Catching Jordan
Page 31

“Let’s see who can throw the farthest,” I say. “After each pass, step back about five yards.”
“’Kay.” Ty throws the bal at me and I catch it. I go back a few yards, and toss it to Ty, who catches it and steps back a few feet. Then he throws it to me again. We keep hurling long bombs until we’re about fifty yards apart.
“Go to the other side of the lake,” I yel .
Ty smirks. “You real y think you can throw a bal across the lake? It must be at least sixty yards at the skinniest part.”
“Come on! I wanna try.”
“Fine. But if it goes in the water, you’re the one fishing it out.”
“Deal.”
Ty jogs down to the lake and sprints around the banks toward the other side. While I’m waiting for him to get in position, Dad comes outside and stands next to me.
“Damn, Ty sure has an arm on him,” Dad says.
I didn’t figure Dad would say anything about my arm, but I stil feel my body sagging a bit. I guess I’l never stop hoping he’l want to support me.
Dad cups his chin with his hand. “I was watching you guys throw the bal around. It’s amazing that, out of the entire United States, the NFL can’t find thirty-two good quarterbacks. Yet you and Ty can both throw perfect spirals at age seventeen.”
“I know, right?” I toss the bal in the air and catch it.
“I know, right?” I toss the bal in the air and catch it.
“You real y think you’re gonna throw that bal across the lake?” Dad says with a smile. “I doubt even your brother could make that pass.”
“Watch me.” I jog back a few steps and hurl the bal as hard as I can. It flies over the water, and like Dad and Ty suspected, it doesn’t land in Ty’s arms. It hits the water right before the bank and bounces up onto the grass.
“That was incredible!” Ty yel s from the other side of the lake as he picks up the wet bal and wipes it on his shirt.
“Nice,” Dad says, patting me on the back.
I turn and smile at Dad. Not to taunt him or anything, but because I’m glad he at least said, “Nice.”
“I wonder if I could make that pass across the lake. What you just did was pretty amazing,” Dad says, squeezing my shoulder. He takes a deep breath. “Can I throw the bal around with you?”
I stare at the gleaming water for a sec, my pulse racing as I turn to look at Dad, who’s wearing that same expectant look he gives me when he asks to go fishing, or to race go-karts. I find myself wrapping my arms around his neck, letting him pul me in for a hug, for the first time in forever.
“You can throw the bal around with us as long as you take me out for milkshakes later.”
“Deal.”
“Jordan,” Ty cal s out. “Catch!” He runs back a few steps, winds his arm and hurls the bal . It doesn’t come anywhere near me and lands about ten feet away, right in the water. It splashes and just floats there like a cork. Ty bows his head as Dad bursts out laughing.
I crack up too. “You’re fishing it out, Ty!”
game #8
Dad made a call
Michigan came to look at Henry
I didn’t play favorites
And alternated my passes
One touchdown for Higgins
Three for Henry
He’s an awesome wide receiver
He’s the biggest asshole ever
The great Donovan Woods showed up
After the game
Dad hugged me
Patted my back
Kissed my forehead
Didn’t mention how I played
But did say of all the kids on the team,
Henry has the most potential and heart
Hundred Oaks–31
Tullahoma–24
The district title’s in the bag
Poster girl or not
I’m going to Alabama
My dream school…
So why do I feel so empty?
first date
the count? 39 days since the fight with henry
The week after the district championship, which, by the way, I rocked, we have Friday night off, so Ty’s taking me on a date. Our first real date. Since he spends his Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays washing dishes, and every other day is devoted to practice and games, we haven’t had a chance to go out, just the two of us. Usual y, he comes over after practice for a couple hours, we make out, and then he goes home. At school, we eat lunch and walk down the hal , but it’s not like we’ve gotten to spend a huge amount of time together. In some ways, I barely know him.
What’s his favorite color? Favorite band? Favorite vacation? Mustard or mayo? Both? When the hel is his birthday?
In some ways, I do know him. Does he like my hair up or down? Down. Boxers or briefs? Boxer briefs. Does he like it when I dress up? He prefers my jeans and T-shirts. Joe Montana or John Elway? Elway. (Blasphemy.)
Henry? Favorite color? Silver. Favorite band? Led Zeppelin. Favorite vacation? A cross-country trip with his dad to the Grand Canyon. Mustard or mayo?
Ketchup. Birthday? December 1.
Ty picks me up and we’re off to some undisclosed location. Wearing jeans and a sweater, he’s borrowed his grandfather’s car for the occasion, and he brings me a bouquet of red roses. It’s 5:30, which is early for a date, so we’re driving into a lilac-and-bubblegumcolored sunset when he reaches over and rubs my thigh.
He smiles and it reminds me of the first day I saw him, how just seeing him made my body crazy. Practical y catatonic. Even if he’s not perfect for me, perfect like Henry is, it’s easy to like Ty.
