“Woods,” Coach shouts, waving his clipboard. “The coin toss.”
I look up, my eyes blurred from tears, and find Carter and JJ jogging over to me. JJ takes my elbow in his hand and leads me toward the center of the field, whispering, “What’s wrong?”
“An Alabama alum is here to watch me,” I mutter.
“Awesome,” Carter replies, patting my back.
“I feel sick,” I reply.
“You’ll be great,” JJ says. “Northgate’s got nothing on us. Not with you playing.”
“Carter—can you do the toss?” I whisper, and he nods and pats my shoulder.
Carter calls heads. It lands on heads, and he chooses to receive.
“Thanks,” I mumble as we head back over to the benches. Henry runs out to receive the kickoff, and while I shake my shoulders out and drink some Gatorade, Ty comes over.
“What’s going on?” he asks, focusing on my eyes.
“Nothing.”
He puts his helmet under an arm and rubs the back of his neck with his other hand, peering at me. “You’ve been weird ever since, you know, we slept together. I’m sorry if you felt pressured, or anything…”
I so don’t need this right now. “It’s nothing like that. I just need to get in the zone for the game.”
Northgate’s set to kick off, and Henry’s bouncing around in the end zone getting ready to receive, and my knees are shaking. Partly because of the Alabama alum, partly because of Henry, but mostly because I feel like my entire life has changed in the past month.
I’m used to being in control, and even that’s gone. I gave up what I had left when I missed practice.
“You sure you can play?” Ty asks. “We can’t afford to lose if we want to make it to district finals.”
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Good. Watch out for the corner blitz.”
“I know.”
He shakes his head and looks at the crowd for a few seconds. “After the game, we need to talk,” he says before walking over to stand next to Coach.
“Fanfuckingtastic,” I whisper to myself.
I scan the bleachers, looking for Mom—she’s sitting with Mr. and Mrs. H. I bet Henry’s glad his dad finally showed up at a game. Must be nice.
Mom stares down at me, concern etched on her face. “I love you,” she mouths.
I wave at her, thinking how much I needed that.
Northgate kicks off, and Henry makes it to the thirty before getting slammed to the ground. The team and fans erupt, screaming and clapping, and the marching band plays the fight song. I run out onto the field with JJ, who slaps my back before we get into formation. My hands shake.
“Z-spread eighteen,” I shout, and JJ hikes me the ball. I pedal three steps backward, scanning the field, then zip a short pass to Higgins. He jumps to catch the ball, but it sails right over his head. Incomplete.
“Damn it,” I mutter. I wipe my sweaty palms on my towel.
Back into formation.
JJ hikes the ball again. Keeping it simple, I hand off to Bates, and we gain fifteen yards. Nice.
Next play? I hurl the ball downfield to Henry, but he sidesteps a cornerback at the last second, and the ball lands directly in the cornerback’s arms.
Interception.
The cornerback darts down the field toward our end zone, and I sprint over and throw myself at him, but I miss the tackle, f lip, and crash onto my back in the grass. Ow.
The cornerback scores. Because of me.
Because I’m playing like complete crap.
When I run back over to the benches, Carter says, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not.” I only had one interception all last year, and that’s when I blew it at the state championship.
I can’t blow it again.
JJ and I hustle back out after Northgate kicks off. “You’ve got this, Woods,” he says.
On the first play, I hand off to Bates for ten yards, but then on the next snap, I fumble the ball and as I’m scrambling after it, I get slammed and my helmet smashes into the ground. My nose feels like someone hurled a brick at it.
Thank God JJ recovers the ball.
We lose the ten yards.
Breathing deeply, my hands keep shaking as I huddle with the guys. “Go route to Henry. I’m bombing it straight down the field.”
We clap and break, and JJ hikes the ball again. I dash back several feet, avoiding the linebacker trying to sack me, and throw the ball to Henry, but it’s way short. I don’t get enough on the throw and he runs the wrong route—he was supposed to come back on the ball, but didn’t.
Northgate intercepts again.
“Shit!” I yell. Higgins manages to tackle the safety who got the pick on me, but it’s Northgate’s ball again.
I can hear my teammates shouting from the bench, including Ty. “What the hell, Woods?” he calls out with his arms spread wide.
I want to yell, “It’s not only my fault!” but captains don’t do that.
Henry jerks his head, looking pissed at himself for messing up the play.
My eyes dart to the fence where all the recruiters and alumni stand, and locate the hat with the Alabama logo on it. The guy’s writing in his notebook and shaking his head. Another guy wearing an orange Tennessee windbreaker is with him. Great. So now Mike will know I’ve screwed everything up.
