He’s talking on the phone while pacing behind his desk, and he waves me in. I plop down in the brown chair and immediately smell Irish Spring and leather. The owner of the Gazette, he’s fiftyish and stout with a head full of graying dirty blond hair that brushes his blue button-up.
There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes as he clicks off his call, comes around his desk, and sits on the edge. I straighten my gray pencil skirt and cross my legs. I didn’t have a lot of professional clothing when I got the internship, but I did buy a few pieces from a secondhand store downtown. My one rebellion is my black Doc Martens with red roses embroidered on the sides. They’re a little loud, true, but a girl needs personal flair.
“How’s your day?” His voice rumbles.
“Column is sent. Marriage announcements and obituaries are done.”
He grins. “Bored out of your head, aren’t you?”
True. I love to write fiction stories, the more fantastical the better, but that isn’t what the Gazette wants. My undergrad degree is in creative writing. Journalism for grad school was the option to ensure I have a paycheck, and I do enjoy talking to people. “Got a call this morning about a lady who turned a hundred and five. It’s rather mundane, but she’s seen a lot of history in Magnolia—”
“Gotta wait on that. I need you on special assignment for the next few weeks. You can hang on to the column, but I’m going to put Traci on anything local. Pass the birthday story to her. What do you know about football at Waylon?”
Oh. Crap. “There’s a kicker and a band at halftime?”
He grimaces. “I see. In case you’ve been living under a rock, the Tigers won a national championship this past January and put our town on the map. Some of the guys on the team are pretty interesting, different backgrounds, and you might find an angle there. The starting quarterback is Dillon McQueen, a rich kid who attended Menton Academy, one of the best football prep schools in the South…” He keeps listing players, but my brain has stopped on Dillon’s name.
I hope I never see you again.
Yet, before that, he asked to see me again.
He already has Charlie’s Angels—so why me?
My hands tap the chair. After he left, I looked him up online, scrolling through his Insta. I saw pics of him with girls, and more girls, wearing that dazzling smile, his muscles bulked up like he works out twenty-four seven. The man has half a million followers and countless I <3 Dillon 4EVR comments. Verdict? He’s as shallow as a rain puddle. A jock with rocks for brains.
I interrupt Warren. “Wouldn’t George want this assignment? He’s the sports guy.”
“George and his partner just adopted a baby. He’s got no interest in hanging around a bunch of rowdy football players.” He raises an eyebrow.
In other words, I’m the intern who does whatever…
I wince, recalling Bambi reciting football stats. “I’m the least athletic person I know. Maybe Traci—”
“I asked her and she said no.”
So. I’m the third choice. He must be desperate.
“I spend a lot of time with my sister. She’s young and needs guidance.”
“And the Gazette needs you to say yes.”
I exhale, reminding myself that I’ll need his recommendation when I graduate in May. “Right.”
He leans in. “ESPN is predicting the Tigers won’t be able to live up to last season, and it’s created some heat with the athletic director. You know him, right?”
No.
“We’re good friends, so don’t screw up, be a professional, and write solid.”
I always do.
“I’d like you to go to the home games, give them a homespun, authentic appeal. Get people excited.”
“I’m so excited,” I deadpan.
It isn’t lost on him. He smirks. “Buy some football books. You’re smart, Serena. You’ll figure it out. These are our boys, and we need to light a fire under the fans.” He pauses. “Do an article about McQueen, maybe midseason.”
Anyone but him!
He stares at me, as if reading my expression. His bushy brows lower like he’s daring me to utter another excuse.
“When do I start?”
He smiles. “The first game is this weekend at home. After that, another home game, and then LSU, away. I want you at that one. LSU is ranked high in the polls and we’ve lost at their stadium several times. Should be a tight game. You like Louisiana?”
“Never been,” I say faintly. Who has time or money for vacations with bills I can’t pay…
He hands me an address on a sticky note. “Here’s the location of the stadium.”
