Defending Taylor (Hundred Oaks #7)

by Miranda Kenneally

  I’m starting to relax, but then the conversation changes.

  “So, Taylor, why’d you change schools?” Nicole asks, staring at me over the top of her Diet Coke can.

  I decide to be honest. “St. Andrew’s kicked me out.”

  Chloe, Alyson, and Brittany gasp, but Nicole just looks at me knowingly. “That’s what Coach told my mom. But he didn’t say why you got kicked out.”

  I pull a deep breath. Swirl my spoon around in my chili. How could the coach gossip about my private life like that? “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

  Nicole side-eyes me.

  “But I’m glad to be on the team,” I add. “I love soccer. It makes starting at a new school a little easier…”

  Alyson gives me a sympathetic glance.

  “You’re lucky we needed more players,” Nicole remarks.

  “Nicole, stop being a bitch,” Chloe says, and they give each other dirty looks.

  One of the football players swivels around in his chair, leaning toward our table. “Yeah, Nicole. Shut it. Can y’all get back to talking about sex already?”

  Alyson throws a grape at the guy, and for the first time since I’ve set foot in this school, I laugh, and it feels great.

  • • •

  Tuesday afternoon, we have a home game against Coffee County, an excellent team.

  Last year, St. Andrew’s lost 3–2 against them in the division finals. It totally sucked to lose, but it was a great game. My heart had never pounded so hard as Steph and I worked tirelessly to take shots on goal. We both scored once, but it wasn’t enough.

  I think some of Coffee County’s best players graduated last year. Still, they had some great juniors and sophomores, so today will be no cakewalk.

  As usual, I’m the first player warming up on the field. It surprises me when Sydney, the freshman who’s pretty good, joins me in front of the goal.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey.” Her voice is meek, which makes no sense given how good she is on the field. I was pretty impressed by her on Saturday, and she was playing a position she typically doesn’t play. She should have more confidence.

  “You played well the other day.” I pass her the ball I was playing with.

  She stops it with her cleat. She looks toward the locker room, almost as if she’s embarrassed to be seen talking to me. Or maybe not embarrassed, per se, but scared.

  “Pass it back,” I call.

  With a deep breath, she plants her left foot and kicks the ball with her right laces.

  I run to meet the ball, snapping it back to her. I grin, excited to have someone to play with, but Sydney doesn’t look like she’s having all that much fun.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nicole doesn’t want any of us talking to you because you teased our team last year.”

  “Nicole doesn’t even know me, Syd. I just want to play soccer, okay?”

  “That’s all I want too.”

  “I’m going to talk to her privately,” I announce. “I don’t care what she says about me, but she has to start passing the ball.”

  “I don’t think you should confront her,” Sydney replies, biting her lip. It doesn’t surprise me. As a freshman, I never would’ve had the balls to confront the St. Andrew’s captain. On the other hand, I very much respected her. Who knows what I would’ve done if the captain had been a bully.

  “If Nicole’s not a team player, she needs to be called out for that,” I say. “It’s not like she can play a game without the rest of you. She can’t be everywhere at once, even if she thinks she can.”

  Sydney dribbles the ball, does a fake, then passes it back to me. “I made all-district on the middle school team last year.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say with a smile. Only ten girls make it each year. I never did.

  “I was really excited I made the Hundred Oaks team as a freshman,” she says softly. “I usually play forward, but Nicole won’t let me anywhere near the front line.”

  “Because she knows you’re good. I bet she doesn’t want to share the spotlight.”

  Sydney nods slowly. “My mom says it’s only one year. Nicole will graduate, and then I can go back to my regular position.”

  “That’s bullshit. What does Coach Walker say?”

  “He doesn’t care. He’s the freshman guys’ gym teacher. Coaching soccer is just an extra paycheck to him.”

  I hate the bitterness I hear in her voice.

  “I want a scholarship,” Sydney goes on. “I don’t want scouts seeing me play D. It’s not what I love. I don’t want to end up playing that position all through high school.”

  “I totally get what you’re saying.”

  That makes her smile, but it fades when the locker room door opens and the other girls begin to trickle out. When I see how terrified Sydney is of Nicole, an idea comes to mind. Dad always says, “If you want someone to do something, trick them into thinking it was their own idea.”

  I smile mischievously to myself, then kick the soccer ball way out in front of me. I dribble toward Nicole, doing a few fancy tricks along the way to show off. As I get closer to her, I pretend to trip over the ball and let it roll out of bounds.

  Nicole enjoys this, of course. I hustle to retrieve the ball. Once I have it, I move close to her again. I point over at Sydney.

  “Sydney’s really good,” I tell Nicole. “Thanks for putting her on defense with me. I couldn’t do it without her.”

  Nicole looks from me to her. “Sydney! You’re playing left forward today.”

  The look of pure excitement on Sydney’s face makes me so happy. I’ll play D for the rest of my life just to keep her smiling like that.

  I fake anger toward Nicole. “No, you can’t do this! I need her on D.”

  With a smirk on her face, Nicole tosses a ball in the air and catches it. “You’ll just have to hustle more, I guess.”

