“What the hell, McQueen? Why are you forcing the ball downfield? We want first downs, not touchdowns. Play my game, not yours.”
Alright, alright. “Yes, sir.”
The crowd erupts as LSU scores on our defense on a trick play.
Our offense takes a nosedive. Not one Waylon player can catch my passes, and running the ball is getting us nowhere. It’s third and long when I call a short, safe pass. The ball snaps and the LSU defenders blitz me. A hand grabs my jersey from behind and yanks me down. I double over backward and slam into the ground.
“I’ll be here all day. All day!” the LSU player yells in my face.
“You alright? You landed on your leg,” Sawyer says as we approach the sideline.
He’s right, and my knee hurts with each step I take, but a player knows the difference between being injured and hurt. I’m fine.
Play by play, I pace the sidelines as our defense starts to struggle. Tension fills the stadium as LSU marches down the field. We grow tight-lipped on the bench, and shoulders sag as I try to rouse them, popping helmets and slapping backs.
LSU scores another touchdown.
Sawyer grimaces. “Our turn, man. Let’s do this.”
I lead the offense to the line and LSU shifts, switching and adjusting fast. I inhale a deep breath, easing it out through my mouth guard.
“Hike!”
The right defensive end from LSU beats my lineman and, shoves him into my face. Rolling out behind him, I see clear grass and run for the first down, but a hit from behind makes me stumble. Spinning out of the tackle, I grunt as I’m hit by a linebacker from the opposite side and the ball slips out of my hand. It floats in the air for what seems like eternity before another LSU player catches it at a full run.
A defender crashes on top of me. Then another. The crowd roars and I close my eyes. Touchdown. I’ve fumbled the ball and they’ve scored to tie the game.
“Too bad Ryker ain’t here. He made it more fun,” says the LSU lineman as he gives my leg a kick the refs don’t see. Eighty-four. Douche.
“McQueen—my fault, man,” says my offensive lineman. He hauls me up. “He beat me. Won’t happen again.”
I give him a pat and take a step toward the sideline. My knee twinges as I put weight on it, testing it. Nothing broken or sprained, but I have to limp off the field.
Trainers run up, help me to the bench, and push and pull on my knee.
“Just took a knock,” I insist.
Coach Alvarez comes over and pulls off his headset. He doesn’t look at me, but at the trainer.
“How is he?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
The trainer nods. “He’s okay. Nothing’s torn. He may have strained some ligaments. We should put some weight on it before he goes back in.”
I stand and pace the sideline. “No. I had worse in prep school.”
“Keep checking him out. We’ll go with Sinclair,” Coach says into his headset and turns away.
What the…
I am fine!
No!
“Coach, I’m good!” I protest.
He lets out a gusty exhalation. “So you say. Walk it off for a few plays and we’ll let Sinclair take a shot.”
He leaves and I hunch over, pretending to test my knee as I suck air in.
This isn’t happening.
Sinclair already has his helmet on, and I grab him by his jersey.
“Hands off, Grandpa.”
“Don’t be a little shit for five minutes!”
His eyes widen.
My jaw pops. Emotion claws at my throat, disappointment in myself, that I’m not enough for this team. “Watch that line. They’re changing directions and pushing our own guys in my face. They’re fast, better than the last teams we played. Watch DeMarco—eighty-four. He plays dirty.”
His throat bobs. “Alright.”
“You nervous?”
He nods and turns to go, and I snag his sleeve. “Remember the basics. Don’t be a superstar. Play safe. Take control of your men and play—”
“Nothing fancy. Got it.”
“You’re learning.” I slap his helmet. “Go. Score. Win.”
The trainers have me running around the sidelines to keep my body ready to go, and my chest burns to get out there. By the time the clock has run down to the fourth quarter, my eyes keep darting to Coach. I’m here, I’m ready.
The clock is ticking down to three minutes when LSU scores a field goal, and I groan. 21 to 24. I tug at my hair. We can’t lose!
