I jog to the center of the field and huddle with the guys.
“What’s the play?” JJ asks.
“Red Rabbit,” I reply.
“Oh hel , yeah,” Henry says, clapping his hands together once.
We al get into position and as JJ hikes the bal to me, I only hear silence. Coach Mil er always talks to me through the speaker in my helmet, so when he doesn’t, I’m surprised. What the hel is he doing? Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I spot the principal walking toward Coach with this incredible-looking guy in tow. Suddenly I have the first knee problems of my life: They turn to rubber.
I keep staring, and I’m knocked off my feet by a linebacker—Carter and his 250 pounds. I fly backward, slamming to the ground, my head rattling around inside my helmet. Ow.
Where the hel is JJ? Why didn’t he protect me? This is the first time I’ve been tackled in forever. With my footwork and JJ’s muscular, continent-sized body, it should never happen.
“Jordan!” I hear Mom shout from the stands.
Henry comes running up, ripping off his helmet and kneeling down next to me. Biting his lip, he puts a hand on my arm. Then Carter fal s down next to me too. “I’m so sorry, Woods. I tried to stop. Why the hel were you just standing there?”
“Woods!” Coach yel s, running over. “You okay?
What the hel happened, JJ? Carter—how could you be dumb enough to hit our quarterback two days before the opening of the season?” Coach throws his clipboard onto the ground. How cheesy.
“I’m fine, Coach,” I say. I’m not hurt, but I don’t want to stand, because I’m just as embarrassed now as the time my bathing suit top fel off on that waterslide in Florida.
I can’t believe I just got sacked. Dad wil be furious when he finds out I got blindsided during a practice…
great. Just what I need two days before opening game. More damned stress.
“My fault, Coach,” JJ says. He holds out a hand and quickly pul s me to a standing position.
“Don’t let that happen on Friday night!” Coach shouts, pointing a finger in JJ’s face.
Under my helmet, I breathe deeply. JJ didn’t have to take the blame—it wasn’t his fault. But he did owe me. Last Saturday, I covered for him when he was late for practice—he’d been making out with Lacey and had lost track of time.
Speaking of making out, I see Chace Crawford’s twin standing with the principal, looking concerned. Crap. So he saw my spil too. I’m glad I’m wearing my helmet, because my face feels hotter than a potato on a gril .
He has this sandy blond hair that stands up in places and sweeps across his forehead. His blue eyes remind me of a Crayola crayon, the truest blue there is, and his worn-out polo shirt and faded jeans just hang off him.
You can’t buy jeans that look like that—you have to wear them out for years to make them so perfect. I wonder if I could buy them off him. Wait—why would I do that? Nothing else he’d wear could compare with those jeans. I’m also glad to see he’s tal er than me by a few inches and has a great tan. And, oh the heavens, his body. What does he do? Work out for a living?
Wait. What the hell is this guy doing on my field?
I feel like I could simultaneously fly and barf. I need to get my head back into practice.
Luckily, the principal starts speaking, distracting me.
“Coach Mil er, I’d like you to meet Tyler Green. His high school footbal team won the Texas state
championship last year. I know it’s a bit late for a tryout, but his family just moved here and I hope you’l consider him for the team. I can explain more later.”
Coach nods. “Thanks.”
The principal disappears back into the school, to the comfort of air conditioning.
Wait. Did the principal just say something about Tyler and footbal ? And trying out for my team? I need to stop staring and figure out what’s going on here. Tyler, with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, toes the yard line, then glances around at the team. Why’s he so nervous? For someone who won a state championship, you’d think he’d be this pompous asshole strutting around like he’s fucking Tom Brady.
“So, Tyler,” Coach says.
“So, Tyler,” Coach says.
“Cal me Ty, Coach.”
“Okay. So Ty, what position do you play?”
“Quarterback, sir.”
I take a step back, and everyone else on the team laughs.
The position is mine.
It’s been mine for two years and this new kid isn’t going to take it away.
“Quiet!” Coach yel s. He gives the team a scary look and we al stop talking and laughing. One of those looks means: if you don’t behave, you’re gonna run five miles while wearing pads. “Ty—we already have a starting quarterback. An al -state quarterback.”
Ty’s eyes seem to fil with pain, and he looks down at the ground. I’ve never seen a QB act like this before. Most are cocky, ful of attitude. Leaders. I can’t imagine fol owing a guy whose eyes give so much away. But he’s buff, and obviously good if he played for a Texas championship team. Texans take their footbal seriously. It’s practical y a religion down there. So what’s wrong?
Wait. What’s al this sympathy? Jordan Woods isn’t sympathetic. I’m a rock.
“But we could always use another good backup,”
Coach says. “Our captain wil run you through some dril s. Woods!”
Though my knees are stil wobbling, somehow I run over to Coach. Ty stretches out his hand to shake mine. When I grasp his hand, I squeeze as hard as possible. Gotta show him that I’m captain, that I’m in charge.
Ty eyes my hand in his, then quickly releases it.
