returns to Ty’s eyes. “I did what I had to do, sir. I just moved here with my mother and sister.” Mussing his sandy hair, Ty peeks at me. “Some things are more important than football.”
What? A Texas football player who doesn’t kneel down and pray to the Cowboys every Sunday?
Epic.
Coach nods. “I see. Well, you’re on the team, but I don’t know how much playing time I can guarantee you.”
“Thank you, sir. Being on the team is good enough for me,” Ty says with a hint of a smile. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“Great. We’ll get you a uniform—wear your jersey on Friday for the pep rally,” Coach says. “That’s enough for today, Woods. No practice tomorrow—the team needs to rest before the game.”
“Got it, Coach.” I walk back to my team and yell, “No practice tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid on your day off.”
I pull my helmet off and head to the girls’ locker room as quickly as I can—I need to get in and out before cheerleading practice ends or they’ll quiz me for information about their crushes, aka my teammates.
They don’t seem to understand that the guys don’t spend all their time talking about girls. Only about, I’d say, ninety percent of their time is devoted to that. And even then, it’s only about who’s hooking up with who, and who wants to hook up with who. The day I hear JJ talking about his feelings is the day I’ll run to a nuclear fallout shelter and pray for my life.
About halfway across the field, JJ, Carter, and Henry jog up behind me. Henry throws an arm around my shoulders as he pulls off his helmet, shaking his curly blond hair loose. He wipes a few curls off his forehead and whispers, “So Coach is letting that Ty dude on the team?”
“Yup,” I reply, straightening my jersey.
“That’s bullshit,” JJ replies, cracking his knuckles.
“What’s his story?” Carter asks.
“No idea,” I say, but I’m dying to know. I start wiping the dust from my hands and off my football pants.
Henry looks at me and whispers, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Totally.” I hear my voice wobble.
“That guy’s got nothing on you,” JJ adds, looking over his shoulder at Ty, who’s talking to Coach.
“We both know that’s not true. Did you see his footwork? Ty’s incredible.”
“Yeah…incredible,” Henry says, closing his eyes, pulling me in closer to him as we approach the girls’ locker room.
Yanking the door open, I say, “’Kay, Henry—see you in a few,” leaving him outside. He swings his helmet back and forth like a pendulum, staring at me as I let the door slam.
I walk through the white concrete locker room, which is covered with old red and black checkered carpet. I take a seat on a bench, then yank off my practice jersey and pads and walk into the showers. The cold water feels great, and finally, I cool down. When I’m finished, I pull on a pair of mesh shorts and a T-shirt before walking back into the locker room. Parading around in my plain white underwear in front of cheerleaders isn’t my idea of fun.
I hear the giggling when I’m still ten yards away from the other girls. Shuddering, I head to my locker, open it, and yank my bag out.
“I think JJ will tell me he loves me soon,” Lacey says to Kristen.
“He definitely will,” Kristen says. “I can tell by the way he looks at you.”
I force myself to cough so I won’t laugh. JJ stares at Lacey the way he stares at every single one of the Titans’ cheerleaders. It’s the same way he stares at cheese fries, for that matter.
“Hey, Jordan,” Lacey says, brushing her brown hair. Must she stand around in skimpy black underwear? She’d get more coverage wearing a spool of thread than those things.
“Hi,” I say, focusing on packing my bag and getting the hell out of here. I ignore my wet hair; brushing it will take too much time.
“When’s the last time you shaved your legs?” Lacey asks.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Sometimes Lacey makes me feel so shitty. I mean, what if Ty notices I haven’t shaved in, like, a week?
“So, um, has JJ mentioned me lately?” Lacey says.
You mean, besides to tell me you guys slept together in the back of your mom’s car last night? I’m still trying to figure out how JJ could fit horizontally inside the back of a Ford Taurus, but I’ll take his word that it actually happened.
“Nope,” I say. “Hasn’t said a word.”
Lacey slams her hairbrush into her bag.
I try to cobble together a sympathetic look, but it’s harder than I thought it would be.
I’ve never told anyone this, not even Henry, but one time I overheard Lacey and Kristen talking bad about me in the bathroom…
I remember hearing Lacey whine, “I don’t understand why JJ hangs out with her so much. It’s not like she’s cute—she’s huge!”
