Covering the Quarterback Read online

  I knew firsthand the kind of person Jackson was, because even in a city as big as Seattle, we’d still had the awe-inspiring experience of going to school together since kindergarten. While it may seem knowing someone your entire life would give you some friendly advantage, I was confident Jackson Tate had no idea who I even was. He’d been popular all through school, and, well . . . I’d only existed. We didn’t run with the same crowd; we never had, even as a couple of five-year-old kids who played in the dirt and sang tacky holiday songs together during Christmas. I’d told Alex that Jackson was the kind of guy who was a bully in high school, but I’d left out the part that Jackson was the bully in high school. My bully, in fact. But even after all that, after all those years, I’d be shocked if Jackson looked at me and remembered my face from his childhood.

  “Just do the assignment,” Alex said. She leaned forward and rested her hand on mine. “You’re not always the fat, dorky, antisocial kid you were in high school.” She winked, but I couldn’t find the humor. It was still a bit too true for me.

  “I am,” I said. “But in college, people don’t care. Jackson will, though. Jackson will care.”

  “Oh, please.” Alex leaned back and folded her arms over her chest. “It’s not like they’re asking you to fuck him.”

  Two or three heads turned in our direction, drawing annoyed stares from the people around us. Over time I’d gotten used to the fact that my best friend had no filter. She was the kind of girl you wouldn’t want to tangle with on a bad day. Or any day, for that matter. Even though Alex cursed like a sailor and intimidated everyone around her, she had an exquisite beauty that guys (and girls) couldn’t get enough of. She was a classic Cleopatra, with black hair that cascaded down her back, and brown eyes that were so dark they seemed to stare straight into your soul, coaxing out any secrets you’d ever been hell-bent on keeping. It was too bad for all the men, though, because Alex couldn’t give a shit about them.

  Across the room, the front door to the coffee house swung open, the bell dinging. I looked to see one of Alex’s friends Amanda Johnson come through the door. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a tank top, something so simple and yet I could never pull it off.

  Amanda’s honey blond hair, usually smoothed down and flawless, sat sloppily on top of her head in a tangled bun. Enormous sunglasses covered her eyes and much of her face, as though she were hiding a hangover. She looked rather dreadful, yet still better than I looked on my best day.

  Amanda stopped in the doorway entrance to look around. She spotted us and came over. For a split second, I considered running for the exit. I could almost sense the drama hovering over her head, but I forced myself to stay sitting for Alex’s sake. Amanda would soon realize I was the last person on the face of the earth who could offer tactful and helpful advice.

  “Hi,” I said awkwardly.

  “Can I sit?” she asked, not speaking directly to either of us. Before Alex or I could answer, she plopped down in the empty chair and rested her head down on the table, groaning.

  “So what’s up?” Alex asked. Her tone was sugary sweet, laden with innocence, but I knew it was spite. Amanda was a lover Alex had been with once upon a time. Some of the women Alex knew—like Amanda, for example—weren’t strictly lesbian, and that bothered my friend.

  “Do you want a coffee?” I asked. I figured it was a safe option to offer a hot beverage before Alex whipped out her flask of tequila for Amanda to drown her sorrows in. As we waited for Amanda to respond, it was clear to Alex and me that her distraught demeanor was the handiwork of a man as her eyes met mine with a knowing look.

  “Men,” Amanda grumbled, finally. I signaled to the server and ordered her a strong cup of coffee.

  “Men are pigs,” Alex said. “Grace and I were just talking about that.”

  “I hate them.” Amanda lifted her head from the table and shook it. “Fuck them all.” She reached into her bag for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, and lit up. I looked around awkwardly, pulling back a little bit, hoping that if I pretended not to see it I wouldn’t be kicked out right alongside of her. I felt too hesitant to risk being slapped to try and stop her.

  “I hate them, too,” I said instead. I really didn’t though; I was just trying to make Amanda feel better. Jackson Tate was the one exception in my book.

  “So, who did it?” Alex peeled open the second packet of sugar to add to her black cup of coffee. “Who made you walk the plank?”

