I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(15)

You were just another guy who hit on her.

What sucks is that she wasn’t even a freshman at the bonfire, so if the legend is true, would it apply to her? I don’t know. I always assumed she was a freshman since most of the partiers were, but— “Are you okay?” she asks.

No. I built up this idea of her, that one day we might see each other and, I don’t know, be together?

You don’t even know how to be in a real relationship, my head says.

Whatever. This is fine. It’s going to be fine, dammit! I don’t need feelings in my life. Not with the pressure of this season, and hello, she doesn’t even like me as a person. That much was obvious from the Pig.

“Forget it.” And then I’m stalking away to her door.

“Wait!” She catches up with me and tugs on my arm.

Her eyes meet mine, and they’re a pale golden color, like topaz.

Our gazes cling and hope, unbidden, fires off like a rocket inside my chest.

“Yeah?” I say gruffly, shifting closer to her. Her skin is like porcelain, soft and creamy, the tilt of her eyes giving her an otherworldly, exotic look…

She toes her boots, fidgeting, her shoulders shrugging. “Thank you for the ride.”

“I see. Thank you for the ride…that’s all you got?”

A slow blush rides up her neck to her face, hinting at vulnerability. That makes twice. Does it mean anything? Is she even attracted to me at all?

“We rub each other the wrong way, but I am appreciative that you brought me home.”

She’s appreciative? I whip my cap off and scrub my face. “I can’t believe this… Karma really is a bitch…”

“Believe what?”

I shake my head. “Just do one thing for me. Say my name.”

“Dillon, thank you for the lift. Happy?”

No, I’m not. Not by any stretch. Frustration gnaws at me that there’s a girl in front of me, one who has been in my head for three years, and she can’t wait to see the back of me. It’s a blow to my chest.

“I hope I never see you again,” I mutter under my breath.

“Same!” she calls as I slam her door.





5





I’m awake by six for a run, my goal to get some cardio in before our morning practice. After slipping on my running clothes and shoes, I enter the den. A disaster meets my gaze: red Solo cups on the floor, the TV still playing, empty beer cans on the end tables and on the kitchen counter. Chris, our tight end, doesn’t live here, but he’s sleeping on the couch, his mouth open as snores reverberate through the house. He’s gonna be useless at practice today, and an angry rumble comes from me as I head out the door, shutting it hard to wake him up.

My usual route takes me through a quiet campus, the sky dusky, just a hint of the sunrise peeking over the horizon. It’s my time to think, to assess, to focus, to work out this elephant that sits on my chest.

When I get back, Sawyer’s in the kitchen, scrambling a skillet of eggs. Wearing his practice gear, he’s got a frilly, pale pink apron tied around his frame. Grandmas Never Run Out Of Cookies Or Hugs is stitched on the bodice. It’s faded with yellowed lace trimming the bottom. His granny passed last year, and it belonged to her.

“Got breakfast for us.” His skin is dark brown, his voice a slow Southern drawl, a testament to his small-town Georgia roots.

“Where’s Troy?”

“Still recovering from the party. I knocked on his door.”

“He better get up if he doesn’t want to be late.” I grab a Gatorade from the fridge, my heart coming down from the adrenaline as I suck it down. He grabs us plates and divides the eggs while I get the oatmeal ready in the microwave, mixing in protein powder for both of us. We move around each other in a coordinated synchrony, our routine the same since we moved into the house at the beginning of summer camp. He pours the orange juice and grabs napkins. I get us forks and spoons. He unties his apron and drapes it over the oven handle, his fingers lingering on the worn fabric for a few beats before he takes his place across from me.

“You disappeared last night,” he comments a little later as he sticks a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. “Dude, what a mood you were in—at your own party. Those poor girls…” He chuckles. “Ashley kept knocking on your door.”

“I slept with ear plugs.”

“You’ll be glad to know I drove Bambi home after she had too much to drink.”

“Nice of you,” I grunt and shovel eggs into my mouth. “Would be nicer if you were the prize in the contest and not me. Thank you again for nominating me. Asshole.”

He smirks. “Cry me a river.”

When we got back from dropping Serena off, my mood had soured, and I roamed the party for an hour before claiming a headache and going to my room. Before I escaped, Chantal was talking to Troy, Bambi was on her laptop, probably researching stats, and Ashley shadowed my every step, pouting.

“I saw her last night at the Pig.” My words are flat, and he pauses mid sip of orange juice.

“Her?”

I jerk up from the table, rinse my plate and bowl, and stick them in the dishwasher. “Freshman year, bonfire party, the girl I never found. Remember?”

There’s silence from him as he figures it out. He gives me a wide-eyed look. “Wait… Nah, you don’t still believe in that legend, do you?”