Wild Cards (7 page)

“How’d you find out?”

“Every guy on the team got pics e-mailed to them anonymously.” Trey holds out his phone, showing me picture after picture of the tampons and pads all over my yard . . . and my driveway with the words that still make me cringe.

“They’re also on the Internet,” Jet adds as he sweeps his hair to the side. “Time to plan revenge, ’cause I’m not about to sit back and do nothing.”

Monika taps Trey on the knee and urges him to tell me something they’ve obviously been discussing before they came here. “What we’re trying to figure out is how they got all our e-mail addresses,” Trey says. Monika nods in agreement.

“Sounds like an inside job,” she adds.

“You two have been watching too many crime shows,” Vic tells them.

“It wouldn’t be hard to get our team roster and e-mails. Some people who live on the south side of Fairfield go to Fremont.” Jet moans. “I’m fucking starving. What’ja got to eat?”

“Not much,” I tell him, but he heads to my kitchen anyway, stating that he can’t think without eating first. The guy eats a ton and is the leanest and fastest guy I know, burning off calories with his endless amount of energy. One of his dads is a chef, so why he’d want to eat something from my house is beyond me.

We all follow Jet into the kitchen. Derek is sitting at the table, typing on his laptop.

“Hey.” Derek gives a short wave to the guys.

Victor eyes Derek suspiciously while Jet asks, “Who’re you?”

“He’s Derek . . . my sister’s stepson,” I explain before rummaging through our pantry and pulling out random crap to feed the guys. My teammates don’t care if I feed them healthy food or not . . . anything fuels them.

I can almost hear the wheels turning in Jet’s head. I wish I could tape his mouth shut to prevent him from talking, but that would require me having the strength to hold him down long enough. “Wait. Ash, that makes him your step-nephew.” Jet laughs, completely amused. “That is
hella
fucked up.”

“Tell me about it,” Derek mumbles.

Jet grabs a handful of the purple Skittles still in a pile on the table and pops them into his mouth. “We gotta come up with a plan, Ash,” he says, munching. “Those motherfuckers at Fairfield gotta know not to screw with us.”

My sister walks in with her big hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She glances at the guys. “What plan?”

“Retaliation,” Jet chimes in before I can give him a signal not to mention anything.

Brandi wags her finger at Derek, something my mom used to do to us. “Don’t you even think of getting involved,” she tells him. “Remember what happened the last time you pulled a prank?”

“What happened?” Trey asks.

Derek shakes his head as my sister prepares to give us the scoop. “He got expelled for letting pigs loose during the senior graduation.”

Expelled? When I saw Derek in his Regents Academy shorts yesterday, the last thing I expected to hear was that he got kicked out.

Jet laughs heartily and gives Derek a fist-pump. “That’s
epic
, man.”

My sister turns to Jet with her hands on her hips, looking more like a mom than a girl who used to be a pothead and dance around the house in her underwear on a daily basis. “It’s not epic. It’s, like, not okay at all.” She directs her attention to Derek. “Don’t do anything stupid with my sister’s friends.”

Derek gives her a two-fingered mock salute.

“I’ll bet that dude Bonk was the mastermind,” Vic says after my sister grabs a cup of coffee and leaves the room. He’s still eyeing Derek as if he’s some superspy who’s not to be trusted.

“Just so we’re all clear, my man isn’t fighting anyone,” Monika says. She lovingly cups Trey’s cheeks in her hands. “Nobody’s gonna mess up this gorgeous face. Right, baby?”

They start to kiss and do some baby talk.

Vic looks away.

Jet rolls his eyes and pretends to gag. “Seriously, guys, get a room.”

I nudge Jet. “Leave them alone. When you fall for a girl, you won’t be any different.”

“Thank goodness that’ll never happen. If it does, shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

Victor gets a text and swears under his breath. “I gotta go.”

Jet holds up his hands. “Am I the only one ready to come up with a plan to kick some Fairfield ass?”

“Maybe we should, you know,
not
retaliate and show we’ve got more class,” I offer.

“Who said we have class?” Jet asks. “Not me. Ash, you’re
delusional if you think our teammates voted you captain because they expect or want you to act classy. Let’s face it, if we voted for the best-looking guy on the team I would’ve won.”

Monika raises her hand, but keeps her eyes locked on Trey. “I disagree. My baby’s the best-lookin’ guy on the team.”