“I dunno,” Kristen had replied. “Sam Henry fawns over her too, even though she’s a dyke.”
“JJ promises me that he’s not sleeping with her…”
“Maybe she’s sleeping with both him and Henry.” And that wasn’t a one-time diss. Kristen’s a repeat offender.
Right then, Marie and Carrie, Henry’s ex, come in through the locker room door.
“Sam Henry asked me out,” Marie is saying to Carrie, who purses her lips, biting them. “Do you mind if I say yes?”
“No…I’m glad,” Carrie says, focusing on me, and then she motions for Marie to follow her.
They head straight over to my locker. “Who’s the new guy?” Carrie asks me.
“His name’s Ty Green,” I reply. “He just moved here from Texas.”
“He looked pretty good out there,” Lacey says. “I mean, in terms of football obviously.”
I snort. Like Lacey knows anything about football.
“Jealous?” Kristen asks. “He seems just as good as you.”
“No. I’m glad to have a great backup,” I respond, grabbing my bag. “He plays quarterback like me—you know, it’s a position in this game called football.”
Kristen rolls her eyes and goes back to staring at herself in the mirror. “Why’s your face all red?”
I jet for the door.
The Great Donovan Woods
I walk back across the field toward my truck, and on the way, I spot Coach Miller talking to Ty. Coach is frowning and scratching his chin, his glance alternating between Ty and the ground. They stop talking and, like me, Ty heads toward the parking lot.
“Hey,” he calls out, jogging toward me. My hands f ly 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 Nashville.
He laughs. “Of course not. Cowboys all 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 all 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 Hall of Fame selection.
The great Donovan Woods who doesn’t believe in me or my dreams of playing ball at the collegiate 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 hell do the guys do in there anyway? How could it possibly take me less time to get ready than them? “Henry,” I call 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 well,” 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 all 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’ll 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 well? 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’ll catch up sometime soon,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze before he walks off. “Ready to go, Ty? I think you’ll 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 football 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 f loor. I have a date with my bed: hiding beneath my pillow and listening to some Guns N’ Roses. That’ll 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 Knoxville. Jake is originally from California, so he’s spent most of his summer living here so he can be closer to school for football practice.
“Hey, sis,” Mike says, giving me a side hug. “Mom said you took a bad spill 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 kill 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 hell do you know about math, Reynolds?”
“Not only can I teach you math, I can teach you math in bed, Jordan. You know, I’ll add the bed, you subtract the clothes, you divide the legs, and I’ll multiply.”
This is standard Jake Reynolds behavior, so Mike does the typical rolling of his eyes as I say, “Charming,” and shove Jake against the dishwasher.
Then I run upstairs to my room and f lop down on my bed, which is covered in a new f luffy 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 f lip on the classic eighties station and stare out my window into our backyard, which ends at the banks of a lake. My lake actually—Lake Jordan. Having a dad who plays pro means we aren’t lacking in amenities. Our house is huge, with hardwood f loors 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 really rich, like me, or you’re really poor, like Henry. There’s not much in between. If Dad wanted to, he could be making fifteen or twenty million 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 killer 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 pillow and hit it with a fist. Rolling over, I jump out of bed and pace back and forth across the hardwood f loors, biting my knuckle. Then I f lop 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 f loor.
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 allows 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 will judge me, or question my sanity, or doubt my ability to lead a football 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 hell 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 pillow.
“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, calling up some girls we met the other night. So what happened at practice today?”
I bury my face in my pillow. “You have to promise not to make fun of me.”
He rubs my shoulder. “I promise.”
“Carter accidentally sacked me.”
“Carter sacked you? Where the hell was JJ?”
“It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention,” I say, groaning into my pillow.
“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 pillows. I can tell my bro about Ty—Mike won’t mention him to anyone else. I just can’t tell 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 f loor 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. Especially not a rival for my position.”
Mike nods. “Good luck. Just keep your head in the game and you’ll 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 yell, throwing my pillows 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.”
“Well, 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’ll be okay if I drive back on Saturday morning. Besides, this’ll probably be the only game of yours I’ll get to see this year. I wanna see which schools have recruiters checking you out besides Alabama. I’ll chat them up a bit.”
