Catching Jordan (29 page)

He releases me a few seconds later, rubs my back, then takes a seat on the couch. He leans back and crosses his legs. After that hug, I don’t want to push it, so instead of joining him, I sit down on the bed and pul a pil ow to my chest. I prop my chin on the pil ow and rake a hand through my hair and peer up at Henry.

He coughs. “So, I, uh, know I should’ve cal ed to apologize after Ty and I got into the fight,” he says. Leaning over onto his knees, he focuses on the carpet. “I shouldn’t have hit him. I’m sorry I was so stupid.”

Tears rush to my eyes. “We were best friends for ten years—it’s pretty unforgivable that you didn’t cal . That you haven’t cal ed.”

The tears fal freely, and I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to stanch the flow, but it won’t stop.

Suddenly I feel him sitting down on the bed. When I can open my eyes without a flood gushing out of them, I turn and see that he’s got both hands out as if he wants to play the hand-slap game. A grin starts to spread across my face as first, I slap him upside the head, then I shove his chest so hard he flies back onto the bed. Getting up onto my one good knee, I stretch my other leg out to the side and punch him in the gut.

“Fuck, Woods!” Before I can slap his face, Henry rol s over and fal s off the bed. When he pokes his head up above the mattress, I see he’s cracking up.

“Man, you deserved every bit of that, and more!” I say.

“Are we even?” He crawls up next to me.

“Not yet.” I punch him in the jaw and I hear a crack.

“Ow!”

I cringe. Shit, what’s his jaw made of? Titanium? I shake out my hand. “I’m so sorry, Henry! I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

Eyes watering, he rubs his chin. “Finished?” He smiles.

I laugh softly. “For now,” I reply, popping my knuckles.

He goes over to the table, where he pours two glasses of lemonade, hands one to me, and uses the other to ice his jaw. I hold my glass of lemonade up to my knuckles. He sees me icing my hand and we laugh so hard—just like before.

Stil holding the glass to his jaw, he shuffles his socked feet across the room and digs around in his bag, final y pul ing out a deck of cards. He sits back down on the bed, puts the glass on the nightstand, and starts dealing the cards into two stacks. “Let’s play some war.”

I grab the plate of cookies from the table and set it on top of a pil ow. He picks a cookie, puts it in his mouth, and uses both hands to keep dealing. When al the cards are dealt, he takes a bite of the cookie and wipes his mouth, then looks down at the plate.

“Woods, where did al the cookies go?”

I’ve already eaten four. “You snooze, you lose, man. Cal room service and order some more.” He throws down a queen, I throw down an eight. He sweeps the cards away and up into his pile.

“No way—I’m not made of money.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were paying for al this,” I say, gesturing to the lavish room. “Charge it to my dad.” I throw down a five, he throws down a three. I sweep the cards away.

He grins. “Fine.” Grabbing up the phone, he orders more cookies and lemonade, and even asks for some champagne too. He opens his wal et and pul s out a fake ID, showing it off for me.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask.

He glances up at me and takes a deep breath. “You’re the occasion, Woods. I’ve missed you so, so much.”

Lowering my chin, I bite my lip. A tear drops down my cheek. I throw down an ace, he throws down an ace. I deal three cards facedown, and he mimics me. At the same time, we each drop a fourth card. He has a queen; I, a king.

He looks up at me again and grabs my hands, pul ing me up against his chest in one motion. He leans back against the pil ow.

“Am I hurting your knee?” he whispers as I drop my chin onto his chest and gaze up at him.

“No.”

He closes his eyes. “You know what I regret more than anything?”

“No.”

“Not kissing you in my room that day.” He drags a hand across my head and rests it on my back.

I smile and try not to cry again. “Yeah, you were pretty stupid, man.”

“I know I could never deserve you, but can I try to make it up to you?”

I smirk. “How?”

“A lifetime supply of cookies and lemonade.”

“That’s pretty tempting…” I clutch his side as he continues rubbing my back. His hand drifts up, and he sweeps my hair away, letting his fingers trickle along the nape of my neck.

“But?” he says.

“I want something else more than that.”

“Oh? You gonna tel me what it is so I can get it for you?”

“Guess…”

He guesses right, because he takes me by the elbows and pul s my body up so our noses touch. His breath smel s like chocolate-chip cookies.

My favorite.

We kiss.

Final y.

“Wil you stay with me tonight?” he asks.

“I’l stay as long as you’l let me.” Somehow, even with my sore knee, I manage to straddle his hips and weave my fingers through his curls. “But we have to sleep head-to-toe.”

“We can’t tonight. I heard you haven’t been washing your socks. In homage to me.”

I giggle as he kisses my neck. “Don’t test me!”

“So how do you feel about living in Michigan?” he says. “You can be my trophy girlfriend.” Before I can smack him, he pins my arms to my sides and rol s me over, holding me down. We laugh and kiss again and again. He’s a lot stronger than me now. He must be working out hard. I squeeze his biceps to get a taste. Rocks.

“What made you change your mind about us?” I whisper.

“When I stopped being such a wimpy idiot and stopped being afraid of losing you, I realized I’d already lost you because of how stupid I’d been, but didn’t know if you’d give me another chance. I didn’t want to talk…’cause I was so scared you’d get mad or reject me for Ty. I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.” His eyes are clenched shut.

I kiss his forehead. “You are a wimpy idiot. But…I stil love you.”

“I love you too, Woods.”

I grab a handful of his curls, yanking his face to mine. “If you ever leave me again, I’l fucking kil you.”

Opening his eyes, Henry laughs and rubs his jaw where I just punched him. “Understood.”

We kiss some more, and his soft lips are making it hot in here, so I pul off my sweatshirt, revealing a tank top underneath, and Henry focuses on the plastic footbal charm, taking it in his fingers. I hesitate, then pul the chain off and drop it around Henry’s neck.

“Oh, thank God,” he says, kissing the charm. “I’ve missed this.”

“More than you’ve missed me?”

“Oh hel yeah.”

I knock him off the bed again, and laughing, he climbs back up and kisses me. We make out for what seems like hours, pausing only for cookies and champagne.

“I’m not one of your cheerleaders du jour,” I tel him when his fingers edge under my tank top. I bat his hand away.

He smiles, lies back on the pil ow, and clasps his hands behind his head. “Admit it, you’re my number one fan.”

“Yup. I’m having Tshirts made.”

Then we crawl under the covers with me at the base of the bed and he at the head. He shoves his feet in my face.

Dad told me that even if you’re meant to be with someone, that doesn’t mean you necessarily get to be with them. But sometimes? Maybe you do.

I guess we’l find out.

Warning! This acknowledgments page is super-long because I practical y had to field an entire footbal team to help me as I wrote this book. Also, please excuse the cheesiness.

Many, many thanks to my coach, ahem, agent Sara Megibow, and everyone at Nelson Literary Agency, for taking a chance on me and always being there. Leah Hultenschmidt, my editor and quarterback, thank you so much for loving
Catching Jordan
and for wanting to share it with everybody. A huge thanks to Aubrey Poole, aka real life cheerleader, for picking up my story and not wanting to put it down, even though it was a weekend and you had the day off.

I owe a ton of gratitude to Al ison Bridgewater, who reads everything I write and gives the best critiques ever! You’re awesome and I know you’l do great things in col ege and beyond. Becca Fitzpatrick—I’m in your debt. Thanks for giving me great advice when I needed it most. Thank you to Jessica Wal ace, for fal ing in love with Henry first; Sarah Cloots, for teaching me how to write; Madeleine Rex, who, at fifteen, should be an editor already; and Ben Rusckowski, for always tel ing me the truth about my writing (and for being terrified of whales). Many thanks to Rebecca Sutton, Jackie Kenneal y, Karen Mlyniec, Sarah Gibson, Kate McHugh, Jo Morningstar, Ruthie Morningstar Lynes, Alisha Niehaus, Cassandra Marshal , Krista Ashe, Regan Means, Tiffany Reisz, Sarah Skilton, Alyssa Palmer, Jennifer Shaw Wolf, Natalie Bahm, Trish Dol er, E. Kristin Anderson, Michele Truitt, Lynwood and Carol Dent, Marguerite Coffey, Leslie Moel er, Mike Jacobs, Christy Maier, Susan Curley, Bob Bryson, and Eric Stein for being great, supportive friends, reading my stuff and keeping me sane.

Thanks to my parents and brother and sister—for letting me make my own plays. Dad—thanks for reading al my writing and helping me make it better.

Final y, the biggest thanks go to my husband, Don, for never giving up on me and never letting me give up.

Miranda Kenneal y grew up in Manchester, Tennessee, a quaint little town where nothing cool ever happened until after she left. Now Manchester is the home of Bonnaroo. Growing up, Miranda wanted to become an author, a Major League Basebal player, a country music singer, or an interpreter for the United Nations. Instead she became an author who works for the U.S. Department of State in Washington, D.C., planning major events and doing special projects, and once acted as George W. Bush’s armrest during a meeting. She enjoys reading and writing young adult literature and loves
Star Trek
, music, sports, Mexican food, Twitter, coffee, and her husband. Visit www.mirandakenneal y.com.