Jet laughs. “You’re biased. Yo, Parker, you really wanna know why
you
were voted captain?”

“Not really.” I’m sure Jet’ll say I’ve got the biggest boobs or something crude like that. Or say that he rigged it like Landon claimed, which would make me feel awful and undeserving. I want to know the truth . . . I just hope the truth isn’t what Landon thinks it is.

“I want to know,” Derek chimes in.

Jet puts his arm around me and pulls me close, squeezing me like a stuffed doll. “She got voted captain ’cause she’s the best-lookin’ chick on the team.”

“I’m the
only
girl, Jet,” I say.

“I’m not done. She also got voted captain because she’s got major balls for a girl. She doesn’t give up or cry every time she gets bruised, cut up, or roughed up on the field. She brings her A game every fucking time. She motivates us, that’s for sure.” He looks at Derek and says, “This girl here tried out freshman year. There were bets made that she’d quit within a week. I should know because I was one of those people who lost money on that bet. I’m not sayin’ some of the guys didn’t try to make her quit, yours truly being one of them, but she never gave up. She earned our respect.” He eyes my chest. “And she’s got the best set of tits on the team.”

Chapter 11
Derek

At the mention of Ashtyn’s chest, I look away and pretend I’m interested in the rest of the purple Skittles. I don’t want to notice Ashtyn’s chest, or any of her other body parts, for that matter. I’m already too aware of the girl as it is. Paying attention to her female parts is not an option, for more reasons than the obvious.

I close my laptop when the big Latino guy calls out, “Derek, wait. How about helping us out?”

Ashtyn says, “We don’t need any help, Vic. Besides, you heard what my sister said. Derek is forbidden to help us.”

Yeah, but that just makes me want to break the rules even more. “What kind of help?”

“Retaliation for messing up Ashtyn’s yard.”

Jet, the self-declared best-looking dude with a big mouth, says, “We gotta come up with a plan so they know not to screw with us. We could use any ideas you’ve got.”

Ashtyn steps between me and the guys. “He doesn’t have any ideas. Right, Derek?”

“Right.” I burst her short-lived moment of triumph. “But I’ll work on it.”

“No, you won’t,” she orders as her teammates say, “Great” and “Let us know if you come up with anything.”

Ashtyn shoots me a glare, then pats each of her friends on the shoulder. “We’ll talk about this later. It’s team business. You guys go do drills. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

After they file out, Ashtyn leans on the table, her face close to mine. I wish to hell Jet hadn’t mentioned her breasts, because the way she’s leanin’ I have a good view of her lacy pink bra.

“You seem to think I need a savior.” I have a hard time concentrating on her words and not her bra. “I don’t. And while I appreciate you helping me clean the mess in my yard, I was more than capable of doing it myself.”

I pick up my laptop. “I’m no savior.”

“Then what’s your agenda, Cowboy?” she continues. “Besides annoying me.”

“Don’t got one,” I say. “Annoying you has taken up so much of my time since I got here, I
reckon
I don’t have much time for any-thin’ else.”

I walk out, hoping I’ll forget about that lacy pink bra and the girl who’s wearing it. Lying on my blow-up bed, I open my laptop again. I intend to watch random videos, but instead I search online for the pictures of Ashtyn’s front lawn. It doesn’t take long to find them. They’re on some bogus profile created this morning,
someone claiming to be a Fremont student named Booger McGee. Pictures of the tampons and pads strewn on the lawn were uploaded today. Ashtyn is tagged in the picture marked FREMONT’S BITCH.

One picture is taken from the street to showcase the entire mess. A few others are closer up, showing their artful distribution of the pads and tampons. The pranksters were careful not to out themselves, probably afraid of the consequences of being recognized. Smart, but not that smart. I squint closely at a picture including Ashtyn’s car. There’s a reflection of the front end of another car in her side window. I easily identify the distinctive shape of a Jeep Wrangler with a custom light bar on top. Wranglers can never be mistaken for any other car.

I tell myself I don’t want to be Ashtyn’s protector. The girl is more than capable of fighting her own battles, and for the ones she’s not capable of fighting . . . well, she’s got a boyfriend and teammates for that. I need to remind myself to stay out of her life even when instinct tells me otherwise.

Falkor jumps on my lap and paws me. His breath smells like he’s been eating something other than dog food.

