Wild Cards (Wild Cards #1)

Wild Cards (Wild Cards #1) Page 30

She holds me at arm’s length. I feel like a bull being assessed, and I’m almost surprised she doesn’t open my mouth to inspect my teeth. “You need a haircut. And new clothes. You look like a pauper in those ripped jeans and T-shirt that I’d no more use as a dishrag than wear on my body.”

“Lucky for you it’s my clothes and not yours.”

She makes a harrumph sound. A lady in a maid’s uniform walks into the room with a silver tray filled with little sandwiches and tea. After she leaves, my grandmother points to one of the wicker couches. “Have a seat and some refreshments.”

I stay standing. “Listen, I hate to state the obvious, but you don’t look like someone on her deathbed. You said you were dyin’.”

She sits on the edge of a chair and takes her time pouring tea into a fancy cup. “Bless your heart. I didn’t exactly say I was dying.”

“You said you were havin’ treatments. You have cancer?”

“No. Sit down. The tea is getting cold.”

“Diabetes?”

“No. The sandwiches are made with cheese imported from the south of France. Try one.”

“Parkinson’s? Lou Gehrig’s disease? A stroke?”

She waves her hand in the air, dismissing all the ailments I listed. “If you must know, I was resting.”

“Resting? You said you were diagnosed. You said seein’ me was your last dyin’ wish.”

“We are all dying, Derek. Every day we’re alive is one day closer to our death. Now sit down before my blood pressure rises.”

“You have a blood pressure problem?”

“You’re about to give me one.” When I don’t move, she sighs heavily. “If you must know, I had a little procedure. I spent some time recovering at a spa in Arizona until the twentieth.”

Procedure? I’ve fallen into a trap and was manipulated into coming here. As she reveals little bits, the truth suddenly dawns on me. I’m a fool. “You had plastic surgery.”

“I’d like to call it going in for a tune-up. You should be familiar with that term, seeing as your father always did like to fiddle with his own cars instead of bring them to a professional.”

“If that’s supposed to be an insult, you’re off the mark.”

“Yes, well . . .” My grandmother looks up at me without an ounce of shame. “What I’m getting at is that it’s not easy to see yourself getting older. You’re my grandson, and the only family I have left. I’ve been a widow for ten years and your mother is gone. You’re the last Worthington.”

“I’m not a Worthington. I’m a Fitzpatrick.”

“Yes, well, that is unfortunate.”

Truth is, she’s so used to acting like Texas royalty I don’t think she realizes how arrogant she sounds. “I don’t think my dad would agree with you.”

She clears her throat as if she’s got something stuck in it. “How is that Army man doing these days?”

“He’s in the Navy.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m sure he’d send his regards, but he’s on a submarine for the next five months.”

“He abandoned his new bride so soon after the wedding? Pity,” she says in a monotone voice. “Derek, sit down. You’re making me nervous. It’s bad enough you won’t cash your trust fund allowance checks and I have to resort to sending you cash.”

“I didn’t ask for a trust fund, or an allowance.” My grandparents set it up when I was born. I think it was their way of luring me to Texas with the hope I’d work for Worthington Industries one day. “By the way, Sunnyside Nursing Home says thank you for your generous donation.”

My grandmother sighs. “I got the thank-you card. I am already a benefactor to many charities. The money is for you, Derek. You might dress like one, but I don’t want you living like a pauper. Now sit down and eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Listen, Grandma, in your letter you said you had somethin’ important to tell me. Why don’t you just spill it and get it over with, because truthfully this grandson-grandma bonding thing ain’t workin’ for me.”

“You want the truth?”

Duh. I hold up my hands, urging her to come out with it already. I’m ready to leave here and book a hotel for the week.

“I want you to come live with me.” She doesn’t blink and she doesn’t have a smirk on her face. I think the woman is serious. She might not be deathly ill, but she’s obviously delusional.

“Not gonna happen. You’re wastin’ your time.”

“I have a week to change your mind.” She takes a calculated sip of tea, then sets the cup on the table. “You will give me a week, Derek. Won’t you?”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t walk out that door right now.”

“Because it’s what your mother would have wanted.”

Chapter 42

Ashtyn

It’s the first day of practice, where we’ll be assessed and placed onto teams for scrimmages. I wake up when my alarm rings at five and head to the showers. There’s a big sign on the door of the bathroom:

5:00 a.m.–5:45 a.m.

CLOSED FOR FEMALES ONLY

Someone crossed out FEMALES ONLY and wrote FREMONT’S BITCH instead. The words cut deep.

I stand under the hot shower. I want to go home. Maybe Landon was right, that I got accepted to Elite because I’m a girl and they wanted to fill some sort of quota.

What am I doing here?

