I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(61)

She flips a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. “He’s being weird.”

“But…” I arch my brows.

“Maybe I’ll give him another go.” She shrugs.

I elbow Bambi. “And Sawyer?”

A blush steals up her face. “Um, about that. I asked him to the Fall Ball, so…”

“What she means is…Ashley wins the contest by default,” Chantal says tersely. “She’s babbling to anyone who’ll listen about her big night with Dillon. It’s all over Insta. Wouldn’t be surprised if she took an ad out in your paper.” She gives me an appraising glance. “What’s wrong?”

I’m picturing Ashley in a gorgeous floor-length dress and Dillon in a tux at the formal. They’re dancing, and he’s holding her, her curves against his…

My hands tighten.

“What the heck is that on your neck?” interrupts Bambi. She leans in, pulling at the silky tie thingy near the hollow of my throat. “Well, well, it’s a big, juicy hickey. Call the paramedics, Chantal. Our girl’s been busy!” She pokes me. “You need a blood transfusion?”

“Oh, a love bite! Show me! Move, I can’t see, Bam,” Chantal edges in, elbowing Bambi as they inspect the side of my neck.

“Keep it down,” I mutter as I eye Neil.

Did he see it? Is that why he asked about Dillon?

Inwardly, I groan. Have to hide it from Romy…

“I dabbed makeup on it for fifteen minutes,” I say ruefully.

They blink down at me.

I huff. “It’s just a little bruise!”

“Maybe put some ice on it,” Chantal says on a snicker.

“Was it WBBJ guy?” Bambi whispers, eyeing Neil a few feet away. “He’s cute, like an accountant. Or a lawyer. Maybe a professor. I like them with less tweed and more brawn, but to each their own—”

“No.”

“Was it some guy from the hotel bar? That’s a fantasy of mine,” Chantal muses.

I retie my shirt, adjusting the front of my blouse. “No!”

“So who?” Chantal presses as she reaches behind me.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Taking your hair down. The up-do is cute, but your necktie is slipping and everyone’ll see it. Your hair needs to be down. It’s so gorgeous.”

“It was Dillon,” Bambi says, her eyes sharp. “He was all over you at Caddy’s.”

I touch the dandelion under my blouse. “No.”

“Liar!” she calls, and I shush her.

“Stop yelling. Fine, fine, it was, but you can’t tell anyone. It was a…”

“One-time thing?” Chantal finishes.

I shrug.

Her mouth twists. “Oh, honey, don’t…” She trails off, looking to Bambi for support.

Bambi exhales, pink lips pursed. “He’s a slippery one. Keep your heart locked away, feel me?”

“Did you do the deed?” Chantal asks. “Was he huge? He looks huge.”

“Three times.”

“Was it amazing?” Bambi gushes.

It was. “No comment.”

“Meanie,” she chirps.

I circle back to what Neil mentioned. “Have either of you heard about the guys doing bets?”

They frown in sync, and Chantal responds, “There used to be bets until Ryker got involved with a girl over one and it blew up in his face. He had to grovel his way back into her good graces. Why? Want me to investigate?” Her eyes narrow. “I will kill Dillon McQueen if they’ve brought that tradition back.”

Bambi shakes her head. “He’d never do that.”

Neil calls out that the Uber has arrived.

“Come on, forget that. Let’s get to the stadium,” Bambi says, and I follow them outside. We laugh and chat about the game, but inside, a kernel of doubt drops and swirls. The Dillon I know does get hung up on superstition and traditions, but he’s not the kind of guy who’d use me for his team. He’s not the one-dimensional, shallow person I assumed he was. I push the idea out of my head and think of him in the elevator, his face devastated that his father wasn’t coming.





19





Boos rain down as we run off the field for halftime. Nothing makes a crowd angrier than a visiting team showing up and snagging a twenty-one-to-nothing lead in the first half.

“Who dat kicking LSU’s ass!” Troy shouts.

“LSU who? Dillon is the man!” Sawyer replies. “It’s because you won your challenge,” he says to me under his breath, and I send him a sharp look. When I came in last night, he took one look at me and figured out where I’d been. Serena is not about the challenge.

Coach Alvarez rolls in, his eyes roving over each of us like an eagle. “Simmer down! We’ve got a second half to play, and you can bet the other locker room is working their ass off to figure out how to flip the script.” He puffs out his barrel chest. “Good half.”

We whoop.

“McQueen, excellent job. Keep chipping away at the small stuff, but don’t get sloppy.”

I nod.

“Break into your groups, listen to your coaches, and keep the fight on their side of the field, because who are we?” He puts a hand to his ear.