A sigh comes from me. Sawyer has thrown down the challenge, and I’ve accepted just to shut him up, but I have no intention of wooing her.
I’m not interested in you like that. Boom. Message received.
Maybe we can be friends?
But… I’m not unaware that her eyes linger on me. I see the pulse in her throat that beats faster than normal. There is something there. The question is, what do I want to do about it?
Her number has been in my phone for two days, and last night I almost called her, the urge eating at me like crazy as Sawyer and I played video games. Instead, I took a cold shower and went to bed. Frustration swirls, part of me wanting to knock on her door and see if she’s home, the other part ready to rip my hair out to get her off my mind. And last night’s dream? Her naked in my bed, hips rolling on top of me, her hair tumbling down her back—
I huff out a long breath.
Sinclair mimics me, doing his own stretches, eyeing me as he touches his toes. “My hamstrings are killing me,” he moans. “Let’s call it a day.”
Tearing my eyes away from Serena’s place, I look over at him. “When you figure out that football isn’t just about you, we can run on a treadmill.”
He snorts—as much as he can while trying to regulate his breathing. “You think being older makes you wiser? I went to school with rich pricks like you who think the world owes them.”
I click my tongue. The world hasn’t been kind to me. Sure, it may look like that from the outside, but… “You got siblings, Sinclair? Family?”
“Two younger sisters and my mom. My dad split.”
At least we have that in common, yet he has family who needs him. No one needs me. Once my brother did, but he died. My dad did, but he left. My mom never needed me, period.
I never talk about Myles, but with Serena I had.
I can dive from here, Dillon, just like you…
My head spins with images of my brother, his small body a direct contrast to my bigger size. Four years younger than me, we looked nothing alike, me the athlete, him the intellectual who’d rather hold a book than a football. Barely thirteen, and all he wanted was to hang out with me. I should have watched him better, should have stopped him from jumping off that cliff into the water below.
“You?”
It’s the first time he’s asked me about myself, and I start, coming back to the present. “My cousin Mary attends Waylon, but we’re not close. My mom travels a lot. My dad moved back to Malibu and got remarried. My bio dad died in a private plane crash with my grandparents when I was a month old.” It’s as if my real dad never existed. All I have are photos of him, a tall dark-haired man with my eyes. He was an only child so there’s no connection to that side of my family. Wes McQueen adopted me when he married my mom two years later, and he’s the only father I’ve ever known.
He blinks. “That sucks. My mom is tuned in to every game. She can’t afford to fly in from Florida, but I’m getting her tickets when we play the Gators. She’ll be there wearing my jersey. You should see her twerk when I score. She’s badass.”
My chest pangs. My dad didn’t come to any games last year because of his new family. Mom didn’t either.
“Plan on going out early for the draft?” I ask, needing to change the topic.
“I have to look out for myself.”
“Yeah? I’m here for my team. Those guys have been my rock, my family for three years. Ryker could have been drafted early but chose to stay and grow stronger.”
“Really tired of hearing about your friendship with Ryker and how great the team was before I came.”
I scoff. “Do you know what the difference is between a thermostat and a thermometer?”
He rolls his eyes. “Lessons with Dillon. You are so fucking boring.”
I ignore that. “A thermostat sets the temperature, decides the tone for the room, for the team. A thermometer simply records the temperature of a space, nothing more. It takes more than skill to be a quarterback. A thermostat is a confident voice, a leader who isn’t only thinking about how good he looks. Also, you can’t read a blitz for shit.”
“Then why aren’t we looking at game tape to figure it out?”
“I like seeing you puke, rookie.” I take off in a run and he jogs up next to me, edging ahead. I push myself, my chest burning as I pump my arms and pass him. “Try to keep up.”
He calls out a juicy curse and attempts to run ahead. Sure, he manages it for about twenty seconds—until my longer legs and better conditioning leave him in the dust.