I’m a total waste of Alabama’s time.
I yank my chinstrap loose and storm over to the bench as shitloads of cameras blind me like strobe lights. Damned reporters.
Coach walks up, while Henry stands as far away from me as possible, but I can see him panting hard as he glances at me. Good. He should know this is his own damn fault. Couldn’t he have waited until the game was over to destroy my heart?
“What’s going on, Woods?” Coach asks.
“Sorry, Coach,” I say with a shrug.
He whispers, “I’m sorry too. Your head’s not in the game. You’re benched.”
And right then, when I look up into the stands for Mom, I see Dad kiss her cheek and take a seat.
#
losing it
Ty ran the score up 28–7
Didn’t even look like he was trying as
he bombed the ball down the field over and over again
to Higgins
The great Donovan Woods finally showed up
Sat in the stands
Signed autographs
Smiled and laughed
It’s like he knew I’d get benched
It’s like he knew Ty would play
So he came
A recruiter from Mike’s school showed up
Gawked at Ty
Even worse?
Mr. Henry came
But didn’t get to see Henry play for real
Ty didn’t make one pass to Henry
I ruined my chances with Alabama
I threw my helmet at my locker
#
the daily special
will i still get to go to alabama?
After the game, Ty and I head to my truck. He still wants to talk.
In the parking lot, we pass JJ and Lacey, who are pawing at each other up against her mom’s Ford Taurus. Classy.
Celebratory rap music rings out from Higgins’s truck, and Carrie and Marie are encouraging Carter to start a bonfire.
“Nice game, Ty!” Kristen calls out, sitting on the tailgate of Higgins’s truck, displaying lots of leg.
“Good job, Green,” Higgins adds, slapping Ty’s back.
And no one looks at me.
Then I see Henry sitting on the tailgate of his truck. With Savannah Bailey standing in front of him, in between his legs. He kisses her and pulls her hips up against him and digs his fingers into her brown hair, and I feel this pain shoot up my arm and into my chest.
“Is there one girl at this school he hasn’t been with?” Ty asks, nodding at Henry.
“Good question.”
When Henry comes up for air, he looks over Savannah’s shoulder at me. He mouths, “I’m sorry.”
Even though I’m pissed, I give him a slight smile.
“Give me your keys,” Ty says, thrusting his hand in front of me.
“Why?”
“Give me the keys. You’re not driving when you’re upset.”
“I’m not upset!” I snap.
“My dad died in a car wreck, you know.”
I reluctantly pass Ty the keys; he rips them from my hand, and we climb into my truck and start to drive. A minute later, I get a text from Henry: I’m really sorry.
I text back, Okay.
But it’s not that simple.
Thinking of Henry gives me this dull ache in my chest. How long will that be around?
Back at Ty’s place, I wait in the living room as he visits his mother, who I still haven’t met, then I watch as he checks on Vanessa, who’s already asleep. He brushes her hair away from her face and kisses her cheek.
I sit down on Ty’s bed, but he doesn’t join me. He pulls out his desk chair, f lips it around toward me and straddles it. Folding his arms across the back of the chair, he rests his chin on his forearms and stares at me.
“You okay?” Ty asks.
“I’m fine.”
“So your dad actually came tonight…”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe it’s karma for skipping practice for the first time ever.”
“Um, after the game, your dad introduced me to a coach from your brother’s school.”
“Figures,” I say, burying my face in my hands. But like with Henry, I won’t be selfish. I’m not going to sacrifice Ty’s future just because I have a horrible relationship with my father. Looking up, I say with a smile, a real smile, “I think it’s great.”
Ty focuses on the carpet. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He moves to sit with me on the bed, taking my hand in his. “I’m so sorry I yelled at you the other night.”
“I’m fine…wait. I talked to Dad about his offer to help pay for your mom’s care so you can go to school.” Ty sighs and falls backward onto his pillow. I lie down on the pillow too, taking in its scent of soap. “And I know you don’t want to accept a handout—believe me, I wouldn’t either—but would you be willing to consider a loan? To be paid back with interest after college?”
Ty stares at me. “Interest.”
“Yeah, like once you’re on an NFL team.”
“There’s no guarantee I’ll end up in the NFL.”
“You’ll never know unless you try. And you can do that with my parents’ offer. Even if my dad is the biggest asshole on the planet to me, I think you should take advantage. If not for you, for Vanessa. You’ll be able to provide so much more for her if you go to college.”
