Covering the Quarterback

by Amber Thielman

  “I’m surprised Grace convinced you to come,” Alex said as she drove. Well, more specifically, swerved and cussed her way down the street, winding in and out of traffic as she shouted slurs at people who flipped her off. “I told her there was no way in hell you’d agree to this.”

  “He owed me,” Grace reminded her. She was sitting in the back seat of Alex’s car with me, and when she looked over and smiled, I had the sudden urge to lean over and brush a loose strand of her hair back. Instead, I mentally kicked myself for even thinking it and looked away.

  “I almost forgot, we have one for you, too,” Alex said. She reached over with one hand and yanked a hand-made billboard off the passenger’s seat, tossing it back to me. The cardboard hit me in the face before falling into my lap.

  “The inflatable vagina wasn’t sufficient?” I asked, flipping the sign over to read it. It said, “This is What a Feminist Looks Like.”

  “No, you’ll have them both,” Alex said. “Also, I brought coffee.” She reached down for two Starbucks cups and handed them back to both me and Grace, not aware—or not caring—that she’d just cut off the driver behind us. They blared their horn, but she ignored them.

  “But I made coffee,” Grace said.

  “Oh, God, did you have to drink it, Tate?” Alex asked, catching my gaze in the rear-view mirror. I looked at Grace, who had her eyes narrowed at me.

  “Yes,” I said. “And it was so awesome.”

  “Shut up,” Grace said. She socked me in the arm playfully as Alex turned into the parking lot and parked the car. Around us, hundreds and hundreds of women—and men—were gathered in groups preparing for the march. I was relieved that everyone looked as ridiculously dressed as we were, and some of the signs being held up were even more outrageous than ours. I wasn’t the only one with an enormous vagina, either, though I was probably the only dude with one.

  “Hey,” Grace said, elbowing me softly as we followed Alex through the crowd of people to get in line. I looked over at her, noticing the way her cheeks flushed in the frigid morning air. She wore a slouchy beanie, a gray one, and today her eyes seemed to match her hat with a gray tint that looked anything but drab and dreary. They were magnificent.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for doing this.”

  We stopped in the middle of the parking lot, surrounded by people of every age, color, and gender. She reached for my hand and squeezed it. Her skin was warm, so warm I almost tightened my fingers around hers and didn’t let go, but I did.

  “And I forgive you,” she said.

  Chapter 25

  Grace

  I should have expected Jackson would get back at me for forcing him to march with me, but when he finally did, it was nothing like I expected.

  “Dinner with you and your parents?” I stared skeptically at him, hoping I’d misheard, or he was messing with me.

  “Yes.” Jackson passed me the bowl of popcorn he’d prepared for us and tossed some into the air, catching it in his mouth. It was Sunday, the day after the Women’s Rights March, and this time around it was him who had texted me at seven that morning telling me to come over, because he had a favor to ask. Even though all I wanted to do was throw my phone at the wall and fall back asleep, I’d dragged myself out of bed, put on something that I hoped resembled clothing, and had met him at his place. It was a little after eight now, but apparently, popcorn and skittles were his go-to breakfast.

  “You’re crazy,” I said. We were sitting together on Jackson’s couch, staring at the blank TV, and I was still trying to wrap my head around what he was asking me to do.

  “I know you don’t owe me anything,” Jackson said. “But my parents want me over for dinner tonight, and I’m not sure I can get through it alone.”

  “And that’s my problem how?”

  “You’re my friend, right?” Jackson said. “I just need a mediator there to keep the peace. We don’t have to be there long.”

  “It’s weird,” I said. “Your parents have never even met me. What if they think I’m your girlfriend? Because I’m not.”

  “I know you’re not,” Jackson said. “This isn’t me asking you out on a date. This is me asking you to do me a favor. As a friend.”

  I sighed loudly and set the bowl of popcorn aside, pondering this. The impression Jackson had given me of his parents the night of the movie made me even more hesitant than ever. I wanted to help him out since he’d so willingly held up an inflatable vagina during the march, but I couldn’t get over the feeling that the dinner would be nothing short of awkward and uneasy.

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Come on, Grace,” Jackson pressed. “I had dinner with your mom.”

  “Oh, you can’t even use that.” I threw a skittle at him, which he impressively caught with an open mouth. “I didn’t force you to dinner with us; you hijacked it.”

  “Irregardless—”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “—you should seriously help me out. With you there, maybe it will take some of the heat off me.”

  “I hate you,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I sighed again and slumped down in the couch cushion, glaring at the ceiling.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “But if your parents hate me, it’s your fault.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jackson said. “They won’t have time to hate you; they’re still not done hating me.”

  It wouldn’t have hurt to tell Alex about Jackson’s ridiculous and senseless plan to have me over to dinner at his parent’s house, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I knew damn well it was because she’d give me that look she got when I was about to do something absurd, like challenge a three-hundred-pound biker dude to a game of beer pong. Turns out, I’m down for about anything after seven shots of tequila and a cup of Jungle Juice.

  I knew this wasn’t a date, not even close, it was just a friend helping another friend, and yet I couldn’t force myself to relax for the rest of the day as the hours ticked down. I wanted to call my mom and tell her about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do even that. I didn’t want anyone’s opinion, not even hers.

  After Alex had left for work around five, I was finally comfortable enough to get dressed into something decent; seven outfits later and I’d finally settled on a conservative white dress layered with a baby blue shawl. I tried to fix my hair four different ways before finally giving up and just leaving it down, and as I applied a coat of mascara and some lip gloss, my hands were shaking. A few times I almost texted Jackson to bail, but I forced myself to breathe, repeating over and over that I could do this for him as he had done the march for me. Honestly, I’d never actually met anyone’s parents, let alone the conservative parents of the college quarterback, so the level of bizarre this had already reached was weighing on my insecurities.

  At a quarter after six, Jackson picked me up so we could drive out together to his parent’s house. My first reaction to seeing him was utter shock. He looked so handsome standing on my front porch dressed in a white collared shirt and black slacks. It felt like a real date, prom even, but I couldn’t know for sure because I hadn’t been invited to my senior prom. As I locked the door behind me, I turned to see Jackson staring at me from the bottom of the porch steps. I couldn’t read his expression; it was one I hadn’t seen before.

  “Wow,” he said. I stopped and looked down at my dress, hoping I hadn’t already spilled something down the front of it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing is wrong,” he said quickly. “You look lovely.”

  “Oh.” I blushed, looking away from him so I wouldn’t fall over myself as we walked to his car. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He opened the passenger’s side door of his car for me, and I slid in, engulfed by the smell of man at once. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell either; a hint of cologne, mixed with a subtle trace of some lemon-scented car cleaner. It was an odor I wasn’t used to since m
y only roommate was a girl, and we just so happened to buy cinnamon roll scented candles and iced cookie aromas like they were going out of style. I liked it, the manly scent. It was something I could get used to.

  “So,” I said, as Jackson started to drive. He was heading out of the city, towards the outskirts and into the smaller towns. “Do your parents know you’re bringing a guest?”

  “They know I’m bringing a friend,” Jackson said. “They just don’t know who.”

  “So, in all reality, you probably could have brought Tyler to help you mediate this charming family dinner,” I pointed out. Jackson peeled his eyes from the road to glance at me. He was a good driver, flawless and self-assured. It was kind of . . . sexy.

  Hold it together, Grace, I thought. This is not a date. Pretend it’s Shawn you’re sitting next to.

  “When Tyler and my parents get together, it’s almost worse,” Jackson said.

  “Do they not like him?” If that was the reasoning, the feeling was mutual.

  “They love him. That’s the problem.” Jackson shook his head and focused on the road in front of us. “I could probably send Tyler to dinner with them all by himself, and they wouldn’t even notice I wasn’t there.”

  “If they like Tyler, they’re going to hate me,” I warned. “Because I hate Tyler. You know, it’s science.”

  “I wish I could assure you that that won’t happen, but there are very few people who my dad likes,” Jackson said. He must have noticed the expression on my face, because then he added, “Including me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “What doesn’t?” Jackson shrugged. “No matter how much I give to them—to my dad, especially—it’s never quite enough. Good grades, football, a scholarship. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What more does he expect?”

  “I don’t think he really knows.”

  Starting to feel even more nervous than before, and despite Jackson’s honest attempts to keep me talking and distracted, I began to shut down, wishing I hadn’t agreed to this and that I was back home instead.

  It was dark out when we finally reached Jackson’s parent’s house, but the front porch light was on, and a single vehicle sat in front of the modest home. It was a charming neighborhood, quiet, away from the hustle and bustle of Seattle but close enough that it had been less than a half an hour drive with traffic. Jackson got out of the driver’s side, and before I could open the passenger’s door myself, he jogged to my side to open it for me.

  “Thank you,” I said, stepping out. “But you don’t have to do that. This isn’t a date, remember? I’m just your slightly obnoxious and insecure friend who regrets this very moment.”

  “It will be fine,” Jackson said.

  “And if it’s not?” I asked, following him to the door. He didn’t answer, and that was even worse. I tried to stand back, at the bottom of the front porch steps, but when he looked behind him and saw, he beckoned me forward until I was by his side. We might have well have been holding hands. At this point, I wasn’t even sure what I was thinking of this, let alone what Mr. and Mrs. Tate would think.

  The house itself was clean-cut and simple. A fresh mowed lawn, some bits turning brown as autumn approached, and a clear, stone path that led to the front door. While the neighboring houses boasted strewn children’s toys and gardens in the front yard, the Tate home bared no resemblance to that of a normal, happy family. If I didn’t know any better, I would have assumed the occupants of this house were traveling military soldiers.

  Jackson knocked and waited, keeping the fingers of one hand flexed in my direction probably in case I tried to bolt, or something. I found it odd he’d knocked before entering his childhood home, but had to remind myself not everyone was like my mother and me. Common courtesy, I guess, even if they were your parents.

  After a few seconds the front door opened and a woman who I knew immediately was Jackson’s mother poked her head out. She was the female version of her son, and not in a bad way at all. Their eyes, hazel, bold and penetrating, could have been identical.

  “Hello, son,” she said, opening her arms to embrace him. When they released each other, she peered around Jackson to where I’d managed to slink back out of the way.

  “Mom, this is Grace,” Jackson said. I was surprised when he took my hand and pulled me forward, but he didn’t keep a hold of it. I reached out and took the woman’s hand. She had a gentle grip, the grip of a quiet, passive person.

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Grace,” she said. “My name is Marilyn. Please, come in.” She stepped to the side so Jackson and I could enter, and then offered to take my shawl from me. Despite feeling vulnerable and naked without it, I allowed her to take it because I wasn’t sure it was appropriate to keep it on. I could smell dinner wafting out from the dining room, and it my stomach growled.

  “Well it’s about time you made an appearance,” a voice said from the other room. A moment later a man appeared, a glass of bourbon steady in one hand as he reached out with the other to shake Jackson’s. I thought this was an odd father and son interaction, but I could only assume that this was, indeed, the legendary father of Jackson Tate.

  “And this must be your ... friend,” the man said, turning to me. He didn’t offer his hand to me, though, like he had Jackson, so I didn’t bother offering mine. “My name is Paul,” he said.

  “I’m Grace.” I nodded once at him and forced a smile despite my hesitance. I didn’t like the vibe Paul Tate gave off, and I could tell at once that Jackson’s entire self-assured demeanor seemed to vanish under his father’s stern eyes.

  “It’s nice to meet you both,” I said, looking back at Marilyn. “Thank you so much for having me.”

  “We didn’t know we were going to until today,” Paul said. He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly, and I didn’t laugh because I didn’t think he was kidding, either.

  “It’s our pleasure,” Marilyn said quickly, hurrying past her husband to guide us to the dining room. I sneaked a look at Jackson to see if I could tell what he was thinking, but it was no use. As if a wall had gone up, I couldn’t read the expression on his face. “Please, Grace, have a seat.”

  Jackson’s childhood home was beautiful, if not conservative in size. The dining room table was the grandest part of the home, and I felt awkward and out of place sitting down in the seat Jackson pulled out for me. While the house was comfortable, it didn’t feel very cozy; instead of hanging photos of the family like my mother’s house would have had, there were shelves stacked full of trophies and medals. Football, soccer, honors awards, it was never ending. I hadn’t even realized there was a prize available for half of the things I saw.

  “So, Grace, I apologize in advance, but Jackson hasn’t told us much about you,” Marilyn said. Like a housemaid, she served each one of us generous portion of mashed potatoes, steak, and roasted asparagus as we all sat and waited. I almost stood to ask her if I could help, but when neither of the men made a move to help, I stayed where I was. “What are you studying in school?”

  “Journalism,” I said, and Marilyn nodded as she finally sat down to serve herself. Across the table from Jackson’s mom, Paul scoffed. I stared at him for a moment, wondering if he had something to add, but he didn’t even look at me. I glanced at Jackson, who was staring down at his plate of food, looking embarrassed.

  “That’s nice,” Marilyn said politely. “Are you enjoying it?”

  “I am,” I said, and cleared my throat. “I love writing. I—”

  “Another fluff career, huh?” Paul interrupted. He looked up at me, reaching for a dinner roll from the basket in the center of the table. He split it open. “Writing is no better than lawyering.”

  “Dad,” Jackson said, but Paul was quick to cut him off.

  “Whatever happened to a noble, sturdy career that isn’t all about the money?” Paul barked. He was an intimidating man in his size and stature alone, but it was almost worse when his tone deepened. His gaze flickered from person
to person; Marilyn, to me, then to Jackson, and back again. Both Marilyn and Jackson were staring intently at their dinner plates, and somehow, I seemed to be the only one who held his gaze steady with my own. “Hell, carpenters make more money than attorneys do. Especially if you’re working free for some non-profit propaganda!”

  “It’s called pro bono, dad,” Jackson said. He finally looked up, but not before rubbing his temple with his fingers, as if warding off an impending migraine. “And I want to do it because the people I want to help don’t have any money.”

  “Isn’t that the problem, though?” Paul said. “How are you going to make money to support a family?”

  “I’m not doing it for the money,” Jackson said. He was getting frustrated, obviously so, but he still couldn’t seem to hold his father’s gaze for longer than a few seconds at a time. “I’m doing it for me, and for them, the people that need my help.”

  “Refugees aren’t people, son; they’re illegal immigrants trying to get into our country.”

  I choked on my water, sucking it right up my nose until my eyes stung. Coughing, I looked over at Jackson who still had his eyes trained on his father.

  “Of course they’re people,” Jackson said. “We’re all people, dad. They’re just people who want to get away from the violence and hate and war in their countries. They’re people like you and me who have no other choice but to flee to find safety for their families.”

  “Then have them flee somewhere else,” Paul said. He stabbed his steak with his fork and spit a profanity. “My own son, a pro bono lawyer there to help these people get in and take over our country.”

  “I don’t think you see this like it is,” I said before Jackson could respond. I was angry now, my temper rising on the brink of boiling over. Every notion of common sense I had screamed at me to shut up, to keep quiet, because out of everyone in the world to tangle with, it probably shouldn’t have been Paul Tate. But I couldn’t keep quiet, because honestly ... when could I ever?