By the time the game rolls around the next day, I’m wound up as I take the field against Auburn with my offense. Unlike us, most of their older guys have returned, and it’s a seasoned team we’ll be facing.
It’s a balmy September afternoon when I snap the first play then throw to Sawyer, and he dodges the defensive lineman to get our first down. Inch by inch, we move the ball against a beefy team, and everything flows like silk, every pass tight and sure. By the end of the first quarter, we’re fourteen points ahead, and by halftime, when they still haven’t scored, we celebrate as we walk back to the locker room.
“Badass game, McQueen,” one of the coaches calls to me, patting me on my pads.
“Way to read the defense,” Alvarez says with a rare smile.
When we come out of the tunnel for the second half, my eyes go up to the press section near the fifty-yard line. Serena is there, sitting next to the guy from WBBJ. She’s laughing at something he’s saying, her full lips curved up in a smile. My throat tightens. Why can’t I say the right things in front of her? All the way back to the bonfire, I acted like an ass, assuming she’d be interested in me.
As if she feels my gaze, her head turns and our eyes cling, that familiar humming starting up in my chest.
“Yo! Let’s kick Auburn out of our stadium,” Sawyer calls as he runs up and slaps my ass.
Yeah, let’s. I pull my eyes off Serena and imagine Myles in the stands cheering me on, giving me his wide grin as he waves a foam hand. I gaze up at the blue sky. “This one’s for you, bro.” I kiss the tops of my hands.
This is going to be my year to shine. It has to be. Football is all I have left.
10
I send a wave to Neil from my balcony at the top of the stairs before I head inside my apartment. We had dinner after the game with a few other reporters and then he gave me a ride home. Just as I shut the door, my phone pings with a text from an unknown number.
Hey. I saw Bigfoot earlier. He was wearing an Auburn football shirt and tried to mow me down. Had more hair than a grizzly.
Dillon. Has to be.
Hey yourself, I reply as I smile. Congrats on the first win of your senior year.
Thx. I saw you there. Want to text me questions for your story?
Text? Not really. Using my phone, I FaceTime him two times before he picks up.
He’s in a bar, probably Cadillac’s, the loud murmur of voices echoing through the phone. He looks freshly showered, his diamond-cut jawline filling up my screen. He’s walking through a throng of people, several of them slapping him on the back. “Serena, hey,” he says.
I plop down on my bed, scooting my pillows up and leaning back as I hold the phone up. “You’re celebrating your win.”
He glances away again as someone squeals his name—a girl I can’t see. “Yeah. Sorry, I can’t really talk in here. I just thought, you know, if you text me the questions, I’ll reply to them later.”
Mortification washes over me, and I try to keep my face from showing it. Be cool, be cool. God, why did I FaceTime him when he specifically asked for me to text him? Of course he’s out with his buddies, no doubt about to pick some lucky girl to take home.
Ashley pops up on the screen, her red hair piled in an elaborate chignon, her lips a hot pink. “Come on, let’s do some shots.”
“Give me a minute.” He eases away and steps into a less crowded hallway. “Are you in bed?”
“Obviously.” I g
rab a couple of Oreos from my nightstand and munch on one. Nana picked them up at Walmart earlier this week.
“It’s Saturday—don’t you ever go out?”
“I’m not really a party girl.” I used to hang out in bars with Vane and his crew all the time, most of them out of town. I haven’t been to Caddy’s in years.
His eyes gleam as I pick up another cookie. “You need to lick the cream now. I promise, it’s the way to eat it.”
“Like this?” I manage to ease the wafers apart with one hand and run my tongue over the white center, closing my eyes as I lick my lips. “Mmmm, you’re right. So good.”
“You almost make me forget I don’t like you.”
An unexpected laugh comes from me. “Will any girl do, Dillon?”
“Not lately.”
“Is the big bad football player having a dry spell?”