I smile at Mike. “Thank you!”
“You’re going to have your pick of scholarships. Imagine it. You’ll be the first girl to ever play QB at the collegiate 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, ruff ling his hair, avoiding my eyes. “Dad’s just…scared. He knows you can take all these fools at the high school level, but college is a different beast.”
I nod slowly, then smile at him. “I can’t wait for your game on Saturday. You’re gonna kill 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 yells from downstairs.
“Don’t tell Mom and Dad about Ty,” I warn Mike.
“But they’ll 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 all poised to dig in.
Mom brings in a pitcher of lemonade and pours me a glass. She looks at all of us and sees Henry’s empty chair. “Where’s Sam?” Mom asks.
“He had a study date,” I reply.
“A date date?” Mike asks, narrowing his eyes.
“I guess.”
“With who?”
“I dunno…some cheerleader. Marie Baird.”
“I figured he’d get back together with Carrie,” Mom says. “The other day, he told me he was going to ask her out again.”
“I dunno. He didn’t mention it to me when I suggested that,” I say, focusing on my chicken leg. I can’t wait to eat this thing. Mike glances at Mom, who shrugs. Why are they so interested in Henry’s love life? Or should I say sex life?
In more important news, I’m dying to dig into dinner. All this thinking about Ty has made me ravenous. I didn’t know crushing on a guy would require me to up my caloric intake.
The great Donovan Woods finally comes in and sits down at the head of the table. He plops a bottle of Gatorade next to his plate and grabs his napkin.
I can tell from the scowl on his face that Dad’s in a horrible mood, so I wonder if Titans practice sucked or something. When he finally picks up a fork and starts eating his salad, the rest of us start shoveling food into our mouths as if we actually are those poor starving Somali children. A minute later, Dad drops his fork onto his plate. Everyone looks over at him.
“Don?” Mom says.
Dad ignores Mom and focuses on me. “Jordan, I seriously think it’s time for you to consider quitting football.”
“Dad, come on,” Mike says. Jake picks up his silverware and napkin and sits on the edge of his chair and stares at Dad, almost as if he doesn’t want to witness this, but can’t help but stay and watch.
“Mike, keep out of this,” Dad says, focusing on me again. “Joe Carter called to tell me his son hit you hard today.”
“It was no big deal,” I say, pushing my salad around on my plate with a fork.
“But it could’ve been a big deal, Jordan. I don’t think you understand how dangerous this sport is,” Dad says with a shaky voice. I hope he doesn’t use that tone in front of his teammates, because it makes him sound like a complete pansy.
“Dad, I’ve been playing for ten years!”
“Joe Carter weighs 250 pounds. You weigh 170. You’re lucky you didn’t get knocked out.” Dad starts cramming salad into his mouth. Mike bites into a chicken breast like he’s a vulture or something and shakes his head at Dad.
“Well, nothing happened,” I say, “and I’m not quitting.”
Dad rubs his eyes. “What exactly do you want to do with football anyway? No women have ever been in the NFL, ’cause they’d get killed.”
“I don’t know, Dad. Right now, all I want is to play in college, and see what happens there.”
“You could seriously get hurt. The guys in college play at a totally different level than high school.”
“Don’t you know how good I am?”
“You shouldn’t be playing a sport with guys who are twice your size.” Dad stabs at his chicken with a knife and fork, ripping the meat off the bone and forcing it into his mouth.
“Maybe you’d know how good she is if you ever showed up to one of her games, Dad,” Mike blurts. Jake lets out a low whistle, and I think he’s about to take off, when Dad suddenly stands up and throws his napkin down on the table. He shoots Mike a look—the look of death, which I haven’t seen since Henry and I accidentally drove Dad’s ATV into the lake.
“Thanks for dinner, Julie,” Dad says, bending over and kissing Mom’s cheek. He picks up his plate, puts the bottle of Gatorade under his arm, and leaves the room. A few seconds later, I hear the door to his study slam shut.
My appetite gone, I pick up my plate and hold it out for Mike and Jake. My brother grabs the bread and chicken and Jake scoops the mashed potatoes onto his plate.