“Woods, before I can accept this, I need to know if you really want this.”
“Of course I want you to take the money and focus on college.”
“I meant us. Do you want to date me?”
I do have feelings for him, even if they aren’t as strong as my feelings for Henry. He’s cute and sweet and he totally gets what football means to me. “Yes, I do.”
“I really like you. And with everything that’s happened to me in the past few months, I can’t handle much more.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I moved here, I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t care about much of anything except for making sure my mom got taken care of and my sister got to school. Once I got that figured out, for now anyway, I thought I could be selfish for a little while. I could play some ball, make some friends…and then I met you.”
I’m biting my fingernails, feeling that dull ache making way for a much deeper pain. Who ever knew Jordan Woods was capable of being such a heartbreaker? I’m plundering the hearts of football players, left and right. It must be the new pushup bras.
He continues, “And I’m falling for you—I love how driven and serious you are. I can’t believe everything that’s happened between us. But if you’re not going to be mature and serious about me, like I thought you would be, I want out now.”
“You want out?”
“Yeah. If you’re going to keep running off with Henry, doing God knows what, I want out. I don’t like it when I can’t reach you on your cell. I need to know where you are.”
I must be awfully important to him since he’s freaking out like he did with his sister. Picking up a phone isn’t a lot to ask. “I’ll pick up from now on. I’m sorry about the other day. I left my phone in the car.” Lie.
“Good. And I can’t stand how Henry gets to stay over at your house at night. So can you not…?”
Um, okay. Allowing Ty to have a say in my friendship with Henry is a lot to ask. I’ve been dating Ty for what? Five days? And he’s already questioning my friendship with Henry? I guess he has a point. I mean, two days ago, I was totally ready to end this for Henry. But if Henry and I can’t be together, and if he’s going to act like a jerk, and if he’s going to kiss another girl in front of me, I’m not putting my life on hold.
I won’t give up my boyfriend for the best friend who said, “I need some time alone.”
“Ty—I’m serious about me and you. Henry’s been my best friend for ages, and I can’t imagine not hanging out with him, but he won’t be sleeping over anymore. And just so you know, nothing has ever happened between us. You’re the first guy I’ve ever wanted. You’re my first everything.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? Jordan…”
I grab his hand. “I’m fine. But what’s not okay is how you played tonight. Why didn’t you pass to Henry?”
Ty glances at me sideways. “Um…I dunno…I guess I’m a little pissed at him. I heard he disappeared from school on Wednesday, just like you. And since you didn’t answer my calls…I thought…”
I cut him off, leaning in for a kiss. With this kiss, I’m telling Ty I’m serious, that I will continue being serious.
When unrequited love is the most expensive thing on the menu, sometimes you settle for the daily special.
#
having cake
the count? 1 day until alabama
After practice on Monday, Ty and I are leaning up against my truck, making out in full view of the junior varsity football 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, pulling off his cap and scratching his head. He focuses on his clipboard but looks up at us again several times before finally going back into the school. This must be the weirdest thing a football coach has ever seen: two quarterbacks making out.
When I open my eyes for the third time, Henry, who must’ve finally 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 pulls 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 tell 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 shuff les 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 controlling 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 tell 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 all your fault, Sam. You control all the plays here. But you haven’t even stopped to consider what I might want. You just tell me how it’s going to be. Well, 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 tell you how to feel. Ty, Kristen Markum, Alabama, your dad…”
“Screw you. If I lose my scholarship to Alabama, it’s all 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 yelling at one another outside my truck. I turn the ignition and drive off.
How could everything in my life fall 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 yell, throwing a punch. “Moron,” I say, kicking the bag, causing it to swing back a few feet toward the wall. “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 will be on in a few minutes. Thank God, the Vikings and Chargers will 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 foosball 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.
“Well…”
“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 pulls the lid off his cup and starts shaking it, trying to get more Slurpee out.
“What aren’t you telling 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, well,” 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, all before we could break them up. They’re not really 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’ll get to play the whole game, and I won’t have to throw the ball 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 will 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 football again.”
Carter nods, then grins. “Yup, who needs a girlfriend when you’ve got good friends and football?”
JJ suddenly appears in the doorway, chuckling. “Should I leave you two alone so you can get it on with a football?” He yanks his wallet out of his pocket and finds some condoms, which he throws at us.
“Shut up, man,” I say, dodging the condoms, “or I’ll 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 foosball 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 all we’re missing is Henry. Even if we both acted like total jerks today, I want to know that he’s all right and right here beside me.