“You have no idea. It’s been months—”
A girl comes around the corner from behind him, cutting him off as she screams his name and jumps on his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. The phone falls and the camera lens spins then goes black as it slaps the floor. I hear Dillon’s muffled voice, the laughter in it. After a few moments, his face appears again and he smirks at me ruefully. “It’s crazy in here.”
I can see that.
She saunters off, but she’s behind him in the camera, looking over her shoulder and running her eyes over him.
“Looks like you have plenty to pick from tonight.” I toss my cookie on the bed, too annoyed to eat it.
“Maybe I want this particular one, but she’s giving me trouble.”
“Who is she, Dimitri?”
A slow smile curls his lips. It’s real and genuine—and I melt. “You love to play games, don’t you?”
“Dillon, come on!” comes Ashley’s sugary voice.
“Carry on without me. This call is important,” he tells her in a muffled voice off-screen before looking back at me. “Sorry. How are your feet?”
“Better.”
“You have”—his lips quirk—“nice feet. I liked your chipped pink polish.”
“I dig capes, you like podiatry.”
He turns up a beer and takes a sip.
“Fat Tire, I see.”
“Every time I drink one, I see you at the Pig. Fierce.”
“I made an impression.”
He stares at me, a deep look, and it feels as if he’s in the room with me. “Oh, yeah. First impressions.” He shakes his head. “Ever hear of the 7-11 rule?”
“No.”
“People make seven decisions about a person in the first eleven seconds of seeing them.”
I gasp. “Are you spouting random facts?”
“Hush. Within seconds, we make decisions about sexual orientation, economic status, cultural beliefs, religion, desirability, kinks, level of intelligence—what are you doing?”
Propping my phone on my knees, I wave my notebook and pen at him. “Writing this down. Go on, tell me what you assumed from your first meeting with me.”
He huffs out a husky laugh. “You’re different. You don’t care who I am. You give it back as good as I give, and most girls don’t. What was your impression of me?”
“A pigskin-toting Casanova.”
And the very first time I ever saw him? Well, I thought the same…
“You hate me.” He smiles.
“Who can hate the best lacrosse player at Waylon? You’re so good-looking you should be in movies—the cashier’s words, not mine.” He chuckles and I smile at how easy it is to talk to him, at the way he can find humor in himself.
“I need someone like you to keep me in line. Reminds me I’m just a regular guy,” he murmurs, staring at me, his gaze warm. “Want to get out of your place and join me?” he says. “I’ll wait for you outside in the parking lot.”
My mind goes back to watching him perform on the field. He’s a warrior, a big majestic fighter. I sat in my seat and watched him far more than was professional. Temptation unfurls inside me, yearning to see those broad shoulders in person… “I shouldn’t.”
“You know what I’m thinking right now?” His voice deepens.
I resist the urge to fan myself. “What?”
“About that rapid pulse I see in your throat. Hmmm?”
I place my hand over my throat as he holds my gaze. He walks through the crowd and steps outside the back door of Cadillac’s. The background noise is quieter, but I still hear the strum of music from the speakers in the bar.
I stifle a groan. The truth is, Dillon is the hottest freaking man alive, and when he gets close, I’m a firework waiting to be lit. I denied it at the Pig, but it’s always been there, just waiting to blow up.
“Know what I’m thinking?” I ask.
“That I’m irresistible—”
“Ha. I’m thinking you’d have a hard time keeping up with me.” Yeah. I just said that.
“I’m hard, alright.” He lowers his gaze, his top teeth tugging at his bottom lip.
I burst out laughing. “And people say romance is dead!”
He levels me with his searching turquoise gaze. “You said you weren’t interested. Is that true?” An anxious expression flits over his face as he frowns. “I don’t want to bother you or say suggestive things if, uh, if you think I’m terrible. I’ll, um, rein it in…” His words peter out as his eyes shut briefly. “I suck at this. Sometimes, I have no filter. Pretend we’re in middle school. For real, all jokes aside. Do you like me, you know, as a person? Check yes or no.” He squints at me, as if dreading the answer.
