Page 25 of Adorkable

“What jumpy thing?” He cocked a brow, and I flushed. “I don’t know. Just not used to you touching me out of the blue, I guess.”

“We’ll have to work on that.”

“How?” I asked miserably. If I was this awkward when Becks held my hand, what chance did we have at making people think we were dating?

“I’ll have to think on it.” When I lifted my head, Becks’s eyes were lit up. “There are so many possibilities.”

I didn’t know what he meant, wasn’t sure I wanted to. His face was full of mischief, and, for some reason, his earlier comment replayed in my head:I’m a guy. I love women.Ugh.

#

Football was a religion down South, but in Chariot, North Carolina, soccer reigned supreme. Forget helmets and all that padding; our boys played sans cups, preferring the less restrictive, less protective jockstrap. Greater risk of injury, but they were unwilling to sacrifice range of motion. I’d always thought that a tad shortsighted, but when I’d asked Becks about it, he’d said, “Long as you know what you’re doing, there’s no need.” When I’d given him a skeptical look, he’d tacked on, in his infinite wisdom, “Cups are for pansies,” and that put an end to it.

Cups or not, Chariot High was known for its soccer. We’d taken the state title home the last two years running. College scouts attended nearly every game; the cheerleaders cheered; parents, teachers, students, everyone showed up to watch the Trojans decimate their opponents.

But they were really there to see Becks.

Only one Trojan consistently made headlines. Only one held the school’s official records for most goals in a season, most minutes played, most penalty kicks taken and scored. And only one had already been offered scholarships to the top ten collegiate soccer programs in the nation.

Everyone called Becks “The Second Coming,” obviously a reference to his British predecessor, David Beckham, one of the greatest names in soccer history. But Becks never bought into the hype. He knew he was brilliant on the field, was confident enough not to compare himself to anyone else, and outspoken enough to tell others not to—but they continued to do it anyway.

Becks was actually the reason I’d gotten the sports beat in the first place. He refused to talk to anyone, wouldn’t give quotes to any of the local papers or media, until he’d talked to me first. As much as I adored him for it, I knew I wasn’t exactly qualified for the position. After four years, I still carried my soccer-slang cheat sheet tucked in the front pocket of my jeans just in case.

“Am I seriously supposed to believe this?”

I sighed. Here we go again.

“Believe it or not, it’s true,” I said, studiously watching the players sprint across the field, making a real effortnotto look at her.

“So, what?” Hooker said. “You’re telling me you just woke up this morning and realized you’re into Becks, a guy you’ve been friends with since second grade? A guy who coincidentally realized he’s into you at the exact same time? A guy you and I personally saw eat a worm at Tobey Steinman’s thirteenth birthday party?”

Not one of Becks’s finer moments.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but yes.”

Catching my eyes, she narrowed her own. “Or is this recent development not so recent? Have you been holding out on me, harboring a secret crush on him all these years, afraid to speak your true feelings for fear of rejection?”

I swallowed just as the crowd groaned. The other team had scored, but we were still up by one. Looking away from Hooker, I made a big show of straightening the plaid blanket thrown across our legs. The night breeze was chill, but it did nothing to cool the blood rushing to my face.

“What’s the big deal?” I muttered. “Becks and I are going out. He’s my boyfriend now. It’s not that complicated.”

Hooker stared at me a moment then sat back and crossed her arms.

“Say it as many times as you want, Spitz. I’m not buying it.”

Stubborn, I thought, and entirely too perceptive.

From the beginning, she saw right through me and The Plan. I didn’t know how, but she knew Becks and I weren’t really together. Hooker wasn’t like everyone else, swayed by a few lousy rumors. She was too smart for that—and she knew me too well. As much as I’d tried to lie and lie well, ever since that scene in the storeroom, she’d stubbornly refused to buy into the boyfriend ruse.

“Hey, Zane.”

I sighed. Here we go again.

“Uh, that’s not my name,” said a deep, heavily accented voice.

“Great,” Hooker said and as I opened my eyes I watched her reel Not-Zane in. It always started like this. “So, what is it then?”

“Julian.”

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