“Good,” I say.
Jake slips an arm around my waist. “Mike says you’re having problems with algebra? Want some help?”
“What the hel do you know about math, Reynolds?”
“Not only can I teach you math, I can teach you math in bed, Jordan. You know, I’l add the bed, you subtract the clothes, you divide the legs, and I’l multiply.”
This is standard Jake Reynolds behavior, so Mike does the typical rol ing of his eyes as I say, “Charming,”
and shove Jake against the dishwasher.
Then I run upstairs to my room and flop down on my bed, which is covered in a new fluffy white duvet. I used to have this blue checkered bedspread that looked like graph paper. One day this past summer when Henry was over, he said that graph paper bedding turns guys off and that if I ever want to get laid, I can’t bring a guy home to a room that reminds them of algebra and the nerdy girls on the math team. Not that I care what guys think of my bedding, but the math team is the last thing I want to be associated with, so I got rid of the old spread for something neutral.
Grabbing my stereo remote, I flip on the classic eighties station and stare out my window into our backyard, which ends at the banks of a lake. My lake actual y—Lake Jordan. Having a dad who plays pro means we aren’t lacking in amenities. Our house is huge, with hardwood floors everywhere and giant windows overlooking the woods and trails. The best thing about our house? My parents’ room is on the other side of it, so it’s like Mike and I have our own private wing. Dad never comes up here.
Sometimes I’m embarrassed about how lavishly we live, because a lot of families around here don’t have much. Tennessee’s a weird place—it’s like you’re real y rich, like me, or you’re real y poor, like Henry. There’s not much in between. If Dad wanted to, he could be making fifteen or twenty mil ion bucks a year. But with the NFL salary cap rules being what they are, But with the NFL salary cap rules being what they are, he chose to take a pay cut so the Titans could pay other players more money. He’d rather have a kil er offensive line protecting him than a bit more cash. Lying on my bed, I try to drown myself in the ancient rock music, and try to forget that I got sacked today. Try to forget about Ty’s body.
I bury my face in a pil ow and hit it with a fist. Rol ing over, I jump out of bed and pace back and forth across the hardwood floors, biting my knuckle. Then I flop back down and grab my Gatorade from the bedside table and start slapping the bottle against my palm. I squeeze the bottle to see if I’m strong enough to bust it. I dig my fingertips into it, but it doesn’t budge, so I hurl the damned thing across the room at my dresser, knocking a bunch of the lotions and perfumes and other shit Mom buys me to the floor.
I go pick the girly stuff up and put it back on my dresser, and the birthday gift from Mom peeks out from behind my sophomore MVP trophy, taunting me. For my seventeenth, she bought me this lame journal.
“Jordan,” she said, “writing al ows me to blah, blah, blah, think deeply about karma, blah, blah, blah, and helps me figure out my problems.”
Mom should get a job creating lame-ass mantras for the bottoms of juice-bottle lids.
But was she right?
I pick up the Moleskine and thumb through the blank, crisp pages.
Sitting back down on my bed, I open the journal. It’s not like the paper wil judge me, or question my sanity, or doubt my ability to lead a footbal team. No one could know about it—the guys would make fun of me for eons if they found out.
At least by writing stuff down, it’s out of my head, out of my body.
I reach over to my bedside table and push a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines aside to find a pen, then I write:
I’ve never seen anyone so freaking gorgeous. No one’s ever distracted me like this…But I’m so far behind everyone else—
I’ve never even seen a guy naked…Well, I guess I’ve seen Henry in his boxers bunches of times, and his body is hot—
scalding hot wings hot, so Ty must be gorgeous. And I want to touch—
God, what the hel am I writing!?
I scribble through the shitty words.
As I chew on my pen, thinking what to write about Ty, something that isn’t complete crap, I hear a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I say, stuffing the journal under my pil ow.
“Mike.”
“Enter.”
My brother comes in and sits down next to me on the bed.
“Where’s your other half?” I ask.
Mike laughs. “Jake? In my room, cal ing up some girls we met the other night. So what happened at practice today?”
I bury my face in my pil ow. “You have to promise not to make fun of me.”
He rubs my shoulder. “I promise.”
“Carter accidental y sacked me.”
“Carter sacked you? Where the hel was JJ?”
“It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention,” I say, groaning into my pil ow.
“That’s hard to believe. When you’re in the zone, you’re in the zone. I mean, I’ve never seen you lose concentration.”
I turn over and stare up at Mike. “Um…a new quarterback tried out for the team today. He just transferred here from Texas. And he’s good. Damned good. Better than me.”
Mike whistles and runs his fingers through his hair.
“The coach would be pretty stupid to make a QB
change two days before the opening game. You’re going to start, sis.”
I slap Mike’s arm. “Of course I’m starting.”
“I don’t get it then. Are you threatened by him?”