  Across the coffee shop, the male barista was glaring at us from behind the counter, but he didn’t bother coming over. I couldn’t blame him. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and Amanda seemed to be approaching her breaking point.

  “Tate,” Amanda sighed. “Jackson Tate.”

  There’s a ninety-eight percent chance that hot coffee came spewing out of my nose when Amanda said this. She shot me a disgusted look as I mopped up booger-latte from the front of my shirt with a crumpled napkin. Alex and I exchanged a glance over Amanda’s head. I wanted to ask Amanda what she’d been expecting by hopping into bed with a notorious womanizer like Jackson, but I kept my mouth shut so I wouldn’t make her feel worse. I was still working on my mildly offensive social skills, and I figured this was one of those moments that if I didn’t have anything nice to say, I shouldn’t say anything at all. Or something to that effect.

  “I’m sorry,” I said instead. “Are you okay?”

  “I thought he was it. You know?” Amanda said. She finally put out her nasty cigarette and sighed so loudly I saw someone across from us roll their eyes at her dramatics. “I thought he was the one.”

  “Jackson?” I said. “Jackson Tate? You thought Jackson Tate was ‘the one’?”

  “Didn’t you only sleep with him a few times?” Alex asked, glancing at me as I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  “Yeah, but he wasn’t seeing anyone else while we were together,” Amanda said. I was glad in that moment that I hadn’t taken another drink of coffee because my nose hairs were still stinging from the first round.

  “Do yourself a favor,” Alex said, resting one hand on the small of Amanda’s back. “Lay off the men. Stick to women.”

  The apartment Alex and I shared was a cozy two-bedroom place just a few blocks from campus. We’d been roommates since we’d been friends, every year for the last three, and we had yet to get sick of each other. That night when my classes ended, I headed home while Alex went to work at the local pub where she tended bar to put herself through school. The nights were long, but she made better money than I did working for the school’s student paper, so I had no room to talk. Alex didn’t sleep much, anyway, so the late nights didn’t bother her as they would me.

  It was getting dark outside as I made a cup of cocoa and curled up on the couch with my laptop and the throw blanket my mother made for me as a high school graduation gift. The homework assignments for my advanced journalism classes weren’t due until later that week, so I took advantage of the spare time I had to do some research on the legendary Jackson Tate. Despite our enrollment at the same schools for the last thirteen years, I knew very little about Jackson aside from the obvious Golden Boy façade.

  On the coffee table, my phone pinged, alerting me of a new text. I grabbed it to look. It was from my mom.

  Miss you. How was class?

  I thought of Jackson and made a face, wishing my mom was here so I could vent. Although she lived in California with her new husband and their beautiful toddler son, my mother and I had always been close. Surviving all those years with my asshole father was bound to create an unbreakable bond. Choosing to stay in Seattle for school while she moved away with her new family had been one of the hardest decisions of my life, but at that time I was already two years done. I knew I had to finish my undergraduate here at least.

  Fine, I texted back. I have to write an article on the school quarterback ...

  Is he cute?

  I laughed. My mom, Sidney, and my best friend Alex were so similar that she
might as well have been related to her instead of me. I was different from my mother; she was outspoken and silly, a bit flaky at times but compassionate and loving. Not only had she survived emotional and physical abuse from my father all those years, but she’d come out stronger and sweeter than ever. I wanted to be just like her, and yet I wasn’t even close. I often found myself doubting the good of humanity, which was an easy thing to do when you’d grown up under the influence of someone like my dad. Not my mother, though. She gave everyone a chance, even if they didn’t deserve it.

  You know him, I replied. Jackson Tate. We went to the same elementary school. He’s a douche.

  I kind of remember the name. Give him another chance, Pooh. I love you.

  Love you too, mom.