Mike rips into his second chicken breast, then wipes the grease from his lips with a napkin. “Dad’s such a jerk.”
Grinning at my brother, I stand up and take my plate to the sink. Before heading upstairs, I pause outside the dining room because I hear Mom speaking quietly. “Mike, I know you’re mad, but you will show your father more respect.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike replies softly.
I wish Henry was here to make me laugh right now, because I feel like shit. To get my mind off Dad’s assholishness, I run upstairs to my room and grab the stupid journal. Then I go outside into the backyard, through the gardens to Mom’s potting shed, this rickety oak shack that’s covered in ivy and moss. It’s totally Scotland.
Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching me, I slip inside and shut the door and take a seat next to the shovels in the corner, where streams of light from our deck shoot through the window and the cracks in the siding, illuminating the dirt f loor.
I love hiding in the shed when I need alone time. When we were little, Henry and I used to play house in here. We’d make long-winded announcements about how we would never get married to anyone, and I liked to pretend we had a bowling alley, and Henry would talk about having a helipad, and I’d trump that by pretending to have a transporter like on Star Trek.
I find my f lashlight. And holding it using my chin, I open the Moleskine to a blank page and try to think of something to write, besides fantasies of seeing Ty’s…
“Jesus, Woods,” I mutter. “Get a hold of yourself.”
I doodle. A few pictures of footballs, some pinwheels, the Alabama Roll Tide logo about thirty times. I draw a bunch of Xs and Os, which aren’t hugs and kisses, but offensive plays from the team playbook, and—okay, okay—I write J.W. + T.G., which I scribble over immediately.
I rip out the page of doodles and wad it up.
Ode to Ty…I love your three-step drop and that quick release.
I laugh as I rip that page out too.
evolution
(aka second attempt at tackling a poem)
I’ll admit it
When I first saw Jake Reynolds
I thought I’d died and gone to the Super Bowl
(as starting QB)
That blond surfer-boy hair
That tan body that won’t stop
That bottom lip: upturned, a sexy invite
And then he spoke
“Damn, Jordan. You should play tight end
because your ass is wound tighter than a baseball.”
Now every time I see a hot guy
my first reaction is to brace myself
Wait for the sewage to seep out of his mouth
I thought Henry was the last of his kind
I thought hot nice guys had gone extinct
Be still, my hormones
Ty is here to repopulate the species
mudding
the count? 19 days until alabama
The next morning, I wake up a little earlier than usual. Mike, Jake, and I run five miles together and then we lift weights before I hop in the shower. When I shave my legs for the first time in a week, I actually try to hit all the tricky spots—around the ankles, behind the knees. It’s like when Mom spends hours making sure each weed has been plucked from her vegetable garden.
I also mess around with the assorted lotions, body washes, and conditioners that Mom puts in my bathroom. I hope Ty likes shea butter.
Ugh. All I’ve done since yesterday is think about him. I only got two hours of sleep last night. Imagine that—me losing tomorrow’s game against Lynchburg High School, the worst team in our district—because I’m worn out from thinking about a guy all night long.
Yeah, I know. I make myself sick too.
Yet here I am at 7:00 a.m., actually trying to decide what I’m going to wear to school today. I spend two minutes brushing my hair, which is about two minutes longer than usual, then I pick out a nice pair of jeans, and since I don’t have practice today, I try on a pushup bra and matching underwear that have infiltrated my underwear drawer. The lacy blue underwear barely covers anything and offers virtually no support.
Mom must really want me to get a boyfriend.
As uncomfortable as I feel, I keep the girly underwear on anyway. Who knows? Provided they stay the hell out of my butt crack, they might make me feel sexier later on today.
And instead of my usual ratty “Titans” and “Bell Buckle Moon Pie Ten-Mile Race” T-shirts, I pick out a plain black fitted tee. I know, I know—I’m wild. But seriously? For me, this fitted tee is totally dressing up, and it shows off my boobs. I don’t think too many people even realize I have boobs. Not even Jake, the total horndog, knows I have a chest.
I top off the outfit with f lip-f lops and chapstick. Ty better appreciate how hard I’ve worked to make myself attractive for him this morning, because I am fucking spent.
***
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