I Promise You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  His fists curl. “Don’t get pushy, man.”

  I rear back. I’m the charmer, Sawyer’s the wisecracking manipulator, and Troy’s the quiet one—only right now, he looks pissed.

  “Oh for the love of… He’s talking about me,” Chantal mutters as she stumbles out of his room, hopping around as she puts on one of her heels. Her blonde hair is mussed, mascara smudged, lips swollen. She darts her eyes at Troy then back to me. “Troy and I…” She blushes furiously and gives me an unsure look. “A girl has needs, Dillon. Are you terribly upset we hooked up?”

  Hell no. She and I have never been a thing. “Winter Soldier, huh?”

  She sighs heavily. “And tequila.”

  Troy stiffens, his body turned to Chantal. “We didn’t just hook up.”

  Chantal frowns. “Hang on, it was fun, but—”

  He juts out his chin. “You followed me outside last night. You sat next to me. You played with my hair.”

  She shrugs. “You’re pretty and I was drunk. It was nice. Thanks for the orgasm.”

  I wince. Burn.

  He gapes. “You used me?”

  “Like that Chi-O last week meant something to you?” She tosses the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “You guys mess around with girls all the time. What’s good for you is good for me. Men don’t own the hook-up scenario. I can be with anyone I want, a different one each week if that’s what I decide. I do adore football players—”

  He sputters. “If you want a football player in your life, you come to me, jersey chaser.”

  “—but,” she says, crossing her arms, “the next person who refers to me as a ‘jersey chaser’ is getting a fist in their face. I’m pre-law, for God’s sake. I’m going to find a guy as smart as I am, maybe check out the Phi Beta Kappa honor society!”

  “Hey now, ease up,” I say. “I’m a psych major with a French minor.” And decent grades. Not a 4.0, but considering how much time I spend on football, it’s freaking exemplary. During my freshman and sophomore years, when I first realized Ryker was always going to be the starter, I even considered getting serious with it, but I wanted to play football. A job behind a desk would never suit me.

  She smirks at me. “You like numbers so much, maybe you should be a statistics major.”

  Ahhh. “Good one.”

  “Are you saying I’m a Neanderthal?” Troy asks.

  “Your words,” she chirps. “All you alphas, sniffing around females like a, a—”

  “Strange you should bring that up—Dillon is a wolf,” comes from an amused Sawyer.

  She ignores him. “You think we’re just waiting to do your bidding, and I did. Last night, I followed Dillon around the grocery store like some love-starved kitten, and I’m done!”

  I know when to keep my mouth shut.

  Troy’s lips tighten, his eyes holding Chantal’s, a silent communication seeming to simmer between them. “Baby. Come on. This thing between us has been brewing since the contest started—”

  “In your dreams,” she smarts back.

  “Damn. Where’s the popcorn?” Sawyer says under his breath. “How did we miss this last night?”

  I missed it because I ditched the party. I jump in to defuse the situation. “Hang on, Chantal. Obviously, you’ve changed your mind about the contest. I’m what you girls call high maintenance, and you made the right choice. You shouldn’t ever feel like you have to do anyone’s bidding. Be you. Be fierce, I say.” I toss an arm around her and give her a quick hug.

  Chantal gives me a thoughtful look. “Honestly? Seeing how Serena didn’t fall under your spell like everyone else got to me. Being part of the contest is exciting, and I do love to win, especially beating Ashley”—her lips tighten—“but I don’t relish the idea of spending the next few weeks researching team stats just for the chance of a date with you.” She shrugs. “Besides, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of us.”

  “What?” Sawyer says, eyes swiveling to me. “Is that true? Are you making the contest difficult? You know this is an important tradition.”

  “If it’s so important, why didn’t you do it? You’re not dating anyone,” I mutter.

  “Yet.”

  Okay, not sure what that means… “I’ve done nothing but let the girls hang around, as asked!”

  “Uh-huh,” Chantal replies.

  The sorority never set any rules for the contest, so there is some gray area. Perhaps I took some liberties by asking the girls to come up with the statistical analysis, but I’m desperate. Since classes started, the three of them have been following me around, offering to pick up my books, cleaning my room, rubbing my shoulders. Yeah, normally that’s cool and girls have done this for me in the past with no expectation, but now, it’s like a gnat in my ear. They’re more vicious than a defensive player when it comes to competing, even sweet Bambi.

