Catching Jordan (Hundred Oaks #1)

Catching Jordan (Hundred Oaks #1) Page 37

“It’s a hel of a lot better than Astroturf.”

“Agreed,” he says, laughing. Another plus? Coach Bryson clearly doesn’t care if I use language unbecoming of a lady.

“I love the stadium,” I say. “It has a lot of character.”

“Yeah—I’ve always felt like it’s alive, you know? Kind of like New York City.”

I nod, smiling.

“Want to meet some of the guys?” he asks.

“Definitely! I mean, if they want to meet me.”

I can’t help but wonder where the other thirty team members are. Could they be anti-girl, like the guys at Alabama?

“You know, I didn’t tel them they had to come out early today. They were beside themselves when I told them you were coming to visit.”

“Real y?” I say. Henry snorts. Being on this field is giving me confidence, so I turn and say, “Shut up, Henry! Would you stop being so freaking jealous al the time?”

Dad and Coach Bryson laugh, and so does Henry. I’m glad he’s smiling.

“Let’s go, Woods,” Coach Bryson says, beckoning me to walk across the field to the benches. Dad and Henry stay behind. None of the guys are dressed to play yet, as the game isn’t going to start for hours, but they’re wearing green and white sweats and they look ready to work out.

Another plus? These guys are just as hot as the Alabama boys. Sa-woon! Their starting quarterback, Todd Phil ips, this buff guy with olive skin, black hair, hazel eyes, and a rugged scar on his jaw, steps up and shakes my hand. He’s gorgeous and he knows it. shakes my hand. He’s gorgeous and he knows it.

“God, you’re beautiful. I love your accent,” he says, putting an arm around me, but I shove him away. Dad was right—sexist guys are everywhere. Phil ips laughs at me, turning to Coach Bryson. “Coach—do I get to be her sponsor?”

“Oh, hel no,” Coach Bryson responds, pul ing Phil ips away by the hood of his sweatshirt. “I wouldn’t let a pig like you within a hundred feet of my own daughter. Go run a lap, wil you?” Al the other guys laugh, so I smile too. Phil ips jogs off toward the track, blowing me a kiss. This time, I actual y do catch the kiss, crumble it in my hand, and throw it to the ground, where I pretend to stomp on it.

“Ouch!” the guys exclaim, chuckling.

“Sponsor?” I say, focusing on Coach Bryson again.

“Al new recruits get assigned a sponsor on the team—like a big brother, someone to show you the ropes. If you decide you want to be part of our team, I’l assign our freshman center, Seth Brennan, to you.”

The guys say, “Damn” and “Figures” as they shove a younger, pudgy guy around. The pudgy guy, who I can only assume is Brennan, looks like a pinbal being bounced between al these linebackers and wide receivers.

When he final y gets dislodged from the group, he comes over and, after smoothing his hair, says, “Nice to meet you, Jordan.” He beams at me. “If we’ve got time before our game tonight, I’d love to show you around campus.”

“What do you mean by campus?” I ask, thinking of Mr. Tucker’s boring tour of the Alabama newspaper stands and bike racks.

“You know, where the best pizza place is, and where our gym is, and where the twenty-four-hour mini-mart is, important stuff like that. I’l even spring for a slice of pizza. And you’ve gotta try the smoothies at the minimart.”

“Sounds great.” I slap Brennan’s shoulder.

“Wooo! Brennan’s got himself a date!” one of the guys says, smacking Brennan’s ass.

“How’d you manage that, Brennan?” says another guy.

A couple guys stare me down, narrowing their eyes. Checking me out, like they’re trying to decide if I’m a circus show or the real thing.

“I’m grateful for the opportunity to meet y’al ,” I tel the team. “You’ve got a great program.”

“Want to show us what you’ve got, Woods?” asks one of the players, who I recognize as a wide receiver. According to the Michigan State website, this dude is pul ing numbers almost as good as Jake Reynolds’s, so I bet I’l be seeing him at the NFL draft soon. He drops a footbal into my hands.

“Hel yeah,” I reply, bending my knee a couple times.

“Check this.” Henry and Dad are standing about fortyfive yards away down near the goal posts. Tossing the bal up in the air to myself, I cal out, “Henry!”

I hop back a few steps and hurl the bal down to my best friend, a perfect spiral. Seconds later, it lands right in his hands.

“Very nice,” Coach Bryson says, and some of the guys whistle and pat my back, jostling me around. Henry tosses the bal up in the air and Dad catches it. When he winds up to throw it back, several of the players jog out because they obviously want to catch Dad’s pass. They’re shoving each other, acting like a bunch of boneheads, but they’re boneheads I think I could grow to love, much like the guys I’ve grown up with over the past ten years.

Dad launches the bal down the field, but he didn’t aim at any of the guys vying for the pass, but to me. As I catch the bal , I feel my eyes burning. This pass was a sign of respect.

Everything about this stadium, this coach, this team, Everything about this stadium, this coach, this team, this moment, feels right. I hope I can win the respect of the rest of the team, if it needs to be won.

