I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(23)

“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!