The Hardest Fall(72)

Was Dylan jealous?

When he started a light jog toward us, I felt all the hairs on my arms stand up. I gave Trevor a quick glance.

“Can you give me a minute?”

He glanced back at what I was looking at, and I was already walking to meet Dylan halfway. The need to go to him had come out of nowhere. Maybe it was the way his hard eyes locked onto mine, daring me to look away, or maybe it was something about the controlled way his body was moving. God, he looked so good in his uniform, almost as good as he looked when he worked out in our kitchen half naked…almost. He looked larger than life, bigger and better than anyone else warming up on the field.

Before I had taken four steps, Chris blocked Dylan around the thirty-yard line. He rested his forehead against Dylan’s, squeezed his neck, and guided him toward the tunnel. Dylan frowned at him then shook his head once as if coming out of a trance. Then he was nodding and jogging alongside his teammate.

When he disappeared into the tunnel, I turned back to Trevor with a sheepish smile.

He raised an eyebrow, which only added to his signature cocky look. “Did I step on some toes?”

“What? No. What are you even doing here? I thought you were in Boston.”

“Yeah, I was, but I transferred here this year. You dating number twelve? That Reed guy?” he asked with a flick of his head toward where Dylan had disappeared to.

“No. He’s just my friend.”

After giving me a long, thorough look, he spoke again. “If you say so.” His big smile back in place, he gave me a playful shove. “Look at you, buttercup. I haven’t seen you in two years and this is where I find you? I missed you.”

“Don’t call me that,” I grumbled as I shoved him right back.

“Still so cute. What the hell are you doing here then? Came to watch your boyfriend get his ass handed to him by me?”

“I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.” I lifted my camera as if that would answer his question. “I’m on an assignment, taking shots of the team.” And because I didn’t like him talking about Dylan like that, I added, “And don’t be so sure whose ass will be getting kicked. They’re amazing.”

I actually had no idea if they were. All I knew was that Dylan was amazing.

His eyebrows shot up. “Are they now? And did you become a football expert because of a certain someone?”

We heard someone shout his name, and Trevor looked over his shoulder. “Shoot. Okay, I have to get back.” Grabbing the heavy camera out of my hand, he lifted it up in the air as if to take a selfie. “Come on, I want a photo of us together. I have a prettier face, and you need something better to look at than those baboons.”

“It’s off, you idiot.” I laughed when he couldn’t quite manage to figure out how to work it.

I turned the camera on and let him pull me to his side so he could get a shot of us together. When we heard his name called again, he thrust the camera back into my hands.

“Here, take it. Email me—both the photo and your number. I don’t have yours, so you better send it my way.” Jogging backward, he kept talking. “Don’t forget, Zoe bug. Better yet, I’ll email you my number and you can text me.”

“Okay!” I yelled back, smiling.

When he was close enough to his coaches, one of them hit him on the back of the head and his grin got bigger.

“Okay!” he yelled one last time, and then he was out of sight.



*

Our team was winning—Dylan’s team. I didn’t know exactly when it’d become our team in my mind, but I was swept up in the rush of the game and the magic of being in the stadium. Sure, maybe I didn’t get what was happening most of the time, but I was right there with them when everyone was cheering, yelling, or swearing. Even being close to Mark hadn’t managed to kill my excitement.

And Dylan…he was a beast. The way he ran away with that ball, his speed, the way he ducked and dodged and rolled and twisted and everything else he did—I was mesmerized just watching him.

It sounds weird to say out loud, but he felt like mine. I knew how he looked in the mornings, knew pretty much every muscle in his upper body. I hadn’t touched them or anything like that, but they were burned into my brain. I knew what he liked to have on his pizza, which was very important. Extra cheese, pepperoni, and black olives was his go-to, and he didn’t look at me like I was an alien because I liked pineapple on my pizza.

I knew his smiles, and he had a handful of them, each one deadlier than any other smile you could imagine. I knew when he brushed his palm through his short hair that he was stressed, agitated. I knew he liked to hold my hand; I didn’t know why, but I knew he liked it. If he was rolling his neck and that muscle in his jaw was working, he was angry and having trouble keeping himself under control. I knew making me blush just with the way he was looking at me amused him, and that usually prompted his amused smile, which never failed to kick my heart rate up. I knew he was the hardest working guy I’d ever seen. I knew he was one of a kind, and I knew with every passing day I wanted him to be mine—not my buddy, but mine, just mine.

Knowing all that about him scared the shit out of me. When it was the last play of the third quarter and the scoreboard showed 31-42, someone else walked out of the tunnel and joined his teammates on the sidelines.

JP Edwards.