I leave the bathroom and pull off the sign. I’m not about to tattle for a stupid sign calling me Fremont’s bitch. I’d lose respect for not being able to take a joke. Five guys are already standing in line with towels around their waists, waiting to enter. One of them is Landon. He snickers when I walk past him and says something to the guy standing next to him.

Back in my room, I glance at my cell phone and notice I’ve got five texts.

Jet: Find us a new QB who’ll transfer to Fremont, even if you have to sleep with him! Take one for the team. JK (kind of)

Vic: Don’t fuck up! jk (kind of)

Trey: Don’t listen to Jet or Vic. (Monika told me to write that. She’s sitting next to me.)

Monika: Good luck! XOXO

Bree: R cute guys there? Txt me pics!

They remind me that I have a job to do now that Landon turned out to be a jerk and abandoned our team. If I can get scouts to come to Fremont and watch me play, every player will get a chance to be seen. I can’t give up or back down.

My phone rings right before I head outside for practice. It’s Derek. I ignore the call. I have so much to say to him, but I can’t say it now. I need to focus on football this week, nothing else.

On the field, the head coach blows his whistle. While the players gather around, he gives a lecture on sexual harassment. Way to make the guys resent me even more . . . All eyes are on me and I just want to disappear until it’s over. I don’t even hear the pep talk before we do calisthenics and drills, because I’m still aware of all the stares. It’s a closed practice, so parents and scouts are not allowed to attend today. None of the guys stand near me or talk to me.

The kicking coach, Coach Bennett, has the kickers work on technique for a long time, then in the afternoon has us kick the ball starting from the goal line. He increases the distance by a yard after every successful kick. I’m the best of the group, until Coach Bennett assigns the quarterbacks as holders so we can practice kicking and they can practice a trick play in a fake field goal situation.

Landon is assigned as my holder. He saunters over to me with an arrogant smirk on his face. I would ask Coach Bennett to assign me another holder, but nobody likes a player who complains. What would I tell him, that Landon is my ex-boyfriend and I don’t want to play nice with him? He’d probably laugh in my face, then send me packing.

Football isn’t for the weak, physically or mentally.

I can do this. I look around at the other kickers who are called on first. They’re all at the top of their game, like specially trained machines who know what to do and when to do it. A bunch of guys I’ve only heard about but never met are on the field, mini celebrities with big egos to match their talent. I can imagine everyone here playing at the college level and beyond.

When Bennett calls me and Landon up for our turn, I get ready for the snap and attempt to execute a perfect kick right through the middle of the goalposts, but Landon tilts the ball at the last second and the ball tumbles on the ground after I kick the tip of it instead of the sweet spot. He does it so subtly that nobody else besides me can tell, unless you had a video camera and could replay it in slow motion.

“You whoring around with Derek?” Landon mumbles when I get back in position for a second attempt.

I ignore Landon and focus. This time, when the ball is snapped to Landon, he lets go of his hold on the ball at the last second so I miss it completely and fall hard on my ass.

“Oh, no! You okay?” Landon asks with fake concern. He holds his hand out to help me up, but I swat his hand away.

“Hold the fucking ball so I can kick it!” I yell as I get to my feet.

He twists his fists in front of his eyes. “Boo-hoo. Feeling sorry for yourself because you and your team are gonna suck without me?”

“McKnight, on the bench. Hansen, replace McKnight as holder!” Bennett calls out.

As Charlie Hansen jogs on the field to replace Landon, the two quarterbacks slap hands as they pass each other.

I get in position and Hansen takes the snap. At the last second, he tilts the ball slightly so I can’t kick it right. It’s an epic fail. I can hear snickers on the sidelines from the guys watching.

At dinner I sit alone at one of the tables. I’m sore, tired, and defeated.

The next two days are repeats of the first. I’m assigned a team, but none of the guys talk to me. I’m perfect when I’m kicking off the tee, but when the guys are holding the ball for me nothing I do will work. Somehow Landon has managed to sabotage me.

After evening practice on Wednesday, the head coach, Coach Smart, calls me into his office. It’s in the main building near where I registered the first day. As I enter the office in full football gear, Coach Bennett is standing next to Coach Smart with my stats for the day.

“What’s the problem, Parker?” Coach Smart asks me. “We brought you here because we saw potential. Not many female players make it past the high school level, but we thought you had what it takes to beat the odds.” He points to the stats. “To say we’re not happy with your performance so far is an understatement.”

“I’m not happy with my performance, either. The guys are sabotaging me.”

There’s no sympathy or understanding—just a coach itching to get more out of his player. “You gotta figure out how to play through whatever drama is going on behind the scenes. There’s always gonna be guys who want to create trouble and make other players look bad. It’s up to each individual to rise above it and figure a way to make it work. We’ve got scrimmages the rest of the week, and a big game on Friday night. There’ll be parents, scouts, the media . . . a full house. You want to go home and give up, Parker, just say the word.”