Page 15 of My High School Rebel Boyfriend
“I didn’t mean to aim it at him. I don’t think it hit him,” I said.
“I’m kidding,” he said, and then with a wheeze, “You’re setting some pace here, Dent.” Typical with basketballers, they never liked to train laps. “He said you aced your pushups.” Before I could absorb that, he launched into a whole other topic, “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
My mind boggled as I wondered what kind of favor Titan could possibly want from me. Though my lack of response was because the pace had picked up, and I was puffing and not capable of words.
“You’re friends with Ebony, right?” I nodded, both of us slowing down to a more manageable jog. “I need you to put in a good word for me.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d need help in asking a girl out,” I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. Titan Dell pretty much thought he was God’s gift and dated a lot, though come to think of it he’d never had a steady girlfriend.
“I know,” he said with an embarrassed laugh.
“You really like Ebony?” I’d seen him talking to her after training the previous day.
“Reallylike Ebony,” he said.
“You’re not trying to get payback?”
“What?” There was genuine surprise in his question.
“For snitching about the equipment room mess,” I said, thinking about Mitchell Finlayson’s grudge, deep-seated and unforgiving.
“That was the best thing to happen to me,” Titan laughed. “Helping you girls has been ablast.”
“Really?”
“Yeaaaah,” he drawled. As we turned another bend I could see Tanchia was no closer to making a move back to the track, still talking to Dean.
“So, if I help you, would you be willing to help me?” I asked, both breathless and bold. How was it that I was considering making a pact with Titan Dell, tough guy and a self-proclaimed player?
Titan quirked an eyebrow, “Whatcha need from me, Dent?” I let a few seconds pass, in the process of chickening out, when he prompted, “Come on, spit it out!” No subtlety from him.
I replied with one long gabbled sentence. “I wanna get better on my jumps, you know when I spike, do you think you could help me before the tournament?”
Titan stopped abruptly, forcing me to do the same. “You mean when youkillthe ball?”
“I just wanna be able to leap higher,” I said, feeling he was making fun of me. “Hey, forget it. It’s a stupid idea.” I restarted my run, hoping he wouldn’t follow.
“Tomorrow morning. Seven,” I heard him call as the distance between us increased. “In the gym.”
Grinning, I gave him the thumbs up signal. Okay, the thought that I could improve so dramatically in a week was improbable, but if I didn’t put in the effort I’d never know. That’s all I wanted—to be able to perform to the best of my ability and give myself a chance.
Two colleges had emailed me back, thanking me for my interest. They’d checked my stats and watched my videos and said they’d look forward to seeing me at the tournament. I hadn’t told anyone yet.
After dinner I went to my room to start on my mountain of homework, but every so often I’d get up for a break from the books and dofive pushups and ten sit ups.
Mom popped her head in my door. “Thought I heard a thump,” she said, looking around the room, like she was suspicious someone was hiding under my bed.
“Ooh, I was just doing sit ups,” I said, “trying to get fit for the tournament next week. Miss Barber wants us to be at our fittest.”
“I don’t think you need to overdo it,” she said, “make sure you test before bed.”
“I feel fine,” I said defensively. I’d taken my medication after my meal, the right amount to keep my blood sugars stable through the night, but she was right—an increase in my usual activity would affect my levels.
Gah...can you see how much I despised diabetes? If I tested low before bed, I’d have to have another sweet snack to bring myself up so I didn’t drop into a coma during the night. One time I had woken up in a sweat and dazedly walked around the house. Mom’s razor sharp ears heard me, and at one o’clock in the morning she was plying me with honey sandwiches and soda. Can you see how a sleepover had no appeal?
“Mom, I have to go to school early tomorrow, seven.”
“What for?”
