Rusk University: All Lined Up Part 11

I pick up my phone and dial Ryan. He's taken to showing up during most of my extra workouts, and we talk during those. I'm not sure I would really qualify us as friends yet. But he's my only choice, really.

It rings and rings, and I'm left with his voice mail.

d.a.m.n.

"Hey, man, it's Carson," I say into the speaker. "If you get this tonight, give me a call back. Nothing big, I just have a question. If you don't get it tonight, don't worry about it."

I hang up and slump back into my couch, exhausted.

Levi's pulled off two wins in a row. They haven't been pretty. Too many errors, but he's had just enough impressive plays to make my chances of taking his spot even slimmer. And if I'm honest . . . I'm not sure how long I can keep this up.

I've almost dozed off when my phone beeps and I jerk upright. My eyelids are heavy as I grope for my phone to read the incoming text.

It's not from Ryan, but Dallas.

So I've been thinking about this whole friends.h.i.+p thing . . .

I blink a few times to make sure I'm really awake.

And?

And I think I can handle it.

If you can.

I can't tell if her second text is just an additional thought or a challenge. Not that it matters. My response is the same. I didn't want to embarra.s.s myself in front of her. I'd told her I wasn't a good student, but giving her a front row seat for it was different. But tonight, I didn't have much of a choice.

Are friends allowed to help other

stubborn friends with essay outlines?

Sure. I'm working tomorrow morning from

8 to 11 if you want to swing by.

I can't. It's due tomorrow, and I

have cla.s.ses then.

And I'm the idiot who procrastinated. I start typing out a message asking if I can call her when she replies.

What's your address? I'm already out. I'll just swing by.

Oh s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t taking a s.h.i.+t on a s.h.i.+t.

I jump off the couch and take a look around my messy living room. There are free weights strewn around the open s.p.a.ce on the far side of the room. Sweats and towels and balled-up socks are strewn all over. And yesterday's dinner still sits on the coffee table in front of me.

I throw the old food out quickly before answering her text. Then I'm in a mad dash to make the place at least somewhat presentable. With sweatpants thrown over my shoulders, my arms full of miscellaneous things, I kick a stray pair of shoes back toward my bedroom and hide it all there. My phone buzzes with another text, but I don't look at it. There's too much to do in too little time. I throw the weights in the corner, gathering a few more pieces of dirty laundry to stash in my room. I don't get time to address the bathroom or the kitchen before a knock sounds at my door.

d.a.m.n it.

"Just a second!"

I pull the shower curtain closed and flip off the lights in both the bathroom and the kitchen. I'm left with only the lamp beside my couch on, and I think maybe the low light will help hide whatever I didn't manage to straighten.

I take a few seconds to calm my breath before I open the door.

It doesn't help. Not when I see her. Her hair s.h.i.+nes in the light cast by the porch light outside my door. Her long legs are crossed at the ankle, and she's fidgeting with the hem of her s.h.i.+rt in a way that makes me smile.

I school my expression so I don't look too eager and say, "Hey. Come on in."

She steps inside, but she stays near the door. She looks around, and her eyes fall on the lone lamp, and I can tell she thinks I'm using the low light for something other than hiding my lack of cleanliness.

"I can't stay long," she says. "But I was on my way back to campus after a quick run to the store, so I thought it couldn't hurt to swing by. Especially after I ran you off earlier."

I shrug, still gripping the open door.

"It's my fault. I don't like asking for help."

She laughs. "Join the club."

Her shoulders relax, and I take that as my cue that it's safe to close the door.

I move toward the couch, straightening the cus.h.i.+ons before I take a seat in front of my English homework piled on the coffee table.

"Thanks for doing this. Next time I won't wait until the night before to try and get help."

"It happens. Procrastination is my natural state of being." She sits down on the couch with nearly a full cus.h.i.+on between us. "So tell me what you're working on."

I slide my computer over so she can see what I have so far, and hand her the CNN article I printed out. I fill her in on what I've already outlined and explain that I'm having trouble filling out more of the outline.

She looks it all over in silence for a minute or so, then pulls my computer off the coffee table and onto her knees.