Spending the summer at Regents would’ve been awesome, with parties that would last all night. Now I’m in the suburbs of Chicago living with a stepmother who suddenly wants to make sure I stay out of trouble and a girl with a pink lacy bra who plays football and would like nothing better than for me to fall off the face of the earth.

Because I have nothing better to do and need an adventure, I
decide to drive to Fairfield to see if I can spot the Jeep. It’s easy to infiltrate enemy territory when nobody recognizes you as the enemy. I wear jeans, boots, and a plaid button-down with my beanie to emphasize that I’m not from around here. When I first met Jack at Regents, he asked me if I lived on a ranch because of the way I talked. I might have talked like a cowboy, but I looked like a California dude who surfs and wears beanies. I’ve lived so many places, I don’t fit into any mold.

Fairfield is the town next to Fremont. I set my GPS for Fairfield High and find their football field empty. It’s Saturday, but hard-core players practice on weekends. As I cruise the streets on the alert for a Jeep, it doesn’t take long to realize there’s a rich side of town and a not-so-rich side. I turn down one block, then another, where buildings are tagged with gang symbols. The guys hanging out on the street corners look more than ready to sell me drugs.

I’m about to give up when I spot a red Jeep with a custom light bar parked in front of a sandwich shop called Rick’s Subs. A dude who looks like Ashtyn’s boyfriend, accompanied by some chick, pulls out of a spot and drives off. I take it. Once inside, I sit at the end of the long counter and pretend to look at the chalkboard menu above. This is obviously the Fairfield High hangout of choice.

A bunch of guys who look about my age are in a booth, laughing and acting like they’re the shit.

“Bonk, upload another close-up,” one of the guys says a bit too loudly. Bonk has a shaved head and piercings in his ears and eyebrows. He tells the guys to keep it down and looks around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping.

“What’ll ya have?” the waitress asks.

I glance at the menu again. “I’ll have a meatball sub to go.”

“You got it.” She calls out my order to the chef, then pours me a glass of water. “You go to Fairfield? I haven’t seen you in here before.”

“Nah, I’m visiting from California.” I nod toward Bonk and his posse, who now have a crowd around them. “So, um . . . do those guys go to Fairfield?”

“Sure do. Football players. The one with the shaved head is Matthew Bonk,” she adds. “He’s our star receiver,” she says proudly as if he’s someone famous. “We won State again this past year. Matthew’s our local celebrity.”

She goes to take someone else’s order.

Bonk walks up to the counter. He notices me sizing him up. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asks as if he’s some deity unworthy of my gaze. He’s obviously taking the local celebrity thing seriously.

Time to have some fun . . .

“I just . . . wow! Matthew Bonk in the flesh.” I take his hand and shake it with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “It’s a pleasure finally meetin’ the famous receiver from Fairfield High.”

“Thanks, man.” He pulls his hand away. “Who’d you say you were?”

“Payton Walters,” I tell him, reversing the name of one of the greatest running backs of all time. The dude is clueless. “I was wonderin’ if I could get your autograph for my girlfriend. She’s a
huge
fan o’ yours, man. You’d earn me some serious brownie points if she knew I met you.” I grab my napkin and hold it out as
the doting waitress eagerly appears and provides a pen. “Make it out to Sugar Pie.” I peer over his arm as he straightens out the napkin. “It’s what I call her.”

“Whatever floats your boat, dude.” Bonk makes the napkin out to Sugar Pie and signs it:
Matthew Bonk, #7
.

“Can I take a picture of you?” I lay on my thickest southern accent. “Sugar Pie’ll shit a massive cow pie if I show her a picture of you holdin’ up the napkin with her name on it.”

Yankees often assume people with southern accents are stupid. What they don’t know is that we use our accents to our advantage when we find it useful. Like now, because Bonk is posing with the napkin as I take a picture with my cell.

“Listen, buddy, I got to get back to my friends,” he says as he hands back the napkin and asks the waitress for a drink refill.

“No problem.” I grab his hand once again and shake it hard. “Thanks, man!”

He walks back to his friends and I hear him tell them what a dork I was. After I pay for my sub, I follow Bonk and his buddies outside. They’re standing by the Jeep. One of the guys mentions Ashtyn and suggests they break into the Fremont locker room and hang the leftover tampons on the lockers.