Catching Jordan (21 page)

“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 hel 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 al for charity and helping kids, but with practice and school and traveling to games, how wil 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 al these extra activities might affect my practice time.

Shouldn’t I be focusing on playing bal ?”

Coach Thompson crosses his arms and stares out the window. “You won’t be playing footbal 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, eventual y, 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. Al 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 al owed to smoke. I would hope an athletic director would know better than to point out ashtrays to a quarterback, but whatever. I’l trudge through Mr. Tucker’s show-and-tel as long as I get to see the field eventual y.

Final y, when we get to the stadium, Dad says, “I’l stay outside.” He drops to sit on a bench. “I’ve gotta make some cal s.”

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 smel 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 bal s 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 al smile at Mom and say, “Hel o, 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 flashes in my head. I shove the wide receiver away, hard, but immediately regret it because this is not how a lady acts. Hopeful y none of the coaches saw that. The receiver stumbles away, laughing.

Mr. Tucker is fiddling with his cufflinks, glancing back and forth between me and the Alabama players. “Shouldn’t you al 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 al 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 footbal 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, footbal player second.

Just like Henry said.

It gets worse when the wide receiver who groped my shoulder comes running back over, tossing a bal . 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 bal 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 bal flies right between two of the other assholes, hitting the water cooler. Ice and water explode al 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 yel , “Suck it!” at these fools.

The wide receiver gapes, then shrugs, saying, “Nice. But you’ve stil got a lot to prove, little girl.”

I glare back at him, wishing I had another bal , 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 footbal player.

“Wel , 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.

Hel , 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 royal y 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 cel phone. I want to cal Henry so much. But why bother?

And I can’t cal Ty to tel him about my trip to Alabama. I can’t show weakness in front of him—he’l 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 wel give Ty the chance so he can get a ful ride to col ege.

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 flew 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, pul s 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 footbal 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 footbal 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 al your options.”

I pul 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’l 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’l seriously think about other col eges.”

“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 stil 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 count? 21 days since the fight with henry
“For our next project,” says Mr. Majors, the music appreciation teacher, as he paces back and forth across the classroom, “you and your partner wil pick a classical composer. I’d like you to prepare a ten-minute oral report, including a biography of the composer’s life and an analysis of how that composer’s work has influenced current music. Also, I’d like you to play a recording of a piece of music written by that composer and tel us what it means to you. So now, please go ahead and choose your partner and your composer.”