The Book of David (3 page)

Connection.

My dad had been tailgating before the game with Tyler's dad. They always broke the rules and smuggled beers in from the parking lot, and he was still pretty drunk. He was almost crying with joy, and he stumbled into Jonathan and knocked us both sideways, hooting and hollering and belching the smell of Miller Genuine Draft all over the place. Jonathan laughed, and I snapped back to the present. Monica was giving me instructions to hurry up and get cleaned up because the party at her house was already starting and it was going to be “off the hook.” I saw Jonathan turning to leave and heard myself say, “Wait!”

Monica thought I was talking to her and stopped too, but I was looking at Jonathan. Monica said, “We have to hurry. They're meeting us with the . . . supplies.”

“No—” I didn't know how to ask. “Is he . . . ?”

Monica got this weird look on her face and followed my gaze to Jonathan.

“Uh, yeah. Jon is coming.”

Jon. She calls him Jon.

“I'll be there.” He smiled at me again, and I felt myself blushing, but I didn't care. Monica ran back and pecked me on the cheek, pulling my face down to look at her.

“Hurry!” she commanded. “The whole party is for you, birthday boy. At midnight you're eighteen!”

This all happened in the general craziness while Dad was hugging me and kept shouting, “That's my boy! That's my boy!” over and over again. As Monica and Jon headed across the field, Mom told me I did a good job and kissed me on the cheek, then dragged Dad back to the car. He turned around and shouted, “Stay out as late as you want. You earned it.” He almost took down this blond woman wearing a business suit and high heels who was standing over by the bleachers by the entrance to the locker rooms.

She looked like a lawyer you'd see on one of those TV shows about cops where there's a different killer every week. She was tapping away at a smartphone, and when Dad almost sent her into the stands, she didn't yell at him or anything. Just dropped her phone into her bag, smiled at them, and righted herself. Then she turned and raised her hand like she was hailing a taxi and called my name.

I was sort of shocked. I'd never seen her before in my life,
and I was a little annoyed because I was hoping the scout from Oklahoma had hung around, but I didn't seen anybody who looked like a scout, so I was getting bummed out pretty fast. What if he hadn't made the game? What if he'd left after Tyler got hurt and didn't see me pull this one outta the fire? What if he was waiting for me on the other side of the locker rooms by the doors that led out to the parking lot? I had to get over there to check.

I smiled back at the woman as she ran a hand through her long blond hair and then extended it to me. She had dark red nails, and as I shook her hand, I was vaguely aware that Tyler would have called this woman “a total MILF” and my dad would have referred to her as “a stone-cold fox.”

She introduced herself as Alicia Stevenson.

“Good game tonight, sir.”

“Thanks,” I said. I had to keep walking. Couldn't get stuck chatting up somebody's . . . mom? Aunt? She didn't look old enough to have a kid in high school. . . .

“Do you have a second to chat about college?” she asked.

“College?” I was confused.

“Won't keep you,” she promised. “That cheerleader and her friend seemed to be planning a big party that requires your presence.” She pressed a business card into my hand. It was thick, heavy stock, and I could feel the print raised against my
fingertips. When I glanced down at it, I saw an Oklahoma logo and it hit me:

“Wait, you're—you're the . . . ?”

“Scout. Yep, that's me. Call me on Sunday, when you have a minute. I want to talk to you about the possibility of coming to play for us at Oklahoma. I think there's a place for you with the Sooners.”

“Wow—sorry, I didn't . . . I mean, I wasn't expecting—”

She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “A woman? Don't worry. No one ever is. And I wasn't expecting you to pass like a pro out there tonight. Came to see Tyler, but we've already got a great running game, and—well, let's just say I'm convinced this worked out for the best.”

She turned and walked on her toes across the sod toward the concrete so her stilettos wouldn't sink into the grass. When she reached the sidewalk that led to the parking lot, she turned and waved. “Talk to you Sunday!”

I watched her heels
click-click-click
toward a sleek gray car. She opened the door, flipped her mane over her shoulder, then melted into the seat. The last thing I saw was her long leg disappear into the driver's side door.