  That was ridiculously easy.

  As soon as Nicole is off torturing someone else, I watch Sydney and the other freshman do their drills, which I’ve been encouraging players to do before scrimmage starts. Julia isn’t bad. She has control of the ball and clearly knows how to move. I gaze around at the other girls. Chloe has excellent footwork. A couple others have great mechanics too. Alyson is awesome in goal. And of course there’s Nicole. But about half of the team seems to be here simply to have something to do. They don’t appear to be all that interested in playing; instead, they gossip and watch the boys playing pickup basketball.

  But having seven girls with skills is good. Really good.

  Maybe we could make a real showing this year.

  • • •

  I decide to buy Ezra’s coffee today.

  After all, he’s agreed to talk with me, which should ultimately get me out of meeting with Miss Brady once a week. I like the woman, but spending five hours a week with her is just too much.

  When Ezra arrives at Donut Palace, he opens the door, looks around, and spots me sitting in the corner booth away from the noise of the cash register. I wave him over, and as he’s making his way to me, I check out his Braves ball cap, long-sleeved black shirt, ripped jeans, and work boots splotched with dirt. His biceps and forearms seem to be getting bigger each day. Demolition is physically demanding work.

  “Morning, Tease,” he says, stifling a yawn.

  I slide him his coffee. He lifts the lid and peeks inside. “How’d you know?”

  “You order the same thing every day.”

  “So do you.”

  “I know what I like.”

  His mouth lifts into a mischievous smile. “I know what I like too.”

  He takes a sip of his coffee and sets the cup down on the table. Together we gaze out the window at the farmland to the east, where the sun rose about half an hour ago. That’s one of my
favorite things about this café—it’s on the outskirts of Franklin, and all the green reminds me of St. Andrew’s. And with Ezra sitting across from me, it’s almost as if I’m back there.

  As much as I didn’t want to be around him, because I’m afraid my crush will come back, I feel very relaxed sitting here. I sip my latte and sigh.

  Then Ezra’s cell phone makes a noise like someone bowling a strike. He digs in his pocket and pulls it out. I’ve never seen him look at his phone before. It’s totally un-Ezra.

  He stares at the screen for several seconds and laughs. He types back.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, a little miffed. I hate it when people look at their phones while they’re spending time with me. It makes me feel like I’m not worth their time.

  “It’s my friend Svetlana.”

  Svetlana?

  “From Cornell,” he clarifies.

  “Oh,” I say in a tiny voice. “Your girlfriend?”

  His eyebrows pop up. He takes a little too long before responding, “No, she’s not.”

  His cheeks blush pink, and it’s not from the coffee. If she’s not his girlfriend, then what is she to him? Has he hooked up with her? What kind of a name is Svetlana anyway? I start imagining a Russian gymnast who contorts herself into fancy sexual positions while spying on the United States.

  “Do you talk to friends from Cornell a lot?” I ask.

  He lifts a shoulder. “Mostly just Svetlana. And my old roommate, Justin.”

  “Do you miss college?”

  “Yeah, I miss my friends and intramural soccer. And I loved my frat.”

  “Oh. I guess I figured you didn’t like it there. Since you’re back, you know?”

  “I liked all the social aspects of college, especially the Sloppy Joe bar—”

  “Sloppy Joe bar?”

  “The dining hall had a Sloppy Joe bar on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  My mouth waters at the idea. Unless there’s a Sloppy Kale Joe thing I don’t know about, Sloppy Joes will never be served at my house.

  “But there were parts of college you didn’t like?” I press.

  He rests his chin on his fist. “Yeah, the whole college part. The classes.”

  Huh. Oliver and Jenna settled right in at their schools. “Really?”

  “The business courses sucked. College writing sucked. It pretty much all sucked.”

  “Is that why you left?”

  He adjusts his ball cap. “I’m taking some time off. I need to figure out what I want to do.”

  “So you’re going back in the spring? Or next year?”

  “That’s what my father wants…and expects.”

  As the largest shareholder in the Tennessee Asset Management Group, Mr. Carmichael is the wealthiest man in the state. He’s even richer than the royally connected Goodwins. He has tons of influence. He endorsed my dad’s reelection campaign. Lots of people depend on Mr. Carmichael. In turn, Mr. Carmichael expects a lot of Ezra.

  “But?” I prompt.

  “But the longer I’m away from Cornell, I’m not sure I should go back.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to be a business major. The classes…just aren’t for me.”

  “Maybe change your major?”

  “Try telling that to my father.”

  I totally get what he’s saying. I care a lot about my future, and I work very hard. But if my parents—my dad in particular—hadn’t always been pushing me to be the best I can be, would I work so hard in school? Would I care? I don’t know.

  “If you could change your major, what would you pick?” I ask.

  He stares at his coffee cup. “I’m not sure. I like working on houses though. I like using my hands.”

  I glance down at his strong, tanned hands and swallow hard.

  I hope he didn’t use them on Svetlana.

  • • •

  Today Miss Brady left us a prompt that reads,

  What’s the best gift you’ve ever gotten?