My eyes flit up to the stands where Serena sits with the press. She’s bent over her seat, her face stark and eyes wide. Our eyes meet for a moment and she holds her hands up in a praying motion. Yeah. I swallow thickly.
At a minute left, Coach calls a time out. My trainer pulls him aside and gives an update on my situation. “He’s good.” I hear, and Coach motions for me to come over.
“I’m pumped,” I say. “Put me in.”
“No,” he tells me quietly. “I make decisions for the team. I’m going with Sinclair. You’ve played a good game, but just take a breather.”
A breather?
“I can win.”
He ignores me and calls the team over. “McQueen’s knee is still a problem. Sinclair’s going in for the final drive and overtime if we need it.”
Sawyer and Troy and a few others give me questioning looks, but I shake my head. I’m not going to disrespect Coach. He’s letting me save face by saying I’m injured. He wants Sinclair.
I rouse the offense and yell, “We came to LSU to beat them. Their defense is kicking you in the teeth. Show them who we are!”
The team replies in unison as they run out onto the field.
I’m pacing the sidelines, pissed at Coach, angry with myself, and anxious that Sinclair isn’t going to score. They’re stuffing the run at every turn, and his passes are too short. He’s not close enough for a field goal.
I clutch my helmet as the seconds pass. Ten, nine, eight—
The snap comes and Sinclair drops back; he throws a tight spiral down the left side to Sawyer. Impossible to catch—but he does, jumping up and snatching it out of the air. He runs like a fucking gazelle.
Touchdown.
I yell in relief. Exhilaration erupts from our side as we rush the field. When I see Sinclair getting Gatorade dumped on him, part of me wants to punch him for taking what was mine. It feels like a lead weight in my stomach. But, we won. I can’t deny that. Grinding my teeth, I battle down my insecurities and give him his due.
20
The flight home is quiet. I can’t see Dillon from where I sit, but I remember his face when I boarded the plane. Hard like granite, inscrutable, yet he flashed a smile if anyone looked. He’s pretending he isn’t reeling from the game, but I sense he is. Our eyes met as I walked by him, me trying to see underneath. He took my hand, brushing his thumb over the top, but dropped the clasp when he saw the Don’t do that on my face. Neil was right behind me, and the last thing I want is more questions about my love life.
We land at four, and by the time I get to my car, I’m dragging. I’m dressed in gray joggers and Converse, dreaming about a long nap. Maybe Nana has something left over from brunch.
I halt at my window, grimacing at my hair, which is still hanging down in my face though I yearn to put it up in a ponytail. “That’s what you get for letting him mark you,” I mutter under my breath to my Highlander as I click the fob.
“Does the car ever answer back?”
I turn around. “In my head.”
Dillon has stopped at my car. He tosses his duffle over his arm as Sawyer and Troy do a wave and head to the Escalade.
“Thank you for Friday. I needed that,” he says gruffly once they’re out of earshot. Heat fires in his irises as if remembering our night, and I barely hold myself back from launching my body at him, wrapping my legs around his waist, and kissing him. I want to soothe that helpless look he’s been wearing since the end of the game.
But… Tha
nk you?
Okay, hook-up—it’s confirmed. I can deal. It’s what I wanted!
I hum a response and open the back door, throwing in my overnight bag.
“Serena…” A hesitant looks flashes over his face. He heaves out a breath, and before he can say anything else about what happened between us, I jump in.
“How’s your knee?”
His face clouds and he looks away. “Fine. I choked out there. I’m just not as good as Ryker.”
“From what I’ve read, he’s a lot to live up to.”
“I’m not him. I’ve tried, I have, but…” He rakes a hand through his hair and vulnerability flashes on his face.
“Owen isn’t going to steal your senior year.” At the press conference after the game, Coach Alvarez announced Dillon’s knee would be fine. “Coach said you’d start next week.”
“Trust me, he can change his mind at any moment, just like everyone else.”
“Like your dad?”
“Yeah.” He rolls his neck, a contemplative expression on his face as he studies me. “So? What’s up with you?”
“Me?”
“You’ve got your guard up. Big walls, lots of armor. You ashamed of me?”