I grimace. “I’ve been to a game—although the last time was probably a few years ago.”
He pauses, concern appearing on his face. “Are you doing okay, you know, after everything that happened…”
I know what he’s asking. Not a lot of people know about my short marriage to Vane. We kept it low-key, but Warren knows Nana, and Nana has a big mouth. There’s no doubt he got the sordid details.
My hands pleat the material of my skirt. “I’m great.”
“Good. How’s he doing? Nancy mentioned he…”
I sigh. “Last I heard Four Dragons was opening for One Republic, so I assume he’s awesome.” I push up a smile.
“You’re giving me your fake smile and it’s creepy.”
“Actually, forcing yourself to smile can boost your mood. It tricks your body into releasing chemicals to your brain.”
He nods, waving his hands at me, already done with the personal questions. “Good. There’s someone better out there for you. You’re young.” He hands me a business card. “Here’s the contact for the media person for the Tigers. He can get you situated with a press card and give you an itinerary. Of course, you need to see the team—they have an afternoon practice today if you want to pop in.” He pauses. “Are you excited? Really?” He gives me a hopeful smile.
Just thrilled to bits. I give him the creepy smile.
I’m about to approach a man who clearly said he never wanted to see me again. An image of him spins around in my head, those tight leather pants, the steel six-pack under his shirt. Unbidden, another memory stirs inside me, of a long ago forbidden kiss. I shut it down hard.
“You bet.”
It’s two miles from the Gazette to the stadium, not that far considering how much I walk, although when I exercise, I usually wear sneakers. I send up a silent prayer for my car, which is still stuck at the Piggly Wiggly. I know no one will steal it; it’s too ugly. I called the manager of the Pig the morning after it wouldn’t start, and she assured me I could let it sit in the parking lot until I can pay for a tow or get my brother out there to take a look at it.
By the time I’ve made my way through the winding hills of campus to the stadium, my white silk shell clings to my skin and my face is damp from sweat.
Waylon University Tigers is painted in bright orange at the south end entrance. I brush my fingers over the paw print mural. Superstition says you can’t enter without touching it, and if you don’t, it brings bad luck to the team. I may not have attended many games, but I’m willing. I touch the paw. If this is my new assignment, I’m going to tackle it with my usual excellent work ethic.
After getting lost for several minutes, bemused by the number of stairwells and halls, I find a directory and take the elevator to the offices upstairs. I meet the media director, get my press pass, the itinerary, a list of players’ and coaches’ names, and a bundle of promotional materials, as well as a map of the stadium. An hour later, I take the elevator down and wince at my reflection in the mirrored walls. At least I’ve worn my contacts today. I whip out my sunglasses and push them on my face, hoping it makes me a little incognito in case I run into him.
I step out of one of the upper-level tunnels. The heat may have diminished slightly, but the humidity feels thick inside a facility that seats over a hundred thousand fans. Considering the student enrollment of Waylon is smaller compar
ed to other SEC schools, the stadium is a testament to how important football is here. Brightly colored championship banners dance in the wind, and sky rooms with tinted windows sit high in the air, arching out over the lower decks.
“You know nothing about football,” I mutter to myself. I’ll need to find a way to relate, and to do that, I’ll need to get closer. I head down the stairs to the seats near the sidelines on the fifty-yard line. The field already has players on it, most of them running drills and working in small groups.
A tall guy in a dress shirt and slacks is already in a seat with his laptop out as I approach. I figure he might be press and head that way. He’s handsome with sandy-colored hair and fashionable square-cut black glasses. His eyes flare when he looks up and sees me. “Serena?”
I rack my brain then smile broadly. “Neil? Hey!” I’m used to seeing him in casual attire, mostly jeans and Waylon basketball shirts.
He laughs. “You didn’t know who I was! How long since we had that horrible class together?”