Soon I notice we’re heading away from town and out into the country, aka nowhere. “Ty, where are we going? There’s nothing out here.”
“That’s what you think,” he says with a wicked grin stretched across his face.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises. And how can you like surprises?
You like being in control.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but I’m in control if I’m the one doing the surprising.”
He parks the car and we get out and walk across a vast green field, overrun with hay and weeds, until we come to a path that leads down to a little waterfal , where Ty has set up a picnic. I bet 99.9 percent of al women would absolutely swoon if they saw this setup, and I’m in the majority.
Gaping, I grab his elbow. “How did you find this place?”
He smiles, gesturing for me to take a seat on the blanket he’s spread out. “My grandfather told me about it.” He lights a couple of lanterns.
Water is lapping over rocks and crickets are chirping as Ty reaches into a backpack and pul s out sub sandwiches, potato salad, and chocolate-chip cookies, my favorite.
“You real y know the way to a girl’s heart.”
He piles some potato salad on a paper plate and passes it to me. “Wel , not every girl’s heart. Just yours.” My face heats up. If I had never heard that Henry loved me, would I stil be completely crazy over Ty? Probably.
“So,” I say, biting into my meatbal sub, “what do you like to do when you’re not playing footbal or washing like to do when you’re not playing footbal or washing dishes or control ing Vanessa’s social life?”
Ty wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wel , control ing Vanessa’s social life is my whole reason for being, but when I’m not doing that, I like reading.”
“Reading? What do you like to read?”
Ty laughs. “Books…they’re these things with paper and words.”
I flick a forkful of potato salad at him, which he dodges. “I know that, asshole. What kinds of books?”
“I like reading about history, you know, the Civil and Revolutionary Wars. I’m thinking about being a history major.”
“Cool,” I say. Hel , I know nothing about wars, and I barely pul a B in history class. How smart is he?
“What do you like to do when you’re not playing footbal , Woods?”
I’m shoveling potato salad in my mouth as I think about my journal. But if I don’t even feel comfortable tel ing my best friends about it, how could I tel Ty? “Um, I like to play games. Like cards and foosbal . I like running, and I like chal enges and races too.”
“I can see that.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Clear.”
“Clear?”
“Yes, as in women’s bathing suits.”
“Hardy har har,” I say, giggling. “For real y though, what is it?”
“Blue. And you?”
My first reaction is to say blue too, but then thoughts of Henry’s green eyes pop into my head. Ugh. I mean, here I am, sitting in my own personal Eden with Ty as tempting as Eve’s apple, and I’m thinking about a guy who I thought was my best friend. A best friend who ditched me the moment things got rough.
“I like blue too,” I say, rebel ing against green. I don’t care how much my heart wanted me to pick that color.
“Cool.”
I focus on my sub sandwich, demolishing it, then I move on to the cookies.
“It’s a beautiful night…” Ty says.
“Yup. I love fal …”
“Me too. It’s my favorite season…”
“Mine too…” I eat another cookie.
Do we have anything to talk about?
When we’re hooking up, it seems like we have lots to talk about, but maybe that’s because we’re too busy kissing. This lack of conversation, this isn’t what love is supposed to be like, right? But what happens when you don’t find that right person? Do you just spend the rest of your life in a relationship where the conversation isn’t great, everything isn’t perfect, but it is nice and sweet?
Knowing how much I’m missing Henry, should I even be with this guy?
Maybe I could deal with unrequited love, but since I know Henry does love me, it’s not real y unrequited. It’s…unaccepted love? Avoided love? Abandoned love?
When the cookies are al gone, I lie back on the blanket and stare up at the emerging stars, trying to think about nothing but Ty and waterfal s and blue eyes. prepping for the state championship the count? 45 days since the fight with henry
The day before the state championship, I’m feeling down. Isn’t senior year of high school supposed to be the best year of my life? What a bust.
“Woods?” JJ says, knocking me out of this pity trance I’ve been drowning in for a week. We’re sitting at Joe’s. “You gonna eat that?” JJ points at my untouched plate of spaghetti, then leans across the table and feels my forehead with the back of his hand.
“Stop it, man. I’m fine,” I say, batting his hand away.
“Eat. You need your carbs for the game.”
I salute JJ, then dig in, forking up some saucy noodles and lifting them to my mouth. “You nervous about the game?” I say through a mouthful.
“Hel yeah.” Using his non-fork hand, JJ clicks his pen incessantly. “But as long as you’re the one playing, I’l be fine.”
I sigh. Sure, Ty’s a tad control ing, but he’s a quarterback! “What’s your problem with Ty?”
JJ shrugs. “I’ve told you. He’s picky. You don’t see what he’s like in the locker room, looking down on al of us, nagging us about how we don’t tuck our jerseys in right, or how Carter made a block using the wrong part of his shoulder. I mean, what’s that about? I honestly don’t know what you see in him.”