Ah, the dropped hand. “You’re Dillon McQueen, superstar. Please.”
“Which you care nothing about.” Worry tugs at his mouth. “Look, there’s something we should talk about before we go further—”
“I’m starving, man,” calls Sawyer as he leans against Dillon’s car.
Dillon holds up a hand—Wait a minute—then takes a step toward me. His hand takes mine, and just when I think he might pull me to him and kiss me, he settles for brushing his fingers over the pulse on my wrist.
My body melts. Damn him for these romantic quirks. They’re havoc on my heart.
“What should we talk about?”
Uneasiness flashes in his eyes and he flicks them to Sawyer, then back to me. “You free tomorrow night?”
“Romy needs me more since she made the hip hop team. Homework never ends. Plus, her practices run late, and she isn’t allowed to drive yet. She is seventeen, but she wrecked my car, and honestly, she needs more lessons before I trust her—”
He drops his hand. “I’ve been chasing you, Serena. You want this?”
I know what he means by this. Sex. Just sex.
I swallow at the fear that swirls in my stomach.
Can I do this without getting burned?
I take a breath. “Alright. I need monogamy while we hook up. I won’t be one of a string of girls. Once you get bored or I do, we’ll end it.”
He frowns and pulls back from me. “Not acceptable.”
Cement drops on my chest, and I grapple to find the right words. All I can push out is, “I see.”
He lets out a rough noise and looks up at the sky, back at me. “No, you don’t see.”
“Dillon…” My phone pings with a series of incoming texts then rings, and I snatch it out of my purse. “What?” I snap.
“Serena, baby, where are you? I’m at your place.” Vane.
I sputter, “What? You can’t just show up…” I dart my eyes to Dillon, tempering my tone. I turn to the side and lower my voice. “Don’t do this to me.”
“Give me five minutes, baby, please. That’s all I’m asking. You owe me a conversation,” he implores. “I gave you a no-contest divorce. I did what you wanted. I haven’t seen your face in eighteen months. Am I asking so much?”
I curse. Vane can be a dog with a bone, especially if he’s driven all the way from Memphis. Just rip the Band-Aid off and get it over with.
“Who is it?” Dillon asks, frowning.
I shake my head at him and tell Vane, “I’ll give you five minutes, but not at my house. Nana…”—might find the shotgun and shoot you—“won’t like it.”
“Alright,” he says softly, hope in his voice. “The park, the one with the big trees. You remember it?”
“Fine. Okay.” I click off.
“That was Vane,” Dillon says, and it’s not a question.
My eyes avoid his. “He wants to talk.”
“You still talk to him?” His tone is incredulous. “Fuck that.”
“Not by choice. He calls me a lot. I—we didn’t have closure, I guess.”
A deep breath rises in his chest, and he lets it out slowly. His jaw pops. “Let me go with you.”
“Dillon. No. I don’t want drama or you—”
“Punching him?”
I rear back. “No. It’s complicated. We have a history—”
“And you still love him.”
I frown. “Not like that. He won’t give up until he sees me. I know him. He’s been on tour and he…” My words trail off. There’s so much more I could say: We’ve been through hell together, I was with him for years, or that yeah, maybe I need to see him. “You don’t get it because you’ve never been with someone for a long time.”
Hurt flares in his eyes as a long breath leaves his chest. He scoffs. “Right. I’m too young to know how screwed up relationships can get. Doesn’t matter that my own parents couldn’t even stand to be in the same room together while I was growing up. Doesn’t matter that my mom flits from guy to guy, that my dad dumped me. No, that doesn’t count. I don’t know jack. You’re the only one who knows what it feels like to be hurt.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and takes a step away from me. “I’m a womanizer. I’m not good enough. Hell, you don’t even like football. You want to fuck me and move on.”
“Dillon, I didn’t word that right…” I search for more words, but I’m so unsure of where we stand. What are we?
He clearly said I want to fuck you at yoga.
How else am I supposed to take those words?
Last night was incredible, and yeah, I want him again—but it’s terrifying.