For the next hour, Phil ips shows me some moves, and I can already tel I could learn a ton from him. We run some plays with the wide receivers and we even do a dril where some linebackers rush at me and I have to get the bal off within three seconds. Then Henry and I show off our flawless hook and lateral play, Red Rabbit, which total y impresses Phil ips. With his hand cupping his chin, he watches as I do a few handoffs to some running backs and gives me pointers. Unlike when I first showed up at the stadium, he behaves seriously, treating me as an equal, which I love in a leader.

Final y, Coach Bryson claps a hand on my back. “So what do you think?”

It’s like what I told Carter. Sometimes you have to give something up to get something better. I’m wil ing to give up my fantasies of Alabama if it means I actual y get to play for a coach and with guys who al respect me. Grinning and tossing the bal to myself, I turn to Coach Bryson. “I should explore al my options, but I think you’re my number one choice.”

He smiles and a bunch of the players start whooping and shoving me around.

Phil ips slaps Brennan’s back and says, “Brennan might final y get himself a girlfriend!”

I throw my arm around Brennan, which is difficult, as he’s wel over six-foot-four and must weigh 300

pounds. “You don’t have to be so jealous, Phil ips. Maybe if you weren’t such a pig, you wouldn’t stil be a virgin.”

“Ouch!” the guys say again, and I’m loving this place.

“And this is the pizza place I was teling you about,”

Brennan says, gesturing to a grungy hole-in-the-wal restaurant that looks greasier than my hair after footbal practice.

“Awesome,” I say as we walk in. Brennan goes to the counter and buys us six slices of cheese. My kind of guy. We carry the pizza to an empty booth, and after taking a bite, I pul the salt and pepper shakers over in front of me. I stack salt on top of pepper, yank pepper out and salt fal s straight down.

“Nice,” Brennan says. “I suck at that game.”

I grin. “Duh. You’re a center.”

“So what are you gonna major in, Woods?”

“Not sure yet,” I lie, thinking of poetry. “Maybe physical therapy. What’s your major?” I ask as I take another bite of cheese.

“Theater. Like stage management.”

What? Brennan’s a theater major? Crazy. “That’s cool,” I say, smiling big time.

“Yeah—I love acting. But obviously, I don’t have the looks or the body for it,” he says with a laugh. “So I’m doing behind the scenes stuff. Directing.”

“So you think you’re the next Spielberg?”

He grins. “Something like that.”

Taking a deep breath, I say, “I lied…I actual y want to major in creative writing.”

“You can write plays for me to direct,” he says, and we smile at each other.

The day is only getting better. After my tour and pizza with Brennan, I’m sitting with Dad and Henry at the fiftyyard line. Coach Bryson gave us tickets for the big game versus Notre Dame, and Henry and I are pigging out on hot dogs and cotton candy and nachos.

Each time some kid comes and asks Dad for an autograph, Henry pretends like they’re asking for his autograph, and when they say they actual y want Donovan Woods’s autograph, Henry says, “Oh. Wel , I guess I’ve gotta let old Don Woods get some of the attention.”

Dad and I smack Henry’s head several times.

Dad asks over the crowd, “So do you like this school?”

I lean near his ear. “I do.” I hesitate before adding,

“But can we check out some other schools too? Just so I’l know I’m making the right decision?”

He pats my good knee. “I’l set up some more visits. Maybe Purdue and Missouri?”

“Cool.” I smile and cup my mouth, blowing warm air onto my hands.

The marching band is playing a fight song when Henry cups my ear with his hand. He whispers, “So, if you come to school here, and I go to UM, we’l only be an hour away from each other.”

When he takes his hand away, I whisper back, “I know. But we can stil be close, no matter what schools we go to. You know that right?”

“Yeah, it doesn’t matter,” he says, his breath hot against my face.

Then I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He responds by running a fingertip across the back of my hand. God, I hope Dad isn’t watching us.

Speaking of Dad, did he purposely set up the whole Michigan State thing so Henry and I could live close to each other? I grin at the great Donovan Woods as he autographs a Notre Dame foam finger for a little boy, despite that 1) Dad went to Ole Miss, and 2) Dad hates Notre Dame.

At one point, Phil ips runs for a touchdown from the five-yard line, hopping over a cornerback. When he runs back to the benches, I yel , “You rock, Phil ips!”

and pump my fist at him, and he rips his helmet off and grins at me. He gives me a little wave and I feel myself blushing. Michigan State wouldn’t be bad at al …

“Woods,” Henry whispers as cheerleaders do a pyramid in front of us.

“Yeah?”

“What was that al about?”

“What?” I say, acting oblivious.

“You know…him,” Henry says, gesturing at Phil ips, who, while sipping his Gatorade, keeps glancing at me.

“Henry, stop being jealous! I wish you’d stop being such a pansy.”

Henry laughs, then runs his hand along my thigh.

“Oh, hel no,” I say, picking his hand up and putting it

“Oh, hel no,” I say, picking his hand up and putting it back on his own knee, and he chuckles.

He doesn’t touch me again until we’re getting ready to go. I’m pul ing my jacket on when Henry rests his hand on the smal of my back. Leaning near my ear, he whispers, “Can we hang out later?”