Lying back, I shut my eyes and readied myself for her latest masterpiece. The first one was some rancid song from the ’90s; I think it was that chick that was married to Kurt Cobain? I couldn’t even make it through the first verse without sending Nolan a text. I knew she was still in Coolidge.
Uh…grunge? What the hell?
I flipped to the next song, which was some old punk tune. Not half bad. This one I could take. I smiled as soon as my phone vibrated in my hand with her response.
Hey, first of all don’t knock Hole. Vintage Courtney Love was the shit. Second, she grew up in Portland : - )
I laughed. It was a stretch, but she’d found an Oregon connection.
OK, good tie-in. But still, she’s not helpin’ me out here. I’m going to need to pull out my own stuff if this list doesn’t get any better.
I waited for just a few seconds before she responded.
Song 11. Trust me. XXOO, leaving now. See you soon! I’m in section 111 with Sarah. I’ll catch up with you and your dad after, ok?
I scrolled to song 11 before responding, and when I heard the familiar riffs of Thunderstruck start, I got a huge-ass grin and wrote her back immediately.
Ahhhh, now that’s more like it. You do know me after all. Now, if I can just get you on board with Jay-Z and Kanye…
I waited, but there wasn’t a response, so I knew she must have left. I tucked my phone into my bag and lay back, getting lost in Nolan’s latest soundtrack, which, thankfully, got a lot better and rocked out for the remaining songs.
Dad showed up about an hour before the game, just like he always did. Buck Johnson had a special pass, and he got to wherever he wanted in the building—probably any building, I thought—on campus. His name was on more than a few gold donation plates throughout the athlete quarters, and most of the coaches knew him by first name. Hell, Coach Toms, my quarterback coach, had bought every family automobile from Johnson Buick in Tucson since the late ’90s. To say my dad was tight with the staff around here was putting it mildly. They were family.
Manly hugs and pats on the back were being passed around. I just watched, leaning on the table. My dad could work a room. I hoped that one day I’d have a tenth of his charisma. The love fest was soon broken up by a series of whistles and catcalls. I watched my roommate, Trig, jump up on one of the benches and cover his mouth, waving his hand like he’d just bit into a hot pepper. He was starting to laugh a bit with surprise when he locked eyes with me, almost as if he was trying to give me a warning telepathically. His message, however, hit me too late. I was suddenly in the presence of a five-foot-ten-at-the-very-least blonde with legs that could make even the most faithful of boyfriends turn flirtatious and stupid.
My elbow slid from the table, making it impossible to hide my gawking. I hadn’t even pushed my eyes upward to take in her face yet, but I knew from everything I’d seen so far that she was hot…like…supermodel hot. I saw my dad put his hand flat against her back and lead her closer to me, and for a moment, I understood. “Ah, I bet this is his latest girlfriend,” I thought.
“Hey, Kid. You said you were ready. You don’t look it to me, you look lazy,” my dad kidded, but with a bite of truth. “Do I need to have a talk with Toms? Is he letting you slack off?”
My dad’s belly laugh was iconic. I watched him nod to Coach Toms across the room, who acknowledged my game-readiness with a smile and thumbs up. “Kid’s always ready, Buck. Born ready,” he yelled over his shoulder as he headed into the front office to choke down some dinner.
“Yeah, he sure was,” my dad said, reaching over to give me a hug now. My eyes finally found the spectacle standing behind him—her blue eyes crystal and perfect, not a hair out of place. Her silk blouse was so tight over her chest, leaving little to my imagination, though what my imagination was doing needed to be stopped, immediately. This was difficult because she was smiling now, and it was the kind of smile that reeked of whatever that thing was that kept heroin addicts coming back for more. Trouble. It was trouble.
“Dylan Nichols,” she said, holding her perfectly manicured fingers out for me to touch, her eyes drilling into mine, and her shiny lips stretching into a smile that showed off her very expensive teeth. Shit! This…is Dylan?
I reached out and shook her hand, removing the grin from my face and pulling out my best indifference despite the worry that now consumed the pit of my stomach. “Nice to meet you,” I said—friendly, but nothing more.
“We made good time,” my dad piped in. “Thought I’d get the introductions out of the way, before we meet up with your mom tomorrow.”