Covering the Quarterback

by Amber Thielman

  “Honesty is the best policy, right?” Jackson said.

  “I have no filter,” I told him. I was beyond flustered, on the verge of losing it, and I feared what was about to happen next. It was like driving a car, seeing a brick wall in the distance, and realizing the brakes had failed.

  “Okay,” Jackson said. He nodded like everything was chill, like being stuck in a cramped office with a crazy reporter chick was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Well, I mean, I do have a filter, but it doesn’t work,” I continued. Why I chose to keep my mouth open and let the words flow was beyond me. I couldn’t stop myself. “Alex says my filter broke off and got left behind years ago, right along with my confidence and fashion sense.” I paused to take a breath. “She was kidding, of course, but it’s true.”

  “Okay.”

  “Evidently you know it’s true since you pointed out my hoodie. No one in their right mind would compliment it without being sarcastic, and I only know this because three years ago I snagged it on a barbed wire fence—don’t ask—and the tear in the sleeve keeps expanding. Since it’s my favorite piece of clothing, I can’t throw it away, even though Alex tried to donate it to a homeless shelter once. They wouldn’t take it.” I ran out of breath. I actually ran out of breath and had to stop talking so I could inhale before I passed out. Jackson stared intently at me, as though he were actually listening, and that just made it worse.

  “Oh my God,” I muttered. I pulled my pad and pen from my backpack and started the voice recorder on my phone. Something was seriously wrong with me, even more than it usually was. Jackson stared, expressionless, as if he was waiting for me to crack like an eggshell. Maybe he was debating whether to bolt? Not that I could blame him if he did.

  “Tell me about high school,” I said. My voice cracked slightly, but I found if I didn’t look directly at him, I could speak a little easier. “Did you play ball all throughout school?”

  “You know I did,” Jackson said. I finally gathered the courage to look at him, surprised that he even remembered my existence in high school. At that moment, I also found myself wondering if he recalled the bubble gum incident and the incessant teasing I endured from him and his posse.

  “You’re right; I do know that,” I said. My tone was even; the insecurities vanished. Flashes of Jackson and his buddies laughing at me in the school hallway flooded my memory, but when I looked at him now, suddenly Jackson wasn’t as intimidating as he had seemed only moments ago. I cleared my throat, straightened up in my chair, and crossed my legs, resting my hands in my lap.

  “I do know that,” I repeated. “But Seattle is a big city, and there’s a chance that the rest of the population doesn’t know that. And for some reason, they might just care. So just answer the question. Please.”

  I don’t know if it was my sudden change in demeanor, or if it was something he didn’t even notice, but he finally answered.

  “I’ve played ball for as long as I can remember,” Jackson said. “It’s my life.”

  “You’re on a full-ride football scholarship, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your undergraduate?”

  “Undecided,” Jackson said. I narrowed my eyes.

  “Do you really want to come across as the uneducated jock you are?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that my readers want to know more about you than your stupid football games. So, if you want me to put “undecided” in the article I can, but I would suggest throwing the dogs a bone.”

  Jackson leaned forward then, taking me by surprise, resting his elbows on his knees. “Anyone who wants to know more about me should just ask,” he said. His voice was quiet. “I’m an open book.”

  We stared at each other for a moment, and I had the urge to pester him further about his major, but I didn’t. I knew he wanted me to, but I smiled and shrugged just to spite him.

  “How many hours a week are you involved in football practice and games?”

  “Too many,” he said and cracked a brief smile.

  “But you enjoy it.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “So, sometimes you don’t?” I asked.

  “Um—”

  “Do you even like who you are?”

  The question caught him off guard, I could tell. Even I was a little bit surprised that it had come out of my mouth. Not that I had successfully held anything back so far; why start now?

  “Is that one of your interview questions?” he said after a moment of silence. I looked down at my notepad, only because I couldn’t continue to look at him.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’ll move on.”

  “No,” Jackson said. “I don’t think we’ll move on yet.” He stared at me, eyes searching my face for an explanation, one I wasn’t sure I had. I cleared my throat and sat back in the chair, biting my lip.

  “Fine. You don’t want to move on yet? Okay. Answer the question: do you even like who you are?”

  “How is that relevant to football?”

  “Maybe it is, and maybe it’s not, but I’m the one asking the questions here, not you, and you wanted to talk about it. So talk.”

  Jackson’s expression didn’t change. He continued to look at me, wheels turning in his head, the muscles in his jaw tensing and releasing.

  “I like who I am when I’m playing football,” he said finally. “The game gives me something to do, someone to be. Without it I’m—”

  “Nothing,” I said, and the bluntness in my tone was clear. “Without it you’re nothing.”

  Jackson dropped his eyes to the floor. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t have to. We both knew what he was thinking.

  “This interview is over, I think.” He got to his feet and looked hard at me. “And if you print that, you’ll never get another interview from me.”

  “Are you telling me how to do my job now?”

  “No,” Jackson said. “I’m telling you what not to do.”

  “Afraid you’re going to lose your football groupies?”

  I expected him to erupt in anger, to yell or even storm out, but he merely chuckled, shaking his head.