After I kick JJ’s and Carter’s asses at a few rounds of foosball, the Vikings are winning by ten points, and Henry still 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.”
#
trip to alabama
The plan?
I’m going to tell the athletic director and coaches that Friday night was a f luke ’cause I got food poisoning from Joe’s All-You-Can-Eat Pasta Shack, that it won’t ever happen again, and pray to the football 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 ball 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 college fields hundreds of times, but this is the first time it will 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 all 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 Roll Tide f lags. 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 will be more of a selection than at Hundred Oaks. Some of them smile at us.
I elbow Mom. “Dad better watch out. These college guys are totally into you.”
Mom laughs. “That would certainly be a scandal. The wife of the Tennessee Titans’ quarterback runs off with a twenty-year-old college boy.”
Then a dark, tall 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 enthusiastically, 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 totally 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 college 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 all 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. “Tell 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 well 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 f lew 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. “Well…yes, but that’s not all.” The office door slams open to reveal a man in khakis, a windbreaker, and a baseball 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 falls open. The coach doesn’t have more than five minutes to speak with a potential quarterback? One they are prepared to give a full ride to? What the hell does that mean?
“Can you give us ten minutes, Rob?” Mr. Tucker asks. “And I’ll give Mr. and Mrs. Woods and Jordan the tour of the grounds and stadium.”
“You’ve got five,” Coach Thompson says, shaking Dad’s hand, then taking a seat on the other side of Mom.
She purses her lips and clutches her bag. She looks like she might just stand up and leave.
Does Coach Thompson have a problem with the Titans? Maybe he’s acting like an asshole because my bro plays for Alabama’s main rival, Tennessee. But wait, I would be an asset because I know how Mike plays and thinks. Coach Thompson must realize this. So what the hell is this dude’s problem?
Dad sits back down in his chair and rubs his eyes with a thumb and a forefinger.
Mom speaks up first. “Mr. Tucker, you were discussing Jordan’s role in recruiting? What exactly does that mean?”
“We’d like for her to speak at some events and do more photography work for us—like she did for our boosters’ calendar. We’d also like her to be the face of our charity program. We encourage foster children to consider sports, showing them that a team can be a family too.”
I feel confused. Mike doesn’t have to do any of this stuff for Tennessee. Sure, they make posters of him, but it’s not like he has to pose like I did. And I’m all for charity and helping kids, but with practice and school and traveling to games, how will I have time for the charity program, speaking at events, and recruiting?
“Okay. I can do those things,” I say, peeking at Coach Thompson. “But it seems like all these extra activities might affect my practice time. Shouldn’t I be focusing on playing ball?”
Coach Thompson crosses his arms and stares out the window. “You won’t be playing football for me anytime soon.”
“But she has the best QB record in the entire state of Tennessee,” Dad replies, and my heart gets so excited I think it might stop.
“It’s true—I threw for 2,653 yards and thirty-one touchdowns last year alone.”
The coach laughs, but it’s not a nice laugh. “I think my five minutes are up, Tucker.” He stands and walks out of the office, letting the door slam behind him. I’m going to play for this jerk?
Glaring at the door, Mr. Tucker runs a hand through his hair and rises from his desk. “I’m sorry about Coach Thompson. He’s under a lot of stress…you know, with the upcoming game against Florida. Let me show you around the school.”
“I sure hope the coach won’t be treating my daughter like that when she’s a member of his team,” Mom says, folding her hands in front of her.
“Oh, of course not,” Mr. Tucker says, ushering us out of his office.
“Let’s go home,” Dad says to me.
“But I haven’t seen the field yet.”
“I think we’ve seen enough.”
“Dad, come on,” I whisper, bouncing on my tiptoes. He’d use any reason to get me to leave. So what if Thompson’s in a grouchy mood today? “Alabama’s my dream.”
Dad rests a hand on my shoulder and, eventually, he nods. “It won’t hurt to take a look around campus.”
We get to see some of the classrooms and the new state-of-the-art gym and workout facilities, including a new pool. All of this bores me. I want to see the freaking stadium! It takes about an eon for us to go out there, what with these awful shoes I’m wearing, and with Mr. Tucker’s need to point out every last little thing, from where the bike racks are located to where I could pick up a newspaper to where students are allowed to smoke. I would hope an athletic director would know better than to point out ashtrays to a quarterback, but whatever. I’ll trudge through Mr. Tucker’s show-and-tell as long as I get to see the field eventually.
