Page 6 of Adorkable

Watching him watch them was so not my idea of a good time.

Shifting around, I said, “Becks, how do you stand it? They come up to you and pat you like a dog. It’s degrading.”

“Is it?” Becks was still looking after Roxy and her amazing swaying hips. I swear that girl was born double jointed.

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

Becks’s tone was dry. “I feel so used.”

Rolling my eyes, I walked away just as another girl came up to fondle his face.

Due to a rumor started last year, it was now acceptable for people to come up and pet him out of the blue. When Becks had first told me about the ritual—how he’d stopped shaving three days before a game to avoid bad luck; he’d read it in some sports article—I’d written it off as superstition. But then again, last year was our first season going 23-0, so what did I know? Personally, I hated the five-o’clock shadow. Not because of the way it made Becks look—believe me, Becks was a stunner with or without the facial hair—but people thought it gave them the right to touch him. And everyone had at some point or another.

Except me.

That was just not the kind of thing best friends did—and even if it was, I didn’t have the cojones to do it anyway.

“Wait up, Sal!”

I slowed. “Finally got away from all those adoring fans?”

“Don’t be like that,” Becks said, sidling up to me. “They’re just excited about the game.”

“Yeah, right.”

“What’s really bothering you? And don’t tell me it’s the fan thing, I know you too well.”

He was both right and wrong.

“It’s just…I can’t understand what gave her that idea,” I said, going with the least complicated of the two things bothering me. “My mom, I mean. What’d I do to make her and Hooker think...well, you know?”

“Parents,” Becks said, as if it was some great mystery. “Who can say what makes them do what they do.”

Stopping outside my first period, I tried to make my voice sound ultra-casual. “You never thought that, right?”

“Thought what?” Becks waved as someone called his name.

“That I was, you know—” I swallowed. “—gay?”

Becks gave me a half-smile, looking completely unaware of how much his answer mattered—to me, at least.

“Sal,” he said as I held my breath. “Gay or straight, we would’ve always been best friends.”

I exhaled. Wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, but I’d take it.

“I’ll see you at practice?”

“Of course,” I smiled. “Someone’s got to write about the early years before you went pro. Might as well be me.”

Shaking his head, Becks said, “See ya, Sal,” and then kept going down the hall. As he walked, people—girls mostly, but a fair share of the boys—greeted Becks with catcalls, pats on the back, more cheek rubs. He took it all in stride, even when Trent Zuckerman gave him a chest bump that nearly sent him sprawling.

“So Spitz, you coming tonight?”

I turned and came face-to-face with my self-appointed matchmaker. Lillian Hooker was the only person who had permission to call me that name and my closest bestie right after Becks. On paper, she and I looked a lot alike: same height, same pant size, same long hair. In reality? Hooker’s hair was dark chocolate, mine sandy brown. Confidence and curves-in-all-the-right-places set her apart. The caramel complexion didn’t hurt either. She was exotic while I was ordinary.

In other words, Hooker was the Amidala to my Hermione.

“Don’t know, Hooker.” We’d bonded in the seventh grade over a great love of superhero movies and a deep hatred of unfortunate surnames. That first sleepover made our bestie status official. Hooker and I had been stuffing our faces with popcorn and watching TV when we flipped to a cheesy Western calledTombstone. Instant obsession. While other girls were dressing up like pretty princesses, we were Doc Holiday and Johnny Ringo for Halloween. “I’m still recovering from last night.”

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