  “I wouldn’t want you to worry about that, Grace, my groupies are still around and as strong as ever.”

  “Charming.” I stood up as well and offered my hand, digging for what little bit of professionalism I had left. “I guess we’re done here.” Jackson took it awkwardly, hesitantly, as though still anticipating I would kick him in the junk, or something. There was an unexpected warmth to his touch, and I felt the rough callouses from football etched in the lines of his hand. I pulled away abruptly as a tingle of anticipation traveled through me.

  “Are you okay?” Jackson asked.

  “Good luck at the homecoming game.” I nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  Jackson was watching me still. I could almost see the wheels of confusion turning in his head; a frown fixed on his face like he was trying to figure out a tough math problem. I felt so trivial under his gaze; a specimen splayed out naked on a table in front of him. I wanted him to say something more, anything to make this less awkward, but he was silent. As I gathered up my things and walked out of the office, I could almost feel his eyes on my back.

  I spent the afternoon in the library writing up a rough draft of Jackson’s interview. I added a few things to make it exciting for the reader; then I put the interview in the back of my mind to focus on classes for the rest of the day. After my favorite journalism lecture in which we discussed the current social and injustice issues in other countries (something that always got my attention), I stopped by The Bengal’s office to hand the rough draft over to Gavin so he could add his notes. It was supposed to be a quick drop off, but he made me wait while he read over the draft.

  “This is good,” Gavin said when he finished. He slapped the article down on the table and nodded at me. “Great.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered. “But there’
s something else I want to talk to you about.”

  “What is it?”

  “Jackson Tate and I don’t get along,” I said. “It was weird today. Can you put someone else on his games?”

  “Everyone else already has their assignments,” Gavin said. “I need you to do this.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “But I—”

  “Shhhhh,” Gavin said, and raised a finger to his lips. “Do it, Grace. Just do it. I want you to report on every game Jackson Tate plays this semester.”

  “But—”

  “You want to write about genuine issues someday, Harrison?” Gavin asked, catching me off guard. My mouth snapped shut, and I narrowed my eyes at him. “This is nothing compared to that. You won’t always like your assignments, but you’ll still have to write them. Suck it up.”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to lose it. Gavin winked at me and turned away, a clear sign that the conversation was over. I knew if I kept on fighting it, he wouldn’t necessarily fire me, but he would put me on scut which would most likely involve reporting on something stupid like the chess team or the new Drill Team uniforms, so I kept my lips sealed and my argument grounded. I could do this. I’d have to do this. I could be professional and dignified and not want to break Jackson Tate’s nose every time I saw him. Right?

  Chapter 8

  Jackson

  “I want you all to take out a sheet of paper and write down your homework assignment,” Professor Gamble said to our class. “I want a ten-page essay, double-spaced and cited correctly on the race and culture in 19th century America compared to now.”

  “Dude. Fucking kill me.” Sitting next to me drawing a naked woman in his notebook, Tyler was practically drooling all over the desk in boredom. Just for the hell of it, I kicked him hard under the seat, watching in satisfaction as he jumped and yelped. The professor didn’t hear us, but a few of the girls sitting around us looked back to glare.

  “Maybe if you paid attention for once in your life, you’d appreciate the dynamic of the course,” I whispered. Tyler sighed so loudly that five heads whipped around again to glare at him.

  “You should have zero issues finding an appropriate and compelling topic,” Professor Gamble continued. “I expect nothing less than superior.”

  “This is the lamest fucking class in the history of college,” Tyler said, and it took everything I had in me not to punch him in the face. The lecture he was suffering through was Liberty and Justice: Race, Ethnicity & Gender in American Law. A prerequisite for my Criminal Justice major, this was one of the few elective classes I’d chosen for my last year of credits, and I was enjoying it. Tyler, on the other hand, wasn’t in this class for any reason besides the fact that he had to take something, and I guess he assumed that if he took a course like this with me, he might end up passing. There was fat chance of that, because as far as I knew Tyler could barely recite the Pledge of Allegiance, let alone pass a law class.

  As I was writing down my answers on a sheet of paper for the professor, Tyler reached over and poked me in the ribs with his pen. It was more surprise than anything, but when I yelled loudly enough to catch the professor’s attention, I wanted to kill Tyler.

  “Problem, gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Tourette’s,” Tyler said. Half the class laughed, including me, because my maturity level only tended to reach so far on a day to day basis. The good kids rolled their eyes. Meh, tough crowd. It was always a gamble when it came to college students. It wasn’t like high school, where kids thrived off the outrageous personality of the class clown. In college, we were supposed to be adults, apparently.

  “Bite me,” I said to Tyler. We started to put our things away as the long hand on the clock neared the end of class. Once dismissed, Ty and I headed for the campus cafeteria to grab a bite to eat before we parted ways for our next lectures. After ordering some bagels and drinks, we sat down in our favorite spot in the corner. It was secluded, and yet just public enough that we had a bird’s eye view of the incoming college girls as they walked up and down the stairs.

  “I’m going to flunk my classes,” Tyler said through a mouthful of deli turkey bagel.

