So I learned from the reviews for last chapter that some of my readers have dirty minds. But that's okay, because I got a good laugh out of all those reviews!
Fang
Have you heard that song sung by Rebecca Black? The one that goes, "Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday..." The that is so annoying that if you go on YouTube and look it up it has more dislikes than likes? Okay, I take it you've gotten it by now.
That's basically how I was feeling when I woke up Friday morning.
We'd won the game yesterday, Thursday, and, although Max hadn't been there due to a buttload of homework, it'd been pretty fun. We'd dominated the other team, and we had been ahead by a total of twenty-two points. I got a three-point buzzer shot, which I must say would've been a lot more satisfying had we not been quite so far ahead.
Tonight I was going with a group of friends to Max's game. I'd texted her and asked if it would bug her if I sat with my (pretty unbehaved) student section, and she said she didn't mind. So I was decked out in my red and white tennis shoes, baggy white shorts, and long-sleeved red shirt that said "Bishop Basketball." When I got there Keira Marx was going to give everybody war paint under their eyes.
When I got there and started to walk over to my friends, I glanced at the Nixon student section. Since it was the girls' finals, the last game, which would determine whether or not they made it to Sectionals, they went all out. There were six people on the top standing up with black T-shirts. The one on the left had a big M in gold on it, and the rest of the shirts spelled out Maddie. Max's name was in the front. I noticed, with a fair amount of jealously, that it was spelled with all guys. A tall buff blonde guy, a tall thin blonde guy, and a guy with sandy hair.
"It's the Fangalator!" somebody screamed loudly and obnoxiously, and I looked over to see Joe jumping up and down at the top of the bleachers, pointing to me wildly. He looked slightly crazy for a second, with his hair spray painted white and a big red I on his bare chest. He and a few other guys were spelling "Bishop."
"Hey, man," I said, coming to stand next to him.
"So which one's Max?" Joe asked, gesturing to the Nixon girls coming out of the locker room for warm ups. I'd finally broken the news to my friends, and they'd taken it better than I'd expected. Sure they'd asked the usual questions. Is she good in bed? Is she hot? Does she have a hot friend? But for the most part they'd gotten over it.
"Right..." I searched for a second, then pointed at her while she was stretching in a circle with her team. "There."
"Damn, buddy," Joe said, clapping me on my shoulder, "nice choice."
"Shut up," I said quietly, but Joe knew the voice I was using. It was the voice that said, Do not fuck with me about this.
Max caught my eye and half-waved, giving the smallest little grin, and then she was focused again. She stood up, snatched a ball, and threw a three-pointer. I didn't see if it went in or not, just went on with that half-grin that all girls loved. And even though Max was nothing like the girls I usually dated, I knew that even she wasn't immune to that. She scowled at me, knowing what I was doing, and flicked her ponytail toward me and turned the other way. But I saw a little smile flicker over her lips.
XxX
It happened about thirty seconds before third quarter ended.
Max had the ball and was just a foot or two from our student section, her back to us and slightly crouched as she searched for somebody to pass to. But some huge girl from the other team was standing an arm's length from Max, waving her arms and blocking every attempt Max made to pass.
You may be wondering why the Bishop student section is at a game between Nixon and Clarkville. Well, I know I said somewhere earlier that high school rivalries are taken seriously. Like, about as seriously as the president took the attack on Pearl Harbor. Yeah, Pearl Harbor seriously. My school, Bishop, hates Nixon with a burning passion. We do everything in our power to crush them at every sport, be it golf, football, or basketball. And so we - well, my student section - was here just to distract Nixon and try to keep them from making it to Sectionals.
Anyway. Max, just as our student section was starting a chant of, "Boring, boring...," finally realized she just had to take a chance. So she faked left and rounded the girl right, meanwhile throwing the ball to another girl on her team. The ball made it safely there, but Max's foot got caught on her blocker's ankle, and she went down. And down hard.
The girl with the ball didn't even go for a shot, because the coach, seeing Max go down and knowing how prone she was to injuries, was already calling a timeout. The ref blew a whistle, and everybody cleared the court except for Max and two other girls.
Max tried to stand up as soon as the ball was out of her hands, but as soon as she put pressure on her right leg it just crumpled. Her two teammates put their arms around Max's waist while she, looking pissed off for showing weakness, put her arms around her shoulders. Her friends helped as she hopped over to sit down.
While the game continued I watched Max over on the side. The coach was asking her things and prodding her right knee, pausing every so often to put an ice pack on it.
Needless to say, even without Max Nixon won.
Max
Needless to say, my celebration for being District Champs two years in a row wasn't all that exciting. Maddie and Lindsey helped me get up and we got in on the team's close huddle.
After a bunch of pictures, both with the team and the trophy and with Dylan, Iggy, and Tyler, who spelled out my name in the student section, we were getting ready to go.
There are some serious advantages to having a game on Friday. First off, no homework to have to worry about doing before or after. Secondly, the fact that Fang and I had pushed forward our almost-date to a simple little Sonic thing right after the game.
But what sucked about winning Districts is that I had to kill me knee to do it, and Jeb really wanted me to ride the bus back to the school so Lonn could check it out.
"I promise I'll go to the hospital tomorrow to get it looked out," I assured Jeb. Fang was waiting over by the vending machines, his hands in his pockets, just relaxedly watching everyone walk by, looking amazing without even trying. Do not repeat any of that.
"Max, you could've seriously injured your knee." Jeb kept anxiously looking down at my knee, where I had a fancy brace with ice inside keeping it from swelling more than it already had. He seriously didn't want me to have another injury in my basketball career, and definitely not one just two weeks before we were now sure for Sectionals.
I sighed deeply. "I know. I probably did. But seriously, I just want to ride home with somebody else. I promise I'll go to the doctor tomorrow and get my knee checked out. It doesn't even hurt that bad now that I have the brace." Lie, total lies, all of them. Except for the fact that I probably hurt my knee. Because I probably did. But Jeb didn't know who I was hanging with, I certainly didn't plan on going to the doctor, and, okay, it was throbbing like hell.
Jeb was quiet for a while, and finally said, "Yes." I don't know if he actually agreed or if the bus full of cheering girls anxious to get home was what made him do it. But he did, and that's all that matters. He turned and left quickly.
When I turned around I found Fang right behind me suddenly, that wicked half grin on his face.
"Nice war paint," I laughed, pointing to the red and white under his eyes.
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Then, as if he'd done it a million times before, Fang grabbed my hand and held it as we walked outside to find his truck in the pretty much empty parking lot. "To Sonic?"
"Yeppers," I said casually. But honestly, the hand he was holding was flaming, and there were dozens of little tiny sparks flowing through my veins, up and down my arms.
When we got in the truck and Fang took his hand out of mine to start it, I wanted to automatically snatch his hand back, get back to that amazing feeling wherever he touched me even the slightest bit.
Once we got going again Fang casually held my hand again and, whenever we were out of street lights, I would close my eyes and try to capture this moment in my mind.
God, I was becoming a love-addicted teenager that belonged in some sappy story somewhere.
Hehe, funny. I almost made the last sentence, "...love-addicted teenager that belonged in some sappy story on some sappy website." But I didn't. Anywho, reviews por favor?
Packing starts tomorrow! :(