  “That’s easy,” I say. “Chickadee!”

  Ezra bursts out laughing. “I forgot all about him.”

  “My mom sure hasn’t. I can still hear her hollering about that rooster poop on the back deck.”

  When I was eleven, Ezra came over to our house bearing a gift for me, just because. He opened his hands, and out popped a little yellow chicken. It was so cute. I named him Chickadee.

  Mom and Dad hated Chickadee, but I wouldn’t part with him. He was a gift from Ezra! Then Chickadee grew from a tiny chick into this giant rooster. He attacked anything and everything with his beak and flapped his wings like Dracula.

  “Chickadee loved eating chicken,” I say. “It was sort of cannibalistic.”

  “Remember that time he bit Oll’s finger?”

  I clap my hands, laughing. “Yeah, and after that, Mom thought Chickadee needed a distraction, so she bought those hens. Bow-chick-a-wow-wow,” I sing.

  “But he wasn’t interested in the hens.”

  “Yup, because Chickadee was gay.”

  Ezra snort-laughs, which makes me laugh even harder.

  “Only you would manage to give me a gay rooster,” I say.

  “You loved it.”

  “Yup. I was so sad when Chickadee died.”

  “But then I brought you that betta fish.”

  “Mom was much happier about that. She probably thought you’d bring me a baby goat next. Which I would love, by the way.”

  Ezra smiles widely before drinking from his cup.

  “So what’s the best gift you’ve ever gotten?” I ask.

  He takes another long draw of coffee before answering my question. “It’s not really a gift. It was more of an experience. Dad took me camping in Arkansas for my eighteenth birthday—it was just me and him and the river. We caught trout and cooked it over the campfire. Then we drank beer and just talked. I liked how he treated me like a man.”

  I smile. “Sounds nice.”

  “It was. I think it was the longest he and I have ever been alone together. He doesn’t usually have time, you know?”

  “I get that. Both our dads are busy.”

  His face darkens. “I doubt Dad and I will ever do anything like that again.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s pissed that I left Cornell. We haven’t been talking much lately. I don’t really know what to do about it.”

  I shouldn’t pry, because I understand how it feels having people poke around in your business, but I care about him. I need to know more. “So did you, um, officially drop out of school?”

  Ezra gives me a hard look. “I took a leave of absence.”

  “So you can go back?”

  “Can we talk about something else?” He peers at the envelope Miss Brady left us at the counter. “Any other prompts in there?”

  “You can talk to me,” I say quietly. “You know, if you want to.”

  He eats the last doughnut hole and crushes the white paper bag into a ball. “I don’t want to talk about it here. You’ve got school, and I need to get to the work site.”

  I take a deep breath. “Okay, so tell me when and where you want to talk.”

  “Friday night? You, me, the Cumberland Science Museum?”

  I’m scared to put myself back out there again, but this is Ezra.

  The guy I’ve known forever. The friend I can talk to.

  The one I can trust?

  Queen Bee

  “I don’t understand how we’re getting away with this.”

  I’m walking with Ezra through the deserted Cumberland Science Museum on Friday evening, drinking a chocolate milk shake. I feel like I’m breaking every rule of museum etiquette.

  “The curator owes Dad a favor.”

  “I thought things are weird w
ith your father.”

  Ezra winks. “The curator doesn’t know that.”

  We sit on a bench by the human body exhibit. Mechanical displays demonstrate how the intestine digests food and the heart pumps blood. It’s a little grotesque and probably not the best thing to watch while eating, but there aren’t many places to sit. I squint, trying to read the placards next to the displays. Ezra reaches into a white paper bag that’s spotted with grease and pulls out a shrimp Caesar salad (for me) and a cheeseburger and fries (for him).

  When I snap the lid off my salad, Ezra shares a few of his fries, setting them on top of my lettuce. It makes me grin. I eat one of the fries immediately but decide to save the other two for last. He bites into his cheeseburger, then licks mustard off his finger. Oh, to be that mustard. Maybe if I “accidentally” get some salad dressing on the side of my mouth, he’d lick it off.

  I nearly groan at the thought. I shouldn’t be thinking such things. I should be protecting my heart, but Ezra’s intoxicating, spicy smell has me under a spell. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray Iron Man T-shirt he’s had for years that looks soft and comfortable from being washed so many times.

  “What’d you do after school today?” he asks between bites. “Soccer practice?”

  “No, this coach doesn’t make us practice on Fridays.”

  Ezra’s eyebrows scrunch together. “How’s he expect you to win?”

  “I asked the same thing.” I pop a crouton in my mouth and chew. “After school, I worked on my college essays. I’m having a tough time with the prompts. I keep trashing what I’ve written and starting over.”

  Ezra starts to bite into his burger but then he stops and pauses. “Yeah, they’re hard.”

  “I’m so worried,” I say quietly. “What if I don’t get into Yale? I got kicked out of St. Andrew’s. What if they question my character? What if—”

  “Tease.” He sets a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

  I smile sadly. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get into Yale.”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “It’s what I’ve been working toward forever.”

  “So?”

  “So?” I snap. “It’s important to me.”