It's weird when something happens that you've been hoping would happen for a really long time. I guess I always thought it would make me jump up and down and scream like an idiot,
or lose my freaking mind, but it was strange. That's not how it went. Instead this feeling of certainty washed over me and made me feel like anything was possible. It wasn't a big crazy rush. It just felt . . .
right
.

When I walked into the locker room, I felt like I was floating. I stood under the shower with all the guys whooping and hollering and running around snapping each other with towels, and all I could think was,
I did it. I'm gonna play ball at Oklahoma.
I felt calm and sure of myself. I felt like this was supposed to happen, that this is where all the hard work of the last few years was supposed to lead—to being ready to step up in this moment. This conversation with Alicia Stevenson was the next logical step after working as hard as I could to be the best I could possibly be. This was all that dedication—all the sweat and swollen knees and jammed fingers—finally paying off.

I turned off the shower and grabbed my towel. There were so many high fives and slaps on the ass by the time I got back to my locker, it's a wonder I'm not bruised. I just smiled and felt so certain—so sure of myself. For the first time in my life, I felt like . . . a man. I knew what I wanted and where I was going, and finally I knew the road to take to get there.

As I was getting dressed, Coach came by and asked, “Did she find you?”

I just looked up at him and smiled. I didn't have to say a
word. Coach nodded back. “Attaboy. Go have fun tonight.”

I asked him if Tyler was okay. His face told me the whole story. “He's at Baptist. I just talked to his dad a minute ago. They're doing a CAT scan. Looks like it might be his ACL.” Coach shook his head, then shot me a look. “Don't you worry about any of that tonight. Go celebrate. You deserve it.”

I did want to celebrate, but I felt bummed about Tyler not being there. I headed out to my truck, and instead of driving toward Monica's place, I turned and drove to Baptist Hospital. I parked and walked in through the emergency room doors. I saw Erin sitting there with her mom. Her legs were long and bare under her cheerleading skirt, and she was wearing a big sweatshirt and a Windbreaker. It was freezing in there, and it took her a second to recognize me. She smiled when she did, but I could tell she'd been crying. There were tracks of mascara and glittered eye shadow shining on her cheeks. She came over and hugged me.

“Heard you did good,” Tyler's dad said.

“No fun winning with Tyler hurt.” I'm not sure why I said that. It just seemed like the right thing to say, and I could feel Tyler's dad soften a little when I said it. “How is he?”

Tyler's dad shrugged. “Screwed.”

“Can I see him?”

“Nah—they've got him all trussed up back there. Doing
MRIs and crap. Taking a million dollars' worth of pictures to tell us what we already know. He's out for the season.”

“Maybe it's not as bad as we think.” I felt helpless. It was a mistake to come here. Tyler and I were competing for the same spot on the field, the same scholarship money, the same headlines in the local sports section, the same attention from the same scouts. Alicia Stevenson had basically confirmed it. There was no way that Tyler getting hurt wasn't good for my football career. This was a fact that hung in the air over all of us like the smell of gasoline when you accidentally drip it on your shoe. It fills the car, and there's no way to ignore it.

Erin held up her phone. “Sounds like you did great tonight. Everybody's still texting and tweeting about it.”

Tyler's dad huffed through his nose, then tried to cover it up with a quick smile. “Yeah, champ. Thought you'd be out celebrating.”

There was nothing I could say to make this better. “Well, Tyler's my best friend. I wanted to at least come see how he was doing. I'm worried.”

At that moment, Tyler's mom pushed through the big double doors from the ER into the waiting room. Her face lit up when she saw me. She hurried over and hugged me.

“It will mean so much to Ty that you came to check on him,” she said. “He was so happy you mopped the field with those guys.”

I smiled sheepishly. I felt guilty about doing a good job now.

“What's the word?” Tyler's dad was all business.

“Won't know for sure until the morning, but it looks like they can fix it with some surgery.”

Tyler's dad huffed again. His mom patted his shoulder and then turned to me. “Don't you worry about Ty. He'll be running around causing trouble in no time.”

“Not on the field.” His dad's eyes were watering. “He's done with football in high school. He'll be lucky to keep the offers he's got.”

