I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“Told you,” Ash said.
My mouth opened and closed a few times, no sound coming out.
“You ready to go?” Clayton asked. “Your Mom called to make sure you had a ride home.”
Drawing in some air, trying to sound firm and not snippy, I said, “Sure, Clayton, I’m ready. And by the way you’re both wrong.” I looked at them coolly. “Becks doesn’t get distracted, especially not by something like that.”
Ash and Clayton exchanged a look, and though they didn’t say it, I knew they were making fun of me. I stalked to Clayton’s truck in a huff and refused to speak to him the entire ride—which seemed fine by him. We both had a lot to think over.
Later on, I dialed Becks to give him a piece of my mind. I’d been waiting and waiting for him to call, but he never did. One sprained ankle didn’t mean he couldn’t pick up the phone.
He answered on the fourth ring. “Hey, Sal.”
Hey, Sal? I’d reached my limit. “Hey, Sal,” I repeated, “that’s all you have to say? No, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call. I feel just horrible about it. I’m a complete jerk off for making you worry.’“
“You were worried?” He sounded far too pleased.
“Only a little,” I lied.
“You know, I can tell when you’re lying, Sal.”
Blast.
“Well, I shouldn’t have been,” I said. “You seem completely fine. Fine enough to tease me, fine enough not to call. I guess I shouldn’t have waited outside that locker room with my crappy father for hours. Guess I shouldn’t have been worried at all.”
Becks paused then said, “Your dad was there?”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t let me in the locker room to see you.”
“That was a real jerk move.”
“I know,” I said, “seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”
He sighed. “You’re mad.”
“And you’re a genius,” I retorted, flipping on the TV. Maybe some mindless entertainment would divert my attention. Why hadn’t he called?
“I’m sorry,” he said finally.
“For what?”
“For being a jerk.”
“And?”
“And for not calling, I just figured someone would’ve told you.”
“Well, they didn’t.”
“Sorry,” he said again.
“Stop saying that,” I said, feeling a bit of my anger subside. “How are you anyway? I heard it was just a sprain.”
“Well, my foot hurts like a mother and Clayton’s none too happy about my lack of concentration. Other than that I’m just terrific.”
I pressed back into the pillows. “Yeah, what happened out there? I missed it. Are you going to sit out any games?”
There was rustling at the other end of the line, and I imagined Becks getting more comfortable as well.
Skipping the first question, Becks said, “Yeah, only the next one. I should be better if we make it to the third round.”
“When,” I said, “when you make it.”
“When,” he agreed. There was silence for a beat and then, “So, who’s the Ken lookalike? He the one you have your eye on?”
It took me a second to understand.
Hesitantly, I asked, “Are you talking about Austin Harris?”
“If Austin Harris was that guy putting the moves on you, then yes.”
“He was not putting the moves on me.”
“He was kissing you,” Becks said flatly.
“Yeah, on the hand,” I said back. Could Clayton and Ash have been right? Was Becks actually distracted by me talking to some other guy? Was he jealous? I knew the answer and mentally laughed at myself. Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen.
“So, is it him? Is Austin Harris the guy that sets your heart pounding? The one you’re trying to impress with a fake boyfriend?”
His tone was light, his words teasing, but he seemed to be waiting for an answer.
“No,” I said, “it’s not Austin.”
“Oh,” Becks said, and, in my mind, I saw him grin.
“The guy I like is much hotter.” I heard Becks stutter and nearly cracked up. “Almost too hot for his own good.”
“Nobody’s that hot” Becks mumbled.
If you only knew, I thought. “But Austin was impressed,” I added.
“With what?”
“You.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
I laughed at his cocky tone, looked up at the TV and laughed some more. “You aren’t going to believe this,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re on TV, channel six.”