  I set the phone aside and tried to focus on the task at hand, wishing I could see my mom and talk to her face to face about it. I skimmed through the article, looking for any relevant information I could bring up when I interviewed Jackson Tate at the homecoming game. It was standard stuff. He was a popular jock on a full ride football scholarship; the Golden Boy, the star. Crap I couldn’t care less about. To me, Jackson Tate was the least interesting person in the world. Aside from our childhood, I’d only spoken to him once Freshman year when he’d almost hit me with his stupid car one Friday night. “Spoken” might be putting it nicely, because I’d flipped him the bird and screamed profanities as he’d driven away. Jackson hadn’t looked sorry at all, of course. He’d probably been drunk.

  I closed the laptop and set it aside. The open window allowed the cool autumn breeze to chill the house. I pulled the blanket up further over my lap, sinking into the couch cushions for extra warmth. I was about to doze off minutes later when my cell phone buzzed beside me. I groaned, groping to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Get to the bar!” Alex shouted into the phone. “There’s a homecoming party happening right now.”

  “As charming as that sounds, I’d rather stick a straw in my eye.”

  “Don’t be a loser,” Alex said. Before I could be offended, she rattled on. “Drinks are half price, which means FREE for you.”

  “You seem to think I’m some lush,” I said, and we both knew it was partially correct. Either I was a lush or just a lightweight, we hadn’t decided yet. Possibly a little bit of both, which was a dangerous combination. Since Alex was the pub’s most dedicated employee, and since I was Alex’s best friend, neither of us paid for drinks. Alex insisted it was because she was such a good employee and refused to believe that it was because her creepy manager Jake liked to stare at her boobs during shifts.

  “Get here,” Alex said. “Now.” There was a beep, and the line went dead. I snapped my phone shut, tempted to crawl under the covers of my comforter. I knew if I did that, Alex would continue to call until I dragged myself out and joined the party. Despite our lasting friendship, Alex and I had vast differences. Our idea of a fun time was one of them.

  Since we’d known each other, Alex had made it a point to try and get me out more, encouraging me to be more social. I was a hermit, and we both knew it, and while I found it perfectly acceptable, it didn’t help with my social skills. My idea of an enjoyable time was sleeping, reading, or writing, preferably all at once, and definitely alone. It was cliché, I knew, but it was also true. Unless I was drinking enough to lower my inhibitions, being around people shot my anxiety through the roof. I could tolerate classes and friends but had no desire to crash college keggers and crawl into a stranger’s bed after a night of sleazy dancing and puking on someone’s new blouse.

  I sighed and glanced at the time on my phone. It was only nine-thirty, early for a college student and even a bit early for me. Reading my Kindle in bed sounded like a dream, but other than that there was no excuse for me to be so antisocial. So, with another groan, I dragged myself to the bathroom to pull my hair up and apply some light makeup. There was only so much I could do to my features to bring them out. Blessed with mousy brown hair that had a mind of its own, makeup hating freckles, and a body that was far from slender, options to look good were vastly limited. I wasn’t fat, not by any means, but I wasn’t thin, either. Alex called it curvy; I called it chubby.

  After pulling my hair into my half-assed version of a messy bun and applying a coat of mascara and lip gloss, I changed into a pair of jeans that were one size too small. This was my useless motivation to lose a bit of weight, and apparently, it was working to my benefit because I could barely get them buttoned around my midsection. When I finally managed to get them zipped, a very unattractive muffin top plummeted over the front, and I rolled my eyes. It would have to do, because all my clothes pretty much fit the same.

  I pulled on a gray cardigan and took a long look in the mirror. It was an outfit Alex wouldn’t have been caught dead in because of the pure simplicity of it, but I didn’t care. Clothes were the least of my concern when it came to getting through life unscathed and still mildly sane.

  I slipped my phone into my pocket and grabbed some spare change from my nightstand before finding the house keys and heading out the door. The campus bar was a close walk from our apartment, so I set off into the chilly autumn night in the direction of the party. Leaves crunched beneath my feet, and there was a crisp odor of spice and chill in the air. I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of impending rain. Seattle was many things: big, beautiful, exciting, and unique. Autumn in Seattle was to die for.