“Ow,” he says, smiling. The sight of his smile makes my body melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Woods—run some dril s with him,” Coach says. “Do a few quick passes, some intermediate. Hit Henry on a five-yard slant. Do a post route with Higgins.”
“Yeah, Coach,” I say, glancing at the cheerleaders. They’ve stopped doing their pyramids and jumps. They’re al mesmerized by Ty, just like me.
“Woods?” Coach says. “You paying attention? Take off your helmet—I want to check your eyes. You took a pretty hard hit there.”
I slowly take off my helmet. I pass the helmet to Henry and start running my hands through my hair, pushing it away from my face so Coach can look in my eyes. Henry watches me, his mouth fal ing open.
Ty gasps. Then smirks and laughs. He obviously had no idea I’m a girl.
“Dude, you’d better watch it,” Henry says, taking a step toward Ty.
When JJ slaps a hand on Ty’s shoulder, my mind flashes back to last year when JJ punched a guy from Northgate High for grabbing my butt after a game.
“Show Woods some respect! Or I’l kick your ass.”
“No disrespect intended,” Ty says, holding a hand up to JJ’s chest. “I’m surprised…and impressed. That’s al .”
After taking a look in my eyes and confirming al ’s okay with me—I mean, besides the fact Ty is completely throwing me off my game—Coach says,
“Let’s go. We’ve wasted enough practice time.”
I take my helmet from Henry and stuff it on my head, then pick up the bal and yel , “Henry! Go long!”
He takes off running down the field and changes directions a few times. I launch a thirty-five-yard deep pass that drops right into his hands. Thank God. I’m back. I’m myself again.
“Nice,” Ty says, nodding. He has this deep, sexy Texas accent.
“Your turn,” I say, grabbing another bal and tossing it to Ty. “Higgins—post route!”
Higgins jets down the field, then takes a quick left. Ty bombs the bal right into Higgins’s arms. I’m bombs the bal right into Higgins’s arms. I’m impressed—I couldn’t have done it any better, and Ty doesn’t even know how Higgins moves. We run a few more dril s and Ty makes them al look effortless. We’re equals.
And I’m scared.
Ty’s bigger, obviously stronger, and, unlike me, he probably didn’t screw up in the final two minutes of a state championship game. Johnson City beat us 13–10 because I threw an interception and they returned it for a touchdown.
What if Coach gives my position to him? I try to shake this thought from my mind—I’ve worked years for this. I’ve earned it. For the coach to give away my position, I’d have to mess up in a spectacular way. Like five interceptions fol owed by a fumble.
Final y, Coach Mil er comes back over. “Woods, Ty
—let’s talk,” he says, gesturing for us to walk away from the rest of the players. Henry glances at me as we move toward Coach.
“Ty—that’s quite an arm you’ve got there. And you’ve got highly developed instincts as wel ,” Coach says.
“Thanks, sir.”
“You’re a senior?”
“Yeah.”
“And you started for your team in Texas when you won the championship last year?”
“Yeah.”
Now it’s my turn to stare at the grass.
Thanks to our boosters, mostly wives of former Titans players who stil cal Franklin home, Hundred Oaks has the best high school footbal program in Tennessee. We have shitloads of money to put toward buying state-of-the-art equipment and paying first-rate staff. Coach Mil er used to coach col ege bal , but gave it up for a slower pace of life when his wife got sick. His expertise has led several players to get ful rides to col ege.
I bet that’s why Ty wants to play for Hundred Oaks. It’s like we’re in the same league, but he’s one step higher. Tears sting my eyes. I need to focus. I can’t cry in front of my team.
Damned estrogen.
Coach narrows his eyes. “Why would you give al that up? Your parents couldn’t stay in Texas one more year to ensure you got your choice of col eges? And why Franklin? If you had to move to Tennessee, I’m surprised your parents didn’t search for a school district lacking a star quarterback.”
The pain returns to Ty’s eyes. “I did what I had to do, sir. I just moved here with my mother and sister.”
Mussing his sandy hair, Ty peeks at me. “Some things are more important than footbal .”
What? A Texas footbal player who doesn’t kneel down and pray to the Cowboys every Sunday?
Epic.
Coach nods. “I see. Wel , you’re on the team, but I don’t know how much playing time I can guarantee you.”
“Thank you, sir. Being on the team is good enough for me,” Ty says with a hint of a smile. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“Great. We’l get you a uniform—wear your jersey on Friday for the pep ral y,” Coach says. “That’s enough for today, Woods. No practice tomorrow—the team needs to rest before the game.”
“Got it, Coach.” I walk back to my team and yel , “No practice tomorrow. Don’t do anything stupid on your day off.”
I pul my helmet off and head to the girls’ locker room as quickly as I can—I need to get in and out before cheerleading practice ends or they’l quiz me for information about their crushes, aka my teammates. They don’t seem to understand that the guys don’t spend al their time talking about girls. Only about, I’d spend al their time talking about girls. Only about, I’d say, ninety percent of their time is devoted to that. And even then, it’s only about who’s hooking up with who, and who wants to hook up with who. The day I hear JJ