"Well, your first problem is that your roman numeral two should really be your A point under roman numeral one. They're too closely related to be separate informative points."

d.a.m.n. That means I need to come up with something else I can write a full paragraph about.

"The roman numeral is the broadest way to describe the topic. The letters break it down into more specific key points, and the lowercase roman numerals are for supporting details like statistics, quotes, and examples."

I love how she just rattles off the information with no problem, when I find myself looking back at the textbook example every few seconds. She must read the frustration on my face because she turns toward me, her knee brus.h.i.+ng my thigh.

"Think of it this way. If you were to write a paper informing someone who knows nothing about football how to evaluate the skills of a quarterback, you might choose to use your three paragraphs to evaluate his pa.s.sing game, running game, and decision-making. Under each of those headings, you'd use a letter to explain the various skills that contribute to a good pa.s.sing game, running game, etc. So, let's say under 'pa.s.sing game,' strength is your A point, accuracy might be your B point. And then for supporting details you could give player statistics or even discuss drills that are designed to improve strength or accuracy. You can include as many points and details under each heading as you want. The more you have, the more comprehensive your outline will be, and the less trouble you'll have writing a decent-length paper when the time comes."

There's something really f.u.c.king s.e.xy about listening to a girl like her talk about football and actually know her stuff. I'm used to having to explain what a first down means to most girls.

"You make it sound so easy. If only I could write about football instead of current events."

She grins at me. "Yeah. I'm sure you would love that."

"Hey, you're the one who brought up football. Not me. I wasn't going to even utter the word for fear that it would scare you off."

Now that I've brought attention to it, she looks a little like she wants to bolt, but she doesn't.

"The trick with papers like this is to pick a current event that interests you or that connects to a subject you're familiar with."

"I don't know anything about anything but football."

"That can't be true. What kind of stuff were you interested in growing up?"

"Girls," I answer.

She rolls her eyes. "I don't think girls count as a current event."

"I didn't do anything growing up except work for my dad and play football. That's all I know how to do."

"What does your dad do?"

"He's a rancher."

"Why don't you write about the drought? I saw a thing on the news just this morning about the decline in the number of cattle in Texas. If it's on the news, I'm sure you could find an article somewhere about it."

"I can talk about that?"

She smiled. "Yeah. As long as you find some articles and more official information to back it all up."

"I could write about that in my sleep. I've got my dad's whole rant about it down pat."

"Then do that."

She does a quick Internet search and on the first page alone, she points out three or four articles that would make good sources. And in five minutes, I've got all my main points mapped out.

"I think once I've read a few of these articles, I should be able to wrap up the rest of this pretty quickly."

This would have taken me hours by myself.

"Yep. I think you've pretty well got the hang of it."

I look up from my computer to face her, and I notice that she's closed the gap between us on the couch, leaving a scant few inches between her leg and mine.

"Thanks for this, Daredevil. You're a lifesaver."

She shakes her head.

"I'm no daredevil."

"Any girl who can jump off balconies and hold her own in a fight with Coach Cole is a daredevil in my book."

Her face falls, and I immediately regret bringing up that night.

"Like father, like daughter, I guess."

"It's not such a bad thing . . . being like your dad. Yeah, you're both stubborn and proud. That's for sure. But you've both got big hearts."

She looks at me like an extra head has just sprouted from the socket of my shoulder.

"No one in my entire life has ever told me I have a big heart."

I touch the hand she has braced on her knee, just for a few seconds, and say, "Then no one in your entire life has been paying much attention."

THE NEXT MORNING Ryan approaches as soon as I enter the weight room. He doesn't ask if I need a spot; this has become our routine since the first time he helped me.

He helps me load weights on the bar over at the bench press, and he wordlessly adds an extra ten pounds.

I might have mentioned Coach's words about improving my arm in pa.s.sing, and Ryan has unofficially taken on the role as my trainer.

I'm not as chatty today, not with an extra ten pounds to worry about, and not with my head still dissecting every moment I spent with Dallas last night. But Ryan picks up the slack.

"You're later today than usual."

I push out a breath as I lift the bar away from my chest.

"Up late," I breathe.

"Something to do with the message you left?"