Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

fall for his lies. He could be making every last word of this up, too.
And even if my initial motives for meeting him that Sunday were
barely better than his—though I think a deal is way less offensive
than a bet—at least I admitted to myself early on that I was really
going after Griffin for myself.
Rising, I start twisting at the waist to warm up my upper body.
Griffin scrambles to his feet.
“Last Saturday after your practice,” he says, pleading. “That was
real. The rest doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
I stop moving long enough to meet his sad stare.
Clearly, he’s not sure what to say. Which is fine with me because
I’ve heard enough lies to last a lifetime.
“Let’s just get this workout over with,” I snap, fed up and thinking
of all the homework I have waiting for me.
Our first segment is a two mile run at moderate pace.
I walk toward the regular starting line, but Griffin has other
ideas.
“Why don’t we run a different course today?”
I eye him suspiciously. Certain he has something underhanded
up his sleeve—even if he’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt—I want to
argue, but honestly it will be a relief to see anything other than that
shrubby course.
“Fine,” I relent. “But if you try to pull anything I’m telling Coach
Lenny about the shoelaces.”
He just rolls his eyes at me and says, “Come on.”
Griffin heads out of the stadium and circles around to the right.
Not wanting to follow behind him like a second-place dog I settle
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