“Man, I tell you it’s a lie. Becks wouldn’t waste his time.”
I was so close I actually felt Becks’s body stiffen. Loud and obnoxious, the voice brought back bad memories of last night’s wandering hands. I knew I should’ve punched Chaz Neely when I had the chance.
“Spitz is an ice princess,” Chaz continued, speaking to the two guys at his locker. They were a little ways down the hall, backs to us, but their voices traveled.
“I don’t know,” Rick Smythe, goalie for CHS, spoke up. “They’ve been friends a long time.”
“Yeah, friends with benefits,” J.B. Biggs laughed. “There’s got to be something in it for him.”
“We went out last night,” Chaz said. “Lamest date I ever had. She wouldn’t even let me get to second base. Way I figure it, Spitz is a prude.”
I blushed furiously as we walked up behind them. I couldn’t believe Becks had heard that.
“Either that or she’s not into guys.”
“Maybe she just wasn’t into you,” Becks said.
“Who the hell—” Chaz’s big mouth snapped shut as he came face to face with Becks’s glare.
“You are such a sleazebag,” I spat.
“What was that you said about my girlfriend?”
The way Becks so casually called me his girlfriend distracted me.
“Apologize,” Becks said.
“What?” Chaz tried playing dumb. “Becks, you heard wrong, man. What I meant was—”
“Apologize,” Becks repeated, stepping closer, “or I knock your teeth down your throat. Your choice.”
“Sorry, Spitz,” he said, still looking at Becks.
“Sally,” Becks said lowly.
“Sally,” Chaz squeaked. “Sorry, Sally. God, I’m sorry.”
“Better.” Becks nodded. I started when one of his hands gripped mine. “Sal’s my girlfriend. You mess with her; you mess with me. Got that, Neely?”
There it was. That word again. As Chaz scurried away and the warning bell sounded, the hall cleared pretty fast. Everything that’d just happened hit me full force.
“How do you do that?” I asked after putting some space between us. It was impossible to think with him so close.
“Do what?”
“That.” Gesturing to his face, I laughed uneasily. “All that stuff about me being your girl, laying it on a little thick there, don’t you think?”
“Sal,” he said, “you are my girl.”
I waited for him to explain, but he didn’t. Instead he reached out to grab my hand again, and (of course) I jumped about a foot.
“So, what’s up with the jumpy thing?”
“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.