Blitzed(18)

The laughs that greet that comment increase as Dani comes over, raising an eyebrow. "Troy. Good game. Do we have a problem?"

"Nope," I reply. Dani and I are pretty much the king and queen of campus, but we'd never hooked up. Not that she isn't hot, but I never really had the urge with her. Maybe I just respect her too much. "But you might want to have a talk with your cheerleaders about appropriate inter-team comments before I need to say something again."

"That may be, but I'll handle that," Dani replies. "And while I appreciate your willingness to help Whitney with her things, cheerleading rules—no outside help. We haul our own shit on and off the field. Unless, of course, you want me carrying your balls for you?"

I smirk, letting Dani know I'd caught her pretty smooth comment and how it could be taken a lot of ways. I don't know if Whitney understands, but her friend has just taken some heat off her. "Nah, I'm good. All right, I gotta go anyway. Hasta luego."

"You're paying attention in Spanish now? I’m impressed," Dani says and turns back to the other cheerleaders. "Come on, girls, lets get this cleaned up. Some of us have dates tonight!"

In the moment when Whitney and I are alone, she gives me a shy little smile. "Thanks. You tried."

"No problem. See you tomorrow afternoon."



Unfortunately for me, I'm sporting a brand new bruise on my shoulder when I pick up Whitney from her house. Her mother greets me this time, and as she looks me over, I feel like I'm being split in two, the guy I was as a junior fighting against the person I'm not even sure I am now.

Damn. If that's what Whitney's going to look like in twenty years . . .

Shut up, you idiot. I'm here to see Whitney, not horndog on her mom.

"Troy?"

I blink and realize that Mrs. Nelson is talking to me. "Sorry, Mrs. Nelson. Just daydreaming I guess. What did you say?"

"I said Whitney's getting dressed now. Why don't you come inside? And it's Ms. Nelson. There is no Mr. Nelson."

I nod, understanding and following Ms. Nelson inside. I’m shocked at their house, which is like the complete opposite of mine. It's picked up, with no dirty laundry, liquor bottles, or other crap lying around. There are even little curtains in the window of the kitchen, and the sink is totally empty, cleaned out. "This is a great place, Ms. Nelson. Thank you."

"You're welcome," she says, and my eyes catch the big cross on the wall next to the fridge. Whitney did tell me her mom is big on the church at lunch on Friday. I remember. "Troy, since you and I have a minute, I'm going to take this time to ask you a few questions."

"Uh, okay. I guess." Shit. The interrogation. Not what I want. I've called off dates for less, but there is something about Whitney that says I should put up with it.

"You have a reputation, to put it nicely," Ms. Nelson says, giving me the hairy eyeball. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"

"Mom," Whitney interrupts us, like an angel saving me from certain destruction. "I told you, Troy's been a total gentleman. Aren't you the one telling me that I should give people second chances and believe in redemption?"

Ms. Nelson looks pissed, but she nods and gives me a glance that is very clear. I got lucky. "All right. Well, Whitney tells me you'll have her back before three thirty, so I guess you two can't get up to too much trouble. Just know, Troy—I won't hesitate to protect my daughter."

"I understand, Ms. Nelson. I'll be on my best behavior. I promise."

Whitney and I drive over to the park, where she surprises me by taking off her sandals and splashing through the kids’ wading pool. "Come on, it's fun!"

I feel silly, but what the hell? I take off my shoes and wade in next to her, only to be met with a splash of water and a sparkling grin that warms me more than the sun. "Gotcha."

"Oh, you're so going to get it," I say, and we're splashing and engaging in a water fight like the little kids around us, much to their surprise and delight. I get Whitney once, but she gets me right back with a double handful that totally soaks my shirt and gets me right in the face, and I'm left sputtering and laughing. "Okay, okay, I'm whipped!"

Whitney stops her splashing, and I wiped the water out of my eyes. "What does that mean?"

I look at her, and I realize a few things. Her t-shirt is wet in all the right places, and the bra she's wearing underneath, while modest, is still very visible. She isn't talking about our water fight. Also, if she doesn't know, she's even more innocent than I thought she was. "Uhm, well, maybe we should talk about this where a bunch of little kids can't overhear," I say. "You know, sensitive ears and all."

Whitney looks around and sees the kids I'm talking about, who are still smiling at us for a minute before they go back to their playing. We make our way out of the wading pool, and I gather up our shoes off the grass. There's a picnic table nearby, and I follow Whitney over there, where she sits down on top of the table, which is nice and warm from the sun.

Whitney looks at me innocently. "I mean, I know what the word is supposed to mean—* whipped—but the way you guys use it and the ways the other girls use it . . . it's just weird."

"It is," I say, and suddenly, I feel like the mature one again. It's weird and wonderful with Whitney that way. She sometimes makes me feel like I'm the one learning from her, like when we talk at lunch, but then there are conversations like this, where I feel like I'm the one who knows everything. "I think it comes down to the fact that guys want to feel in charge, and it looks bad for us to be running around all the time like a puppy dog on a leash."