Finally, when we get to the stadium, Dad says, “I’ll stay outside.” He drops to sit on a bench. “I’ve gotta make some calls.”
He slumps, staring at the parking lot, and doesn’t take his phone out.
Mom and I head inside Bryant-Denny, which is so beautiful, even better than on television. The lush green field reminds me of an Irish countryside, and I can even smell the freshly painted yard lines. The giant red scoreboard and the little tunnel leading from the locker room make me giddy. I can’t wait to run out of it. Water coolers are set up on the benches and staffers are carrying balls and assorted equipment across the field.
I indulge in a few daydreams, including one where I run for a touchdown with only ten seconds left in a tie game, and another where I throw for a touchdown from the fifty-yard line. Okay, that would never happen, but it’s a cool dream. I’m knocked out of my fantasies by some guys who jog up to me. Wearing red and white sweats, these guys are even hotter than the ones we saw on the quad. I recognize them from pictures on the team website—three wide receivers and two running backs.
They all smile at Mom and say, “Hello, ma’am.” At first, I’m convinced they’re southern gentlemen, but then one of them says, “And you must be Jordan Woods, our new poster girl!”
The other four guys laugh. So that’s how it’s going to be? Not only can I play quarterback, I can play this game too: sarcastic bitchiness. In my heels, I stumble up to the asshole wide receiver who just taunted me and say, “Yup. I’m the new poster girl. But only because you weren’t pretty enough. Wouldn’t want to scare the fans away.”
“Oooh,” and “Ouch,” the other guys say, slapping the wide receiver, who bats their arms away.
“You’re prettier than I thought you’d be,” says one of the wide receivers. “I’ve changed my mind. I won’t mind you being on the team one bit. I hope we get to be roommates.” He sidles up next to me and wraps an arm around my shoulder. Ugh. Jake Reynolds’s face f lashes in my head. I shove the wide receiver away, hard, but immediately regret it because this is not how a lady acts. Hopefully none of the coaches saw that. The receiver stumbles away, laughing.
Mr. Tucker is fiddling with his cuff links, glancing back and forth between me and the Alabama players. “Shouldn’t you all be getting ready for practice?” Frowning, he points toward Coach Thompson, who is inspecting a player’s knee and talking to a trainer at the same time.
The guys all say “Yes, sir” and jog off toward the benches.
I’ve been lucky for the past ten years, because everyone in Tennessee just accepted me. What should count is that I’m a great football player, a great person. It shouldn’t matter that I’m not a boy.
But I guess that’s how everyone sees me. Girl first, football player second.
Just like Henry said.
It gets worse when the wide receiver who groped my shoulder comes running back over, tossing a ball. He throws it at me so hard that when I catch it, I stumble backward because of these stupid shoes. He laughs at me. Kicking the heels off, I decide I’m not gonna let this asshole embarrass me. He’s standing there, stretching his arms out and smiling, just daring me. So I run back a few steps, but instead of throwing the ball at the wide receiver, I draw my arm back and launch a thirty-five-yard bomb over the dude’s head. Oh yeah, it goes exactly where I want it to. The ball f lies right between two of the other assholes, hitting the water cooler. Ice and water explode all over the rest of the players who made fun of me.
They turn and gawk at me. Even Coach Thompson is staring. It takes every bit of decorum I possess not to slap my hips with my hands and yell, “Suck it!” at these fools.
The wide receiver gapes, then shrugs, saying, “Nice. But you’ve still got a lot to prove, little girl.”
I glare back at him, wishing I had another ball, because I think his helmet needs a good dent in it. Considering I led my team to the state championship game last year, I have proven myself. Girl or not, I’m an awesome football player.
“Well, Mom, I think we’ve seen enough. Thank you, Mr. Tucker, for your time.” I elbow Mom, who is smiling at the water cooler mess on the other side of the field.
“Oh, yes, thank you, Mr. Tucker. I’m glad there’s at least one gentleman at this school,” Mom says.
Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone act more embarrassed than Tucker. His face is red and sweaty and he’s dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief.
Dad’s right. Alabama never wanted me to play in the first place. No wonder Mr. Tucker didn’t care that I fucked up royally on Friday night.
So now what?
•••
Later that night, I’m sitting on the dock, writing in my journal while watching the moon shine down on algae-covered Lake Jordan.
When I got home, I stripped out of that stupid grey dress and hurled it into the closet, where I found Henry’s blue Converses nestled up against a pair of my cleats. And then I noticed his Super Mario Bros. T-shirt, so I sat down in the closet and cried into Luigi’s face. And then I realized how psycho that was, so I ran out to the lake. (After putting clothes on, of course.)
