Catching Jordan (18 page)

“Me too…”

“And if I’m already dreading it, and we’re just best friends, imagine how bad it would be if we were more…what if we broke up? We’d never get over it. Wel , I never would.” He picks up another rock and feeds it to the Cumberland.

“I get it. But Kristen Markum?”

His face goes al red, and he kicks some rocks into the river. “Won’t happen again.”

“You mean, you’re not going to screw around with girl after girl anymore?”

“I dunno. I gotta cope somehow.”

“Your
coping
,” I say, making finger quotes, “is fucking with my heart. You were breaking it long before I even knew how you felt. I’ve been worried about you.”

“You don’t think your being with Ty has just about kil ed me?”

“Dude!” I laugh. “It’s been three days or something.”

Henry grins, stretching out his hand toward mine. “Friends?”

I take his hand. “Red Sox forever.” And then, thinking of Kristen Markum, I shove Henry into the river, creating a much bigger splash than any of my rocks.

•••

That evening, as I’m writing, Ty comes into my room without knocking. I barely have time to hide my journal.

“Why haven’t you been answering my cal s?” he asks in an agitated tone.

“I’m sorry—I’ve had a rough day.”

“I don’t care, Jordan,” he shouts. “When I cal , you need to answer the phone.”

This is al too much. I close my eyes. Through clenched teeth, I say, “Excuse me? Don’t talk to me like that. Ever. Understand?”

When I open my eyes, I find Ty curled up at the end of my bed, tears rol ing down his face. “I thought something had happened to you,” he whispers. “I thought—”

“You thought what?”

“You might be hurt. Or dead. I didn’t know about my parents for hours…I couldn’t reach them on their cel s.”

I crawl down and pul Ty’s head into my lap, stroking his hair. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Ty stays in my arms for the next hour. What causes the worst pain I’ve ever felt? Watching a quarterback, who prides himself on maintaining control, fal apart.

the count? 5 days until alabama
After our weekly gorging at Joe’s, JJ and I are hanging back at my place, playing some Nintendo Wii. JJ’s kicking my ass at the game where, riding a cow, you race around a dirt track and knock down scarecrows for points.

“Woods,” JJ says, as he pummels a few scarecrows with his cow, “you’d better not miss any more practices. I hate snapping to your pretty-boy boyfriend.”

“Shut up, man,” I say as I total y miss a line of five scarecrows. Why do I suck so bad at video games?

“Ty’s so picky,” JJ continues. “Like, if I don’t hike the bal at just the right speed and angle, he gets ticked off.”

“I’l talk to him.”

“You’d better. Or Carter and I are going to kick his ass.”

“Please don’t kick my boyfriend’s ass,” I say, exasperated. Why are al the men in my life acting like total boneheads?

The door to the basement squeaks open, and I hold my breath, waiting to hear who opened the door. Is it Henry? Please God, let it be Henry. At school today, we didn’t speak at al , which is strange considering we have four classes and the same lunch period together. How are we supposed to be Red Sox forever if, after one day, he’s already acting weird again? I wish Carrie had never told me why they broke up.

“Jordan?” Dad cal s out from upstairs. “May I see you in my study please?”

I drop the Wii control er on the floor and trot up the stairs to the study, where I stand in the doorway.

“Come on in.”

Dad’s sitting at his desk, shuffling through paperwork. He never invites me in his study—it’s like his inner sanctum of footbal . He might as wel have a “No Women Al owed” sign on the door because Mom hasn’t been in here in ages. I don’t even think it gets cleaned—it’s ful of empty pizza boxes and Gatorade bottles, coated in layers of dust.

“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the leather sofa where he and Mike watch film of past games. My head says there’s no way he’d ever watch film with me, but my heart is hoping that’s why I’ve been invited here. Doubtful. When I sit down, I hear a crunch, so I stand up and find that I’ve just sat on a Cheeto. Gross.

“Jordan,” Dad says as I wipe orange dust off my butt, “I was wondering if you’d like to go to the go-kart track and out for milkshakes tonight. You know, like we used to?”

“Like when I was ten?”

Dad nods.

I lift a shoulder. “Not real y.”

