I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(63)

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… Thank 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.