Catching Jordan (Hundred Oaks #1)

Catching Jordan (Hundred Oaks #1) Page 24

“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…

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.

it gets worse

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.”

“Well , 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.

“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.

“Just need to talk about some stuff,” I reply. Is he okay? He won’t look me in the eye. “Want to come over after the game? To watch a movie?”

“I can’t.” He waves his arms around in a circle, warming up.

“Oh. What are you up to tonight?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why won’t you come over?”

He stares down at the field before saying, “Because I don’t want to, Woods.”

I stuff my helmet on my head and bite into my cheek. He’s never done this to me before.

“I need some time alone,” he says.

“Captains,” a ref yel s, and Henry jogs to the sidelines without speaking to me again.

Tears trickle out of my eyes as I slowly buckle my chinstrap.

Al I know is, without him as my friend, I’m just a shel . Just a playbook without any plays.

“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’l 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 cal s 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 final y showed up at a game. Must be nice.