  I heave out a breath. Of course, I could just be a dick to the girls to run them off. I’m just a trophy for them, a popular guy on their arm, but I don’t want to let my team down. They’re counting on this. Could I sit down with Sawyer and explain how this contest, coupled with my anxiety, is aggravating? Sure, but we’re dudes, and I don’t talk to him about deep things. I give off a carefree vibe, but on the inside, I keep my feelings locked down. I’m the team captain. I have to be strong and suck it up. Plus, it’s too late. They voted in May and the deal is done. I have to follow through or risk the season. If it’s a bad year and I don’t do the rituals, the team might blame me.

  “She isn’t part of your posse anymore,” Troy mutters as he elbows me out of the way, shuffling between Chantal and me as he attempts to take her arm.

  “Stop assuming you know what I want, Troy,” she snips, shaking him off.

  As soon as they step out on the front porch, I punch into the air. “One girl down, baby.”

  Sawyer sighs. “I like having girls around though. It’s our senior year. We need to soak it up. I’m going to arrange a pool tournament for Ashley and Bambi to compete in. We need to find another Theta to fill in for Chantal’s spot. Their treasurer is a hot little strawberry blonde—”

  “Nope. Don’t you dare,” I call out as I stalk back to my room to grab my duffle for practice.

  His laughter follows me, a reminder that he can afford to be relaxed about this year. His stats are incredible. Not as good as Blaze’s last season, but he’ll be drafted. He’s a starter and cool under pressure. Me—I’m freaking out.

  I just hope I’m the one throwing him the ball this year.

  6

  After a team meeting, we grab our helmets and head out to the field. “Alvarez is supposed to announce the quarterback today. You ready?” Sawyer asks as he slides his gloves on.

  “It has to be me.” I’ve put in the years, the work—

  “Don’t be so sure,” Owen Sinclair says, interrupting as he jogs up with a football in his hand. About six one, he’s lean and fast, his face smug as he rakes his pine green eyes over me. His hair is cobalt blue, a fauxhawk with lightning bolts shaved on the sides of his head.

  I tense, waiting for his usual dig. Three, two, one…

  “Coach loves how I throw, McQueen. Told me so himself every time he watched me play. Did I tell you he came to see me three times in Florida?”

  “Almost every day.”

  He bounces a football in the air, one he’s always holding, on the sidelines, in the locker room—hell, word is he even carries one to class. He also shows up for practice half an hour early every day. I know because I do too. He’s a competitive little shit.

  I snatch his ball in midair. “Timing in college is different than high school.” I toss the ball back to him. “You’ll get there by the end of the year, rookie.”

  His lips tighten as he palms the ball and spots Kendrick Rose, another super freshman. Sawyer’s gaze is on that one. Yeah, welcome to my world, where the young guns have us in their sights. It’s cool, I get it, but Sinclair takes it a step further, and I get the
sense he’s in it for the glory. I’m in it because it’s all I have. I live and breathe this game. I have since I was ten years old and moved from Malibu to Alabama. While my parents’ marriage was falling apart, I clung to the one thing I was good at.

  “Keep talking, Grandpa,” Sinclair says. “You think you’re owed something ’cause you been here, but this team doesn’t owe anyone anything. The starting quarterback has to earn it by working, not by partying.”

  I smile. “Ah, someone’s pissed they weren’t invited last night. Man, best party ever. Hot girls, every sorority on campus representing, all the cool frat guys…”

  His face reddens. “While you were getting hammered and screwing your fan club, I was studying the playbook.”

  I was not hammered. Yeah, I can throw down at a party—been there, done that—but this year is different.

  “I’ve got that playbook down.” Ryker and I worked together to memorize every page.

  Sinclair throws the ball to Rose, a perfect spiral, but his eyes are on me. “The difference between you and me is I won’t stop working till I’m the best, not just good enough. You fill that role, backup.”

  My hands clench. What a dick…

  “Line up!” calls out the offensive coordinator, adjusting his visor as he sweeps his gaze over us, lingering on Sinclair. There’s appreciation there.

  We head to the field, thoughts tumbling through my head. After we won the national championship, the entire team was on cloud nine, but that talk faded as the fans and media started talking about ‘next year’.

  At first everything online was positive about me becoming the next quarterback at Waylon, but the mood changed on national signing day in February when the number-