He is irresistible.
“I check yes.” I feel like a twelve-year-old talking to the popular guy.
He exhales. “Thank you, Jesus. Hop in your car and come have a drink with me.”
I swallow. Why not take him up on that offer—only I don’t have a car.
He looks away briefly. “Hey, they’re playing your song inside.”
“What?”
“Listen. ‘Sweet Serena’…it’s a sign.”
I hear the slow beat of the Four Dragons hit, the guitar strumming the angsty ballad.
* * *
Teardrops on my hands,
Red lips and an angelic face,
Come on and give me a twirl,
How do I get the girl?
Sweet, sweet Serena…
* * *
Teardrops on my guitar,
It’s worth fighting for,
Sand turned to pearls,
How do I keep the girl?
Sweet, sweet Serena…
* * *
Teardrops on my bed,
Whiskey bottles and broken stilettos,
Long lashes that curl,
How did I lose the girl?
Sweet, sweet Serena…
* * *
Teardrops on my heart,
Stumbling through goodbye,
Making me crack, baby,
How do I get you back?
Sweet, sweet Serena…
* * *
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, holding the phone closer, the blue-green of his gaze searching mine.
Everything. Bad memories. Old heartaches. Loneliness wraps around me like a vise, and a long exhalation comes from my chest.
It is a sign—a bad one.
“Nothing.” I clear my throat and rush my words before I change my mind. “I need to go. If I didn’t say thank you for the first aid this week, thank you so much. Have fun tonight. You had a great game. I’ll text you questions soon. Bye.”
“Serena. Wait a minute—”
I click my cell off and throw it on the bed, lying back on my pillows and staring up at the ceiling fan. My chest feels heavy as my mind flips to Dillon and then Vane, comparing how similar they are, both hot, talented guys with women begging to be with them. I’d be a fool to get sucked into Dillon’s world. I refuse to repeat past mistakes.
But… What’s wrong with a little tango in the sheets? Or, as Nana says, making th
e bam-bam in the ham?
Without getting my heart involved?
There’s no doubt he’s open to that. I get the sense that’s the way he operates, easy come, easy go.
Dillon’s emotional eyes appear into my head, the pain and sadness in him from the loss of his brother, and I groan and throw my hand over my face. There’s no way I can tango with him. He’s exactly my type: sexy as hell with issues.
Must. Stop. Thinking. About. Him.
11
The next morning when I walk over to the house where Nana and my sister Romy live, there’s a lanky teenage boy crawling out of the top-story window. His bleached hair sticks straight up, there are piercings in both of his eyebrows, and his chest is bare. Probably left his shirt behind. Here we go again.
He tiptoes over the roof and jumps to the big oak tree in the front yard. There’s a crack as he lands, the limb swaying under his weight. Would serve him right if it broke.
I stand under the tree and wait, tapping my foot as he jumps to another branch and slithers down the tree, landing with a thump at the bottom. There are red scratches on his chest from the twigs and limbs.
“Good morning,” I drawl. “Don’t you think it would be easier to use the front door? Oh, wait—you can’t, because you spent the night with my baby sister!” My voice rises at the end, my hands planted on my hips.
He was about to dash down the street but flips around to face me, eyes flaring. “Uhhhhhh…”
“Leave him alone, Serena! I’m seventeen, for fuck’s sake!” I hear my hellcat of a sister call from the window, probably watching to see if he made a clean getaway.
“Language! I told you about letting boys in your room! Do you want me to nail your window shut?” I yell back, not taking my eyes off Tree Boy. “You,” I say in a low voice. “Don’t you dare move. We’re gonna talk.”
His mouth flaps open then he looks up at Romy, who sends him a shrug. Her wavy auburn hair is mussed, and my eyes narrow at the hickey on her neck.
I Promise You Page 9