Tyler's mom shot his dad a look, then smiled at me. “You kids should get going,” she said. “I think there must be a celebration going on somewhere, and Tyler's sleeping here tonight. Can you give Erin a ride?”

“Sure,” I said. “I'm really . . . sorry. About all this. Will you tell him I came by?”

Tyler's mom hugged me again. “Of course, sweetheart. This was not your fault. You have nothing to feel sorry about.”

I knew in my head she was right, but the ache in the pit of my stomach got a little worse every time I remembered Tyler's dad snorting and shaking his head and saying,
He's done with football in high school.

My stomach was still in knots when Erin and I parked by the curb at Monica's place, and it didn't get any better when
Flash handed me a red plastic cup full of beer. Corey Tracker and Brandon Sears were trying to keep the college girls who had brought the keg from leaving—flirting their asses off. The girls were bummed because they'd been lured to the party with the promise of Tyler, but every time Tracker filled their cups, they giggled a little louder as the foam splashed out and ran over their fingers and seemed to be warming to the idea of doing without Tyler for the night.

Monica spotted me and came running over dragging Jonathan and her friend Amy from the cheerleading squad. “There you are. Jeez. What took you so long?”

“He was waiting for his curling iron to warm up.” Tracker was laughing so hard at his own joke, it was easy to reach over and flip his beer all over his shirt. He yelled in mock protest, then poured what was left in the cup over his own head and melted into the college girls who insisted they “get him out of these wet clothes” while pulling his T-shirt off.

“Stopped by the hospital,” I explained. “Brought Erin.”

“Oooooh, heeeeey, Erin.” Amy was the cheerleader most likely to be drunk first. “How's Tyyyyyyyyler?”

Erin put her arm around Amy to keep her upright. “He's alive, but he's going to have to have surgery to fix his knee.”

Jonathan let out a low whistle. “So he's out for good.”

“Says who?” Sears was really tall and really slow. It worked
on the field, but in conversation it could be a chore. “Anybody know this guy?”

Monica threw an arm around Jonathan's shoulders. “This is Jon, everybody. He just transferred here from a school in Chicago, and he's going to be the lead in
The Music Man
.”

Jon opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. This was not the introduction he had hoped for. Even Tracker and the college girls were suddenly silent, staring. This truck was headed over the cliff.

“That's awesome.”

Sears, Flash, and Tracker all turned to look at me, and I realized I was the one who had blurted out those words. I blushed like a mofo, but it was dark except for the bonfire, which had just sparked to a full blaze a couple hundred feet away. Lots of shadows. I plowed ahead. “I forgot the auditions were today. Did you find out the cast already?”

“No,” said Monica with her imperial smile. “I just know talent when I see it.”

“I'm on the swim team, too . . . ?” Jon offered this fact sheepishly—as a question:
Will this help balance that I'm the drama geek?

“So that's why your hair is wet in English every day.”

“Yup.” He smiled at me, relieved—a silent thank-you in his single syllable.

Tracker was too drunk to care about anything except handing out beer, it seemed, the way of freshmen at their first big party after their first big win their first year on varsity.

“Hey, Music Man,” he brayed, thrusting a foaming red cup at Jon. “I'm the beer man. Drink up.”

Jon sidestepped the slosh with a lighting-quick reflex and laughed. “No, thanks, Beer Man. If I'm gonna drink, I prefer the good stuff.” He smiled and passed the red cup to Amy, who'd been reaching for it anyway. She giggled a thank-you in Jon's general direction as he pulled a bottle of Maker's Mark out of the messenger bag he had slung over his shoulder.

“Aw'ight, fancy-pants!” Sears howled. “Now you're singing a tune I know, Mr. Music Man.”

Half a bottle of Maker's later, the knots in my stomach had dispersed like the crowd. After Jon won over Sears, Tracker, Flash, and the college girls with the power of Kentucky straight bourbon, they headed for the hot tub. Too many roasted marshmallows at the bonfire made Amy start to barf (typical), and Monica and Erin helped her up the long expanse of lawn toward the switchback stairs that led up several terraces from the river to the pool.