“Dr. Cartwright,” I say when he reaches over to sweep me up in a hug. “Sophomore year. I loved that class! Having to write down our secret thoughts was awesome.”
He laughs. “Until he calls on you and your comment is This professor needs to get laid and you have to read it aloud.”
I sit next to him. “He didn’t like you much after that. He called on me once and my comment was Cereal is soup. We debated for ten minutes.”
“It isn’t,” he says with a smirk.
“I have a valid point. You eat both with a spoon. You crush crackers in soup, and cereal is made from grains. Maybe soup is just warm cereal. It’s a fine line. Admit it.”
He laughs, his gaze warm. “Sure.”
I pull out my ponytail and redo it, arranging it in a messy knot. My hair develops a life of its own in the humidity, but Nana says it’s my best attribute. The length is mid-back and it’s thick, the color a rich brown with natural copper glints. I add the blonde highlights on my own. Once upon a time, I used to get it done at the salon, but that was one of the first things to go after my parents died.
“So you’re going to be traveling with the team?” he asks.
“Just LSU. You?”
“I go to them all. I started following the Tigers last year at the sports desk for WBBJ Memphis. I’m aiming for the head sports position in a few years. You ever think about a career in front of the camera?”
“I’m just a writer.” My dream is to write for a magazine or maybe publish my own collection of short stories and essays.
He leans back, his torso trim, his chest taut inside his button-up shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, showing toned, roped forearms. He smiles and straightens his glasses, a small dimple popping out on his cheek. He’s a studious hottie.
He played basketball for Waylon, and we saw each other frequently at parties, even had coffee a few times. But, then came Vane, my grades went to hell, and I lost touch with most people.
His brow arches. “You’re more fun than George, that’s for sure. We’ll be spending a lot of weekends together,” he muses as a wry grin flashes across his face. “I contemplated asking you out, you know, but it never was quite right. Either I was seeing someone or you were.”
“Timing is everything,” I say.
He gives me a crooked smile.
A tingle dances over me, as if someone has stroked the curve of my face, and I turn away from Neil to glance out at the field, sucking in my breath when I see a player on the sidelines.
Facing me, he’s looking up into the stands, his shielded gaze pinning me like a butterfly. His helmet is on, shoulders impossibly broad, muscled legs in white football pants. The rest of the team moves around him, but he doesn’t flinch. Even though I can’t see his eyes, I feel them, digging into my skin.
“Who’s number ten, Neil?” I ask softly.
“Can’t be a decent sports reporter if you don’t know who the players are.”
“Haven’t had the time,” I murmur, feeling frozen, my attention locked on the man on the field.
“Dillon McQueen,” he replies, leaning over to brace his arms on the seats in front of us. “Quarterback—for now. A good, solid player, but his backup has a prettier pass. There’s talk of him losing his starting position to the freshman. You know him? He’s staring.”
“We’ve met.”
Dillon whips off his helmet, his honey brown hair cascading around those chiseled cheekbones, accentuating the black smudges under his eyes. Yards between us, but I feel his scrutiny, his intensity—his dislike?
He flicks his gaze to Neil then back to me. His lips curl up in a smirk as he tucks his helmet under his arm.
I stare back, refusing to be the one who breaks eye contact first.
I recall him slamming my door as he left. I peeked out my window and watched him walk down my steps, his shoulders stiff and tense. He stopped at the bottom of my driveway and turned around to look back up at my place. I quickly ducked out of his view. I went to bed thinking about him, about the turbulent look in his gaze as we stared at each other.
A wiry player a few inches shorter than Dillon runs over and calls his name, and finally Dillon turns his back and takes off down the field.
8
Later, I’ve wrapped up some research about Dillon on my laptop and look up to see that practice has ended. All I gleaned about him was a breakdown of his early career, when he not only played backup quarterback but was also a solid running back. He sustained a wrist injury last year but recovered, and he scored a touchdown in the national championship game in January.
