Adorkable(70)
The day after it happened, Becks came up to me and said, “Did you go to the movies with Ass Striker?”
I shut my locker, doing a mental eye roll at the name. “Yeah, how’d you know?”
“The jerk tweeted it,” he said in disgust.
“He did?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “What did he say?”
Becks held his phone out to me, and I scanned the screen.
The account was for @AshTheWhip24/7, and it said: “Scream Deluxe, popcorn, and a hot older woman at my side. Doesn’t get better than that.”
I laughed. Ash was such a goober.
“Sal, we were supposed to go see that one together.”
It was true. Becks was a huge fan of horror, but Ash had asked me first, and like he said, I couldn’t wait around forever. I wouldn’t. Becks’s puppy dog eyes had always worked on me in the past, but now I was a rock. Stone cold, hard, impassive. I just wished he didn’t look so disappointed in me.
I shrugged. “We can go see it again if you want, but I might have to check and see if I’m doing anything with Ash.”
“What’s up with that?” he said in exasperation. “Is he your babysitter now? Sal, you hate Twitter. Just last year you called the people who do it ‘online attention seekers with no life.’ What happened?”
You, I thought. You happened, and now I’m on this stupid mission to make you see me as a girl and to give someone who actually likes me a shot, and it’ll probably go nowhere, but I’m going to try my best anyway. Call me what you like, but Sally Spitz was no quitter.
“So Ash tweets,” I said. “It’s not that big a deal. I accept him for who he is, and he accepts me for who I am.”
“Hmph,” Becks said and then stalked off without a backward glance.
Later on, the coach was drilling them hard. This would be the last practice before the semis, and he wanted his team both mentally and physically prepared. They’d been at it a full hour and a half before he let them have their first break.
Ash jogged up to me, hair plastered to his head with sweat, muscles shifting beneath his skin, his shirt long gone.
“Hey,” he said, pulling me into a very warm, very wet hug.
“Ugh,” I laughed, then whispered, “when I agreed to go out with you, I don’t think sweaty hugs were part of the deal.”
“They totally were.” He released me with a tug on my ponytail. “Fine print, Spitz. Never forget to read it. You’ll be sorry if you do.”
“I heard about your tweet.”
“Who’d you hear that from, I wonder?” Ash looked pleased. “Tell me, was he crying when he told you? Did he get down on one knee right there, sweep you into his arms, and ask you to forgive him for being such a loser?”
“Hey,” I said, “no calling Becks a loser. We talked about this.”
“Alright, alright,” he said. “I’m working on it.”
“He’s my best friend, Ash. And if we’re going to be friends, you need to work harder.”
“I said okay.” Ash crossed his arms. “So I assume this means you’re still in love with—”
“Shhh!” I hissed, clapping a hand over his mouth. “He might hear you.”
Ash stared at me balefully until I removed my hand. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he mumbled.
A second later Becks was there at my side, drawing me into my second sticky hug of the day. Despite the sweat, I closed my eyes, couldn’t bring myself to pull away, sinking into him like home. It’d been a while since Becks touched me.
“Hey, Sal,” Becks murmured, tightening his hold.
“Becks,” I sighed. He really did give the best hugs.
Who knows how long I might’ve stayed there (probably forever) if Ash hadn’t chosen that moment to grunt, a loud and piercing sound that cut through my Becks haze.
Shaking myself out of his embrace, I tried to stop the blush from stealing up my cheeks. From Becks’s smile and Ash’s faint look of disapproval, I could tell I was unsuccessful.
“Mount Tabor doesn’t stand a chance,” I said to fill the awkward silence. “You guys look really great out there.”
“Why thank you, Spitz.” Ash smiled. “You’re looking good yourself.”
“I-I didn’t—”
“No need to stutter.” Looking down at himself, he flexed which brought even more heat to my face. “Many a woman has admired my physique.”
Becks snorted, crossing his arms, his own muscles contracting with the movement.
The cheerleaders threw catcalls our way; a couple nearly swooned and I couldn’t even blame them. I was about to pass out myself. I kept switching from Becks to Ash, Ash to Becks, chest to chest, but no matter where I looked there was more skin. With that much excellent male flesh on display, what’s a girl to do?