BAD BOY JAX

Chapter 3

Dieter goes over our brutal practice schedule while the assistant coaches count the ballots.

“You don’t win games by sitting on your asses,” Dieter says during his lecture. “And besides, we’re expecting to attract more college scouts this year. I know more than a few of you would like to play college ball. Seniors, this is your year to prove yourselves.” Dieter doesn’t say the obvious, that the scouts are coming to see Vance but we’ll all benefit from their presence.

It would be amazing to play college ball, but I’m not delusional enough to think scouts will be knocking down my door. Only a handful of girls have been chosen to play for collegiate teams, and almost all of them are walk-ons without scholarships. Except Katie Calhoun. She was the first female to get a Division I football scholarship. I’d do anything to be like Katie.

I’ve watched football with my dad for as long as I can remember. Even after my mom left and he checked out of being a parent, we still watched the Bears together. He was a kicker for Fremont High forty years ago, the first and last time our high school won the state championship. The lone championship banner hangs on the gymnasium wall.

I guess going out for football freshman year was a way for me to try to connect with my dad . . . Maybe if he saw me kick enough goals he’d be impressed. Freshman year, I hoped my dad would come to games and cheer me on. He never did—he still hasn’t, and I’ll be a senior in the fall. My mom hasn’t seen me play, either. I think she’s living in some high-rise apartment in New York, but I haven’t heard from her in almost a year. One day I’ll prove to my parents that they’re missing out, because it sucks feeling like your family doesn’t care if you exist.

Luckily I have Vance.

As Dieter winds up his big pep talk and lecture, one of the assistant coaches hands him the voting results. He re the paper silently, nods his approval, then writes on the whiteboard:

CAPTAIN

Skylar Hayes

Wait . . . what?

No way. I read that wrong.

I blink a few times as I feel pats on my back from my teammates. My name is clearly written, no mistake about that.

Jet Thacker, our star wide receiver, gives a hoot. “Way to go, Hayes!”

The other guys start chanting my last name . . . “Hayes! Hayes! Hayes!”

I glance at Vance. He’s staring at the whiteboard. I want him to look at me, congratulate me, or make me feel like this is okay. It’s not. I know he’s floored. I am, too. I feel like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Dieter blows his whistle. “Hayes, meet me in my office. The rest of you are dismissed,” he says.

“Congrats, Ash,” Vance mumbles, barely pausing as he walks past me on his way out. I want to pull him back so I can tell him I had no clue how this happened, but he’s gone before I have a chance.

I follow Dieter to his office. “Congratulations, Hayes,” he says as he tosses me a patch with the letter C on it so I can sew it onto my letterman tome. Another one will be sewn onto my game jersey. “Starting in August you’ll have weekly meetings with me and the coaching staff. You’ll have to keep your GPA at or above a 3.0 and continue to lead this team on and off the field.” He talks to me more about my responsibilities and ends with: “The team is counting on you, and so am I.”

“Coach,” I say as I run my fingers over the smooth embroidery on the patch. I place it on his desk and step back. “Vance deserves to be captain, not me. I’ll step down and let him take my—”

Dieter holds up a hand. “Stop right there, Hayes. You were voted captain, not McKnight. You got more votes than any other player. I don’t respect players who quit when they’re asked to step up by their peers. Are you a quitter?”

“No, sir.”

He tosses the patch back to me. “Then get out of here.”

I nod, then walk out of his office. Back in the locker room, I lean against a locker and look down at the patch with the big C on it. Captain. I take a deep breath as reality sinks in. I was voted captain of the football team. Me, Skylar Hayes. I’m honored and thankful my teammates voted for me, but I’m still in shock.

Outside, I hope to see Vance waiting by my car. Instead Jaxon Salazar and Jet Thacker are talking in front of my old beat-up Dodge that needs a new paint job . . . and a new engine, for that matter.

Jaxon, our middle linebacker with more sacks than any other player in the state of Illinois, doesn’t talk much. His dad practically owns this town, and Vic is expected to do whatever his father orders. Behind his father’s back, Vic is reckless and a daredevil. It’s as if he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies, which is why he’s so dangerous on the field.

