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size.” Dad stabs at his chicken with a knife and fork, ripping the meat off the bone and forcing it into his mouth.
    “Maybe you’d know how good she is if you ever showed up to one of her games, Dad,” Mike blurts. Jake lets out a low whistle, and I think he’s about to take off, when Dad suddenly stands up and throws his napkin down on the table. He shoots Mike a look—the look of death, which I haven’t seen since Henry and I accidental y drove Dad’s ATV into the lake.
    “Thanks for dinner, Julie,” Dad says, bending over and kissing Mom’s cheek. He picks up his plate, puts the bottle of Gatorade under his arm, and leaves the room. A few seconds later, I hear the door to his study slam shut.
    My appetite gone, I pick up my plate and hold it out for Mike and Jake. My brother grabs the bread and chicken and Jake scoops the mashed potatoes onto his plate.
    Mike rips into his second chicken breast, then wipes the grease from his lips with a napkin. “Dad’s such a jerk.”
    Grinning at my brother, I stand up and take my plate to the sink. Before heading upstairs, I pause outside the dining room because I hear Mom speaking quietly. “Mike, I know you’re mad, but you wil show your father more respect.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Mike replies softly.
    I wish Henry was here to make me laugh right now, because I feel like shit. To get my mind off Dad’s assholishness, I run upstairs to my room and grab the stupid journal. Then I go outside into the backyard, through the gardens to Mom’s potting shed, this rickety oak shack that’s covered in ivy and moss. It’s total y Scotland .
    Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one’s watching me, I slip inside and shut the door and take a seat next to the shovels in the corner, where streams of light from our deck shoot through the window and the cracks in the siding, il uminating the dirt floor.
    I love hiding in the shed when I need alone time. When we were little, Henry and I used to play house in here. We’d make long-winded announcements about how we would never get married to anyone, and I liked to pretend we had a bowling al ey, and Henry would talk about having a helipad, and I’d trump that by pretending to have a transporter like on Star Trek .
    I find my flashlight. And holding it using my chin, I open the Moleskine to a blank page and try to think of something to write, besides fantasies of seeing Ty’s…
    “Jesus, Woods,” I mutter. “Get a hold of yourself.”
    I doodle. A few pictures of footbal s, some pinwheels, the Alabama Rol Tide logo about thirty times. I draw a bunch of X s and O s, which aren’t hugs and kisses, but offensive plays from the team playbook, and—okay, okay—I write J.W. + T.G., which I scribble over immediately.
    I rip out the page of doodles and wad it up.
    Ode to Ty…I love your three-step drop and that quick release.
    I laugh as I rip that page out too.

evolution
    (aka second attempt at tackling a poem) I’ll admit it
    When I first saw Jake Reynolds I thought I’d died and gone to the Super Bowl (as starting QB)
    That blond surfer-boy hair
    That tan body that won’t stop That bottom lip: upturned, a sexy invite And then he spoke
    “Damn, Jordan. You should play tight end because your ass is wound tighter than a baseball.”
    Now every time I see a hot guy my first reaction is to brace myself Wait for the sewage to seep out of his mouth I thought Henry was the last of his kind I thought hot nice guys had gone extinct Be still, my hormones
    Ty is here to repopulate the species

mudding
    the count? 19 days until alabama The next morning, I wake up a little earlier than usual. Mike, Jake, and I run five miles together and then we lift weights before I hop in the shower.
    When I shave my legs for the first time in a week, I actual y try to hit al the tricky spots—around the ankles, behind the knees. It’s like when Mom spends hours making sure each weed has been plucked from her vegetable garden.
    I also mess