I went skydiving once. Jumping out of the plane was exhilarating, freefalling with the blue sky above and the green grass beneath. It felt like flying as I stared adventure straight in the eye, and it was breathtaking. Spending time with Dillon is like that, only instead of a smooth landing, I’m terrified I’m going to crash and burn.
“Dillon—”
“See you around,” he mutters.
Before I can say another word, he stalks away from me.
I push Dillon out of my head and focus on the meeting with Vane.
When I pull into the park, he’s already there, leaning against a red Ferrari. My gaze sweeps over him as I get out of my car. Wearing ripped jeans and a tight black distressed shirt, he looks like the rocker he is. His hair is longer, past his shoulders, the black curls sprinkled with copper highlights. There’s a new tattoo, a Day of the Dead skull, on his bicep.
Seeing his beauty is like a slap in the face, yet I know what’s underneath his pretty package.
I wait for the weak feeling that comes when I catch sight of him on TV or hear his music, but…
“Nice car,” I say lightly. Play this cool, Serena.
“Money is mighty fine.” He smiles as he straightens his lean frame and fast-walks to me. Before I can stop him, he gives me a hug. “Baby girl.” He buries his face in my hair. He still smells like pine trees and man. Then, he kisses me before I can turn my cheek, his lips soft. He laughs and gazes down at me with his velvet brown eyes. “Fuck, it’s good to see you.”
“Don’t do that,” I say, untangling myself from his arms.
“Alright, alright. My bad.” He takes my hand, pulling me over to a concrete table under the trees. “Remember this spot? You texted me to meet you here, then told me you were pregnant—”
“And you asked me to marry you.” I sit down, my legs fidgeting. We sat at this very table and talked for four hours that day. I loved him, but underneath I was unsure that he was as committed as I was. He held my hands and painted a glorious picture of us with a family. He told me how perfect it would be. He promised he’d be a good husband.
I believed him.
He drinks me in, amazement
on his face, and I shift around, feeling twitchy. He, of course, is relaxed and easy—because he’s gotten what he wants.
“How are you?” I ask.
He pushes hair out of his face. “I miss you like crazy. Every time I sing your song, I wanna cry, baby.”
“Vane…don’t…”
He shrugs, looking away from me. “Right. It’s been a hard year. The tour killed, but it’s a lot of work. Traveling, the schedule, the cramped bus with the guys… It was getting to me. I need to feel free, ya know?”
“Hmm.”
“We’ve got a new manager and a contract with Ecko. They’ve got big plans for us. The fame is cool, but I need space to work on new music. So, I’m back. For you.” His eyes come back to me. “You never gave me a chance to explain or see you, baby. You sent those divorce papers, and I signed them. I wronged you, I cut you deep, but what you saw, that girl—I didn’t even know who she was.”
Words I’ve heard before on the phone.
“That just makes it worse.” My words are flat. “She wasn’t the only one, right? All those pretty girls in the VIP room must have been tempting.”
He brushes at a skull ring on his finger, not meeting my eyes. “I was lonely, baby. It’s the lifestyle, Serena, but it won’t happen again. If I’d known you were coming to Nashville—”
Anger rushes in like a tidal wave, but my words are soft. “You would have arranged to not be getting your dick sucked? I miscarried. I wanted to see you. And boy, did I ever.”
“Baby, I’m sorry,” he implores.
I study his face, the lines of tension, his twisted mouth.
“We can work on it,” he says in a rush. “Come to Memphis with me, move your stuff into my place, and when the tour starts, come with us. I’ll never be out of your sight. Come on, we’ve been through some shit, Serena, but we still love each other. We made a baby.”
“The condom broke. It wasn’t on purpose.”
“You wanted our baby.”
Grief hits me in the face as I grind out my words. “I did, so much. Stop manipulating me with it. It hurts, Vane!”
He grimaces and pulls at his hair. “I made a mistake, and you taught me a good lesson, but you can’t just throw it all away. Baby girl. We belong together.”
I Promise You Page 19