Neil has ventured down to the field to talk to the offensive coach, and the sun has started a slow descent in the sky. I grab my laptop, stuff it in my leather bag, and hoist it over my shoulder, already dreading the walk home. Standing, I cry out at the sting of pain where the leather has rubbed the side of my foot. It hurts like the devil. I plop back down in a seat, unlace my boots, and frown at the raw skin. “Dammit,” I mutter. I remembered to pack my sneakers earlier in the week but was running late today.
“Problems?” a deep voice says, and I whip my head around.
And there he is, standing at the end of the row, freshly showered with damp hair, wearing a white Tigers shirt, low-slung designer jeans, and orange Converse. He looks good enough to lick from head to toe—
Nope.
I stick my feet back in my boots quickly. “Nothing serious.”
He steps up to the section and walks toward me as his hand pushes his messy hair to the side. “Blisters?”
I dip my head. “Meh, they rarely need medical attention. Fact: the feet are particularly prone to them.”
“You’re just a regular walking, talking Wikipedia.” He’s reached me and hovers there, hands on his hips. Why does he have to be so dang tall? And his hands…they are huge! I mean, not weirdly so, but proportionally. My body is drawn to other things as well, the way the sun highlights the gold in his hair, the fullness of his lips. They’re luscious, puffy clouds! It’s just wrong.
I stand up. “It’s worse when I’m nervous.”
“I’ll file that away.”
“Do that. Now, if you’ll move and let me pass, I need to be going.” No way am I going to ask him if he’d be open to talking to me, not when I look like something the cat dragged in off the street.
He checks out my press pass. “You’re covering the team?”
“It appears so,” I say dryly.
“That’s just great,” he replies just as dryly. “I’ll have to see your face.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Oh, the fun we’ll have, Serena…”
“Bring it. I’m so excited I can’t stand it.”
“I can tell. You’re frowning. Lighten up.” He smiles, a perfect flash of white, and I feel the effect of it like a slap in the face. Why does he have to be hot AF?
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“When I fell from heaven?”
“You don’t think much of me, do you? I meant your blisters.”
I clear my throat, my face warming. “No, I’m fine.” Screw this. If he won’t move, I’ll just go the long way around. I pivot and stalk off in the opposite direction, sucking in a breath at the extra steps I’ll need to take to get to the exit. Bolts of pain dance through my feet and I steel myself, yet a hiss comes out. I ease down in a seat and take a fortifying breath. I’d walk home barefooted if I could, but… Obviously, I need to call Nana. Frustration bubbles. Twenty-four and I need to call my grandmother…
“Really hurts, huh?”
I exhale. “Yeah.”
Leaning down, he takes my elbow. “Come on. I’ll get you some bandages.” He pauses, inhaling a deep breath. “Mmmm, cherries. Is that your shampoo?”
“Like it?”
“Hate it.”
“Not surprised.” I move to pull away—
“You’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met,” he declares as he jumps up to the row behind and then hops back down in front of me. It happens so fast I can barely track him. “You asked for it.” He bends down and picks me straight up until my body is pressed against him, my legs dangling. He smells like vanilla, again, and I barely keep myself from pressing my nose to his chest. It smells divine. Ridiculous!
My arms flail. “Dillon, this is crazy. Put me down!”
A huff comes from him as he hitches me up and swings me around until I’m lying in his arms like a bride, my cheek pressed against his stupid broad chest.
“If you wiggle, I might drop you. You’re heavier than I thought.”
Ah! The nerve… “You can’t just throw me around like a sack of potatoes!” I swing my hand and my bag gains more momentum than I anticipated, smacking him in the shoulder.
“You can’t walk! I’m trying to help you.” He stomps down the aisle and into the darkness of the hallways that lead to the tunnels.
“If I wanted your help, I would have said so.”
“You’re in pain,” he growls, and I shiver at the tingles that go down my spine.
I Promise You Page 7