  I heard the buzz of the party in the air an entire block before I even reached the bar, and a layer of sweat formed on my palms at once. Dozens of college students smoking cigarettes and pre-gaming with cheap bottles of liquor stood scattered around the front door and in the parking lot. Music was blaring inside as I greeted the bouncer who let me in without asking for ID. Thanks to my friendship with Alex, they all knew me there like I was some raging alcoholic. I could only assume, however, that to be an alcoholic you would have to be able to hold more than four beers without vomiting all over the kitchen floor during a game of beer pong. Luckily it hadn’t been my kitchen, but it had been someone’s kitchen. I can’t remember who.

  Once inside, a wave of stifling heat slapped me in the face. Loud music played, and I had to force my way through writhing, dancing bodies. I was knocked into not once or twice, but four times before I finally reached the bar counter where Alex was already pouring me a drink. I was so exhausted by the time I sat down that I almost turned around and went home. The fear Alex would yank me back my hair if I did, was real, so I took up a seat on an empty bar stool and slipped off my jacket instead.

  “I’m glad you came,” Alex shouted over the music. She handed me a shot of vodka. I stared at it, having an internal debate as to whether vodka was the drink of choice to start. Because, well, somebody had to make a wise decision, and it wasn’t going to be Alex.

  “Can we start with something less vile?” I asked. When she ignored me, I raised the shot glass to my lips and swallowed it down, gagging on the foul taste. Before I could tell her I was one and done, she was already pouring me another.

  I knew Alex’s ploy was to get me just buzzed enough to loosen up and enjoy myself, but she knew as well as I did that I had two levels of drunk: sober, and asleep-in-a-stranger’s-bathtub-after-a-losing-game-of-King’s Cup wasted. It was ironic that Alex didn’t seem to realize every time I did something stupid while intoxicated, she happened to be there, cheering me on, handing me another. So, while alcohol did lower my inhibitions, it also turned me into an idiot. Was anyone more tolerable after a few drinks?

  Since there was no longer an opportunity to bail and go home, I took a moment to look around. All the sports teams were present tonight; muscular jocks in their school jerseys played darts and spilled ice-cold mugs of beer all over the floor. Preppy girls, flaunting fake nails and blonde extensions, huddled in little groups around the guys, giggling and sipping on their over-priced, fruity cocktails. In the corner, a few nerds like me tried to play it cool, which we all knew was a useless ac
t of defiance. We weren’t cool, and probably never would be.

  I turned back around to face the bar and grabbed the shot glass Alex had laid out for me. As I lifted the drink to my lips, someone bumped into me from behind. The clear liquid in the glass sloshed over, spilling all down the front of my shirt. I made a mental note to thank the Universe later for encouraging me to change out of my coffee-stained attire. Had I still been wearing it; someone might have started sucking on the fabric to enjoy a boozy and caffeinated concoction. I set the glass down and turned in my seat to catch sight of the perpetrator.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Jackson Tate said. He held a bottle of beer, his eyes glazed over and bloodshot. He was grinning like an oaf, and unmistakably buzzed. I wanted to ask him how he hadn’t seen me sitting there minding my own business, but I wasn’t sure he had an answer I would have liked to hear, so I shrugged instead, wishing he’d just go away.

  “It’s okay,” I said. For some reason, I found that I was unable to meet Jackson’s gaze for too long. He reached his hand out to shake mine, and I hesitated before taking it. His skin was pleasantly warm, but a chill shimmied up my spine. I pulled back, oddly intimidated, and focused on the task at hand: drinking more. Instead of leaving like I hoped he would, Jackson took a seat on the empty barstool next to me. “I’m Jackson Tate,” he said.

  “I know who you are.” I grabbed the glass of spilled vodka from the counter and shot the rest of the liquor. As if on cue, the alcohol slid down the wrong pipe, and I doubled over in a coughing fit in the most charming and self-assured way possible. My stomach heaved, and I knew that was my cue to stop before things got out of control.

  “Don’t hurt yourself.” Jackson took a sip of his beer, but he wasn’t even looking at me. As Alex brought me a glass of ice water to dilute the liquor, I noticed her watching us, eavesdropping on what little conversation we seemed to be having.