As soon as my back was to the house, I started bawling. I don’t know what’s worse: me screwing up on the field and letting my team down, or knowing that Alabama never wanted me to play in the first place.
Now, I keep opening and closing my cell phone. I want to call Henry so much. But why bother?
And I can’t call Ty to tell him about my trip to Alabama. I can’t show weakness in front of him—he’ll just question my ability to play, like he did on Friday night.
Carter and JJ just aren’t good at talking about this stuff. Besides, I don’t want anyone to know about what happened today. I mean, if Alabama isn’t going to let me play, then why should I keep starting for Hundred Oaks? Might as well give Ty the chance so he can get a full ride to college.
He does deserve and need it…
I write in my journal:
Even though Dad’s always been kind of a jerk, at least I had my dreams and my best friend.
Well, Henry’s gone, and my dream school wasn’t a dream after all. I have a boyfriend now, but the perfect boyfriend was right in front of me, and I didn’t even notice.
It’s like I f lew into a black hole, into a void where I don’t know anything.
“Jordan?”
I look over my shoulder as I snap my journal shut and sit on it. Dad’s standing behind me with his hands in his pockets.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Please just leave me alone…”
Dad comes and sits down next to me, pulls his loafers off, and dips his toes in the lake.
“You gonna say I told you so?” I mutter.
“Course not. Just came out to check on you—you haven’t said two words since we left Alabama. Mom’s worried.” He jerks his head toward the house, so I turn and see Mom staring from the kitchen window, arms folded across her stomach.
Dad asks, “Why do you want to go to Alabama?”
I shake my head at him as I wipe my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve and repeat what I said the other day. “It’s the best football school in the country.” Duh.
He elbows me in the side. “Hey—what about Ole Miss? I turned out okay, didn’t I?”
I let out a tiny laugh.
Dad swats at a mosquito before saying, “Alabama may have the best record ever, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right school for you.”
“And what is the best school for me, Dad? One without a football team?”
He blows a bunch of air out and leans back on his hands, staring up at the clear sky. “I don’t know what the best school is for you, but you should explore all your options.”
I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs, thinking how embarrassing it would be to admit to my teammates that I’m not going to Alabama. Maybe if I play harder and better than ever before, they’ll have no choice but to let me play.
“Alabama’s what’s best for me, Dad.”
He reaches over and rubs my back. “Your mom and I love you no matter what you choose, but I hope you’ll seriously think about other colleges.”
“Whatever.”
Dad pauses for awhile. “How about we go fishing together on Saturday? Just you and me?”
So he can try to talk me out of Alabama again? “No thanks.”
Pain washes over his face as he stares into my eyes and takes his hand off my back. Then he gets up and heads back to the house while I keep staring at the moon and slapping at mosquitoes.
When I turn to see if Mom’s still looking at me from the kitchen window, I don’t find her staring at me. But Dad is.
Maybe he does care, but I can’t forget how he’s tried to get me to quit for years. This is what Dad’s been waiting for—for me to give up.
But I’m not going to.
•••
FROM: Woods, Jordan
TO: Tucker, Mark (Athletics, University of Alabama)
DATE: Saturday, September 18, 07:32 a.m.
SUBJECT: Thank you
Dear Mr. Tucker:
Thank you again for inviting me to visit campus last Tuesday. I enjoyed meeting Coach Thompson and the players. While I look forward to helping with recruitment and working with charities that the University of Alabama supports, I’m very excited to play for the football team one day.
I’ve enclosed a video from our fourth game. Last night, we beat Cool Springs 42–14. I threw for 300 yards and ran for one touchdown. Please feel free to share my video with the coaching staff.
I’m looking forward to visiting campus again and to joining the team next year.
Sincerely,
Jordan Woods
•••
FROM: Tucker, Mark (Athletics, University of Alabama)
TO: Woods, Jordan
DATE: Monday, September 20, 09:13 a.m.
SUBJECT: RE: Thank you
Hi Jordan:
I hope you enjoyed your tour of campus. It was great to meet you and your family. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer.
We just received the proofs for next year’s calendar, and we love your photos. We’re most excited you’re joining our community.
The University of Alabama Alumni Charity Ball is on December 4, and we’d appreciate it if you could attend. Several alumnae have expressed a desire to meet you.
Yours truly,
Mark Tucker
#
The next update will be on Wednesday, November 27.
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