“Okay,” he mutters while staring at his paperwork. “Listen, I’m so sorry about what I said at dinner the other night. You’re right—I didn’t know anything about Ty or his family.”

I shrug.

“Can you forgive me?”

This
is
about
Ty?
I’m so mad at Dad right now, I could easily smash his flat-screen TV. I want to grab his stupid footbal -shaped lamp and hurl it out the window. And though it’s sacrilege, I’m considering smashing his Joe Montana autographed picture.

“I can forgive you about Ty, but how could you say I’m selfish? I’m just trying my hardest to do what I love. You compliment Henry and Ty, but you never ever mention me! You’d support every other footbal player on the freaking planet before me!”

I can’t believe I said that out loud. I throw my head back and peer at a trophy case, realizing he has one of those plastic singing fish plaques on his shelf. I thought Mom threw that out years ago! He’s gonna be in huge trouble with Mom for keeping that dumbass fish.

Dad turns to see what I’m looking at. “Oh hel ,” he says, rubbing his head as he looks at his fish. “You’re not gonna tel Mom, right?”

“Depends,” I say.

“On?”

I pul a deep breath. “I want your support. I want you to come to my games.”

“Jordan—I love you, but I’ve seen what this game can do to people…” Dad stands up and stares out the window at Lake Jordan. “I don’t want that for you.”

“Why’s it okay for Mike, but not for me?”

“I’ve seen the concussions, I’ve seen knees wrecked, I’ve seen legs broken in four places.” Dad exhales deeply. “Mike can handle al that.”

“So can I! You’ve always gone to his games. You never come to mine. And I’ve worked so hard.” I’m tempted to stand up and smash that stupid fish plaque over his head.

Dad’s eyes meet mine. “I know you work hard and I know you’re a great player…but I get scared. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you…I couldn’t handle it.” His voice trails off.

“But I love footbal and have a chance at playing for Alabama!”

“Why do you want to go to Alabama so bad?”

“It’s the best footbal team in the country.” Duh.

Dad picks up a pen from his desk and clicks it a few times. “I don’t think they’l ever let you play.”

“What are you talking about? Of course they wil .”

“Don’t you find it a bit weird they invited you to visit campus and basical y offered you a ful ride before seeing you in person?”

My head droops a bit. I wondered the exact same thing. “Maybe they saw some of my tapes from last year.”

“And then they make you pose for a calendar? It’s like they want you to be their trophy. And I would’ve said the same thing if this had happened with your brother, you know.”

“Dad, I’m one of the best footbal players in Tennessee. Did you ever think Alabama may actual y want me to win some games for them?”

Dad shakes his head and clicks the pen some more before chewing on the end of it. “You understand the long hours? The hard hits you’d take at the col ege level? Dealing with sixty Jake Reynoldses
all
the
time
—the jerks who wil constantly degrade you?”

“Yes, Dad. I understand al of that.”

Dad looks at me for a long time, then picks up a footbal from the floor and tosses it to himself.

Twirling the bal as he goes over to stare out the window again, he says, “Jordan, I love you and I’m so proud of you. I’l try to be better.”

I feel a snag in my throat and swal ow hard. “I love you too, Dad.”

“So, I cal ed down to Texas to speak with Buddy Simpson about your boyfriend.”

Buddy is one of Dad’s old friends. He used to play for the Cowboys and now just hangs out in Texas not doing much of anything except fol owing the footbal circuit. If something’s happening in Texas regarding footbal , Buddy usual y knows about it.

Dad tosses the bal up and catches it. “A bunch of schools were interested in him after last year, but he’s been ignoring al their cal s and emails,”

Dad says. “Even Florida showed some interest.”

“So he lied to us?” I reply, tracing the lines of my palm with a fingertip.

“Yup.”

I take a deep breath. “I’m not surprised. He’s real y only concerned with what happened to his parents…and making sure his sister is okay…”

“I’d like to help him—and his sister. I’m worried about him.”

Thinking of Ty crying last night, I say, “I’m worried too.”

“Taking care of a sister and a sick mother is not something a seventeen-year-old should have to do.”

“Yeah. I don’t know what I can do, though. He doesn’t like being taken care of. He likes being in control.”

Dad tosses the bal to me. I catch it and toss it back to him. “Wel , let’s give him some control then. Tel him I’l loan him whatever money he needs to take care of his mom. But he has to pay me back with interest.”

I smile. “I like that idea.”

“Think he’l go for it?”

“Maybe. I’l talk to him about it.”

“Good. You know, Jordan, even if he was just some guy on the math team, not some great footbal player, I’d stil want to help him out.”

Sometimes the
great
Donovan Woods can actual y be pretty cool.

the count? 4 days until alabama
As I pul into the school parking lot before our third game, my cel rings. Mike.

“Hey, bro, guess what?”

“What?”

“Alabama’s athletic director sent me another email. He said a friend of his, an Alabama alum, is coming to look at me tonight.” Since recruiters are technical y only al owed to watch a player once during the season, sometimes col ege coaches ask boosters or alumni to come see the rest of the games. It’s kinda shady, but that’s just the way things work. “And he thanked me for doing the photo shoot,” I add.

“Great.”

I shut off the truck’s engine. “Are you coming with me to visit campus Tuesday?”

“Can’t. Big history exam that day.” As I get out of the truck, Mike says, “Listen, you need to dress up when you go. Wear a dress and fix your hair, okay?”

“Why?”

“Remember when I talked to the coach at your first game?”

“Yeah.”

“He told me that if you join the team, the coaches wil expect you to act like a lady.”

“What? Why?”

“I dunno. Probably ’cause they want to give off a certain impression.”

“Oh.”

“Wel , if you want to play for Alabama, you’l have to do what they say. You might as wel go ahead and start now.”

“Okay,” I reply with a shaky voice. “I guess I can do that.” Even though it’s not me at al . What does acting like a lady have to do with rocking on the footbal field?

I remember when I decided to play bal . I actual y started out as a cheerleader, for a Pop Warner team, the Hornets. Mom dressed me up in skirts and ribbons and handed me pompoms. Henry played quarterback, and instead of cheering, I was searching for crickets behind some trees, because good bait is always important. The bal went out of bounds—I ran to grab it, and hurled it, and the bal flew farther than any of Henry’s passes. He caught the bal , ran back to me, and said, “Darn, you’re good,” with this big smile on his face, his two front teeth missing. “Wanna come out for pizza and air hockey after the game? With me and the team?”

That day, I traded my pompoms in for cleats. And Henry became a wide receiver. And part of my heart became his.

I go to the locker room and get changed into my pads and uniform, and then head out to the benches. I see Henry chatting with Carter, beneath the moonlight and the starry sky. I’m about to go tel him about Alabama and the talk with Dad and Ty freaking out on me, but Coach takes me aside.

“Coach, Alabama’s sending someone to watch me tonight!”

Coach doesn’t smile, just clutches his clipboard to his chest, and stares out at the field where some of the guys are warming up.

“Woods, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you can’t miss two practices without saying a word to me.”

I focus on my cleats and mumble, “Sorry, Coach.”

“If it weren’t for Alabama, your ass would be on the bench, and Ty would be playing. Got it?”

I look up into Coach’s eyes. “It won’t happen again. Promise.”

“It’d better not, or Ty wil be our starting quarterback. You’re the leader of this team, Woods. These guys expect a lot from you. If you don’t care enough to show up at practice, or at least talk to me about whatever the hel ’s going on in your life, then you don’t deserve to be captain.”

I’ve fucked so much up.

I just need to get this game over with. Prove to Alabama that I’m such an awesome player, it doesn’t matter how I dress. So good that I could even wear kilts and play bagpipes al over the place, and they would stil love my footbal skil s.

“I’m sorry, Coach.”

“Get going on dril s,” he demands, gesturing at the field with his clipboard.

I jog over to Henry and pul him away from everyone, but instead of being al loose and playful like he usual y is, he seems stiff.

“What’s up?” he asks, with his hands on his hips.

“Remember when I first started playing bal ? And I was looking for crickets and then I threw the bal back to you?”

“No.”

What?
We used to joke about this al the time. How I destroyed his future career as quarterback of the Titans.

“What do you need?” he asks, focusing on the cheerleaders, who just came out of the locker room and are getting set up on the track surrounding the field. The crowd starts waving and cheering as Carrie does a back-handspring.