Jet drapes an arm over my shoulder. “You know Fairfield is gonna have a field day when they find out their rival is about to have a girl captain. Those motherfuckers egged Keene Young’s house the day he got voted captain last year, so we retaliated and tp’d their captain’s house. Watch your back, Hayes. Once word gets out, you’re a target.”

“I’ve got your back,” Vic says in a gruff voice. He means it.

“We all do,” Jet says. “Just remember that.”

Target? I convince myself that I can handle being a target. I’m strong, tough, and nobody is going to get the best of me.

I’m not a quitter.

I’m the captain of the Fremont High football team!

Jaxon

My muscles are tense when we pull into the driveway at my stepmother’s childhood home in a small suburb of Chicago. I drove my dad’s SUV and followed Whitney in her new white Toyota with blinged-out rims. We drove for six days. As soon as we step out of the cars, an older man I assume is Whitney’s father appears on the front porch of the two-story redbrick house. He’s got brown hair just starting to gray at the temples, and he sure isn’t smiling. The dude is staring at Whitney as if she’s a stranger. It’s a standoff, with neither willing to make the first move.

I don’t know what went down with Whitney and her old man. She didn’t explain much, except to say she left home right after her parents’ divorce and hadn’t been back . . . until now.

Whitney grasps Julian by the hand and tugs the tired kid up the porch stairs. “This is my son. Julian, say hello to Grandpa.”

Whitney’s son is a cool kid who can talk your ear off. But he’s acting shy right now and doesn’t say hello to his grandfather. Instead, he keeps his eyes focused on his sneakers. Whitney’s old man does the Bucke.

“And this is my stepson, Jaxon,” Whitney finally says as she waves her hand in my direction.

Her father looks up. “You didn’t say anything about a stepson when you called.”

I’m not surprised Whitney didn’t prep her father about me. Common sense is not her strong suit.

Whitney c***s her head to the side, her big red hoop earrings reminding me of those ring-toss things at the carnival. I think she’s got a set to match every color in her wardrobe. “Didn’t I? I’m such a flake I must’ve forgotten to tell you, with all the moving and packing and . . . other stuff. Jaxon can stay in the den.”

“The den is filled with boxes,” he tells her. “And I gave the old couch that was in the den to charity a while back.”

“If you’d rather, sir,” I drawl, “I can sleep on the porch. Just give me a blanket and toss me scraps of food every now an’ then and I’ll be just fine.” It’s times like these that I’m wound so tight I can’t turn off the natural twang in my voice even if I want to.

Whitney’s dad narrows his eyes at me. I have the feeling if I let three greased pigs loose in his yard he’d shoot ’em, eat ’em, and then attempt to skin me alive.

“Nonsense,” Whitney says. “Jaxon can stay in my old room with Julian, and I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room.”

“I’ll move the boxes and put a blow-up bed in the den,” her dad says, reluctantly giving in when he realizes that I’m not about to hightail it back to California.

“I’m cool with that,” I say.

It’s not like I plan on hanging around the house all that often.

“Jaxon, can you and my dad bring our stuff in the house while I put Julian down for a nap?” Whitney asks. “I’m exhausted from the trip and need a nap myself.” I note she doesn’t spill the beans to her dad that she’s pregnant, not that she can keep the secret for long.

Before I can answer, she slips through the front door with Julian, leaving me alone with her grouchy old man.

Her father scans me up and down. He doesn’t look impressed.

“How old are you?” His gravelly voice carries down the steps and across the yard to where I’m standing near the packed SUV.

“Seventeen.”

“I don’t expect you to call me Grandpa.”

“I wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

“Good. I suppose you can call me Gus.” He sighs in frustration. I’m about as thrilled to be here as he appears to have me here. “You gonna come in, or are you about to stand there all day and wait for an invitation?”

He disappears inside. I’m tempted not to follow, but I have no choice. The house is old, with dark wood floors and well-lived-in furniture. The floorboards creak as I walk, reminding me of a haunted house.

He le me down a hall to a back room and swings open a door. “This’ll be your room. I expect you to keep it clean, do your own laundry, and make yourself useful.”

“Do I get an allowance?” I joke.

The guy looks at me with a deadpan expression. “You’re a real comedian, aren’t you?”

“To people with a sense of humor, yeah.”

He makes a harrumph sound in response.