  “You can’t flunk.” I took a drink of my Coke and shrugged. “You’ll lose your scholarship.”

  “Yeah, well, it may be inevitable.” Tyler crammed the other half of the bagel into his mouth and chewed, eyes following a walking Barbie doll as she passed our table. He whistled softly through his teeth and brushed back a bit of his coal black hair to wink at her. The girl gave him a once-over and shot him an expression of pure distaste, then gave him the finger. I laughed.

  “Yeah, whatever,” Tyler muttered.

  “Maybe if you did more in class than draw boobs and whisper inappropriate things to your classmates, you’d pass one of them,” I said.

  “It’s too easy not to care when I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “It’s senior year,” I reminded him. “You can’t still be undecided. Pick something. Anything.”

  “There’s not a degree for pimping,” Ty said. “I checked.” He turned his attention back to the stairs where a flock of Freshman girls were about to pass in miniskirts. He nodded in their direction, and while one of the girls blushed, the others rolled their eyes. He turned back to look at me. “Speaking of bitches, what’s the deal with that reporter chick that keeps showing up to practice?”

  “She’s a writer for the school’s newspaper. Her name’s Grace.”

  “I didn’t know our school had a paper,” Tyler said and belched. Although I was no saint, I was always surprised to see how many women were eager and willing to hop into bed with him. He was kind of a pig and a major douche, that was clear to everybody, but somehow, he always had a hookup without even trying. I don’t know. Maybe there was something women saw in him that the rest of the world didn’t, like an abnormally large penis, or something.

  “Yeah, well, we do.” I took a bite out of my bagel and chewed, remembering the article I’d seen fall out of Grace’s bag. With a title like, something about political and social awareness, I’d been intrigued. A paper like that was a far cry from the fluff pieces I’d seen the University’s newspaper publish. I wanted to read it, especially since Grace had been so desperate to keep it from me.

  “When do you see her again?” Tyler asked through another mouthful of bagel.

  “I don’t know if I will. She seemed weird last time. I don’t think she likes me.”

  “Yeah, well, who does?” Tyler said. “But good riddance anyway.” He crumpled up his wrapper, tossed it at the garbage pail, and missed. The bunched-up paper bounced off the can and skittered across the floor. He ignored it. “We don’t want to get too involved with her kind,” he said. “They’re up to no good.”

  “Her kind?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, you know. The Geeks. The Overachievers. The Uglies.”

  I thought of Grace again, the way her mousy brown hair had been pulled back into a bun, tendrils falling out unintentionally, framing her face. She’d kept brushing her bangs back in frustration, frazzled. When she’d spoken to me, her cheeks had flushed a vibrant red color, but those eyes; gray, blue, green—they held a little shade of everything. Those eyes could have frozen the depths of someone’s soul had she stared too long. She’d worn a tattered Coexist sweatshirt which, mind you, I had been complimenting. While she was not modelesque sexy, not by any means, I wouldn’t call her ugly.

  “You’re such a dick,” I said. “How do you have any friends?”

  “Because you’re a dick, too,” Tyler said. I didn’t bother arguing because we both knew it was true.

  “Hey, Jackson,” someone said behind me. I turned in my seat to see Amelia, one of my all-time favorite hookups. She was beautiful, a sophomore, and had a thing for whipped cream and hot fudge. What wasn’t to like?

  “Hey,” I said, and she leant down and give me a quick peck on the lips. “What’s up?�
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  “Busy tonight?” she asked, ignoring Tyler. I knew firsthand that Tyler was her least favorite person in the world, and it was mostly because he’d at one point or another jaded one of her best friends.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Why do you ask?” We both knew why.

  “Mind if I come over?” she smiled suggestively. Her fingers trailed down my arm, and she was so close she was practically nibbling on my ear. She smelled amazing; flowers and sexual anticipation.

  “How about I take you out instead?” I said, ignoring the way Tyler’s head whipped up in wonder.

  “Out?” she repeated. Apparently, it was speaking a foreign language because Amelia had a look on her face as if I’d just said something idiotic.

  “Yes. Like, on a date. To dinner.”

  “Alright,” she shrugged. “That sounds okay.”

  My ego deflated like a popped balloon. I was offering to take a girl out on a date and spend money on her versus just screwing her, and she was acting like it was some big chore. As she walked away, Tyler stared at me, his mouth agape. There was a dollop of mustard on his right cheek, and I rolled my eyes before throwing a crumpled-up napkin at him.

  “Jackson Tate is taking a woman out on a date?” he asked. He ignored the napkin and proceeded to wipe one hand slowly across his face.

  “I can be a gentleman,” I said, biting into my bagel. “It doesn’t always have to be about sex.”

  “See, my friend, that’s where you’re wrong,” Tyler said. “It is about sex. Everything is about the sex. There is no life without sex.” He put one hand over his heart dramatically and sighed. “Got it?”

  Chapter 9

  Grace

  “Thank you for dinner, Shawn.” I stirred the lemon into my ice water, resisting the urge to look at the time on my phone. Shawn was already staring at his. His nose was wrinkled like he smelled something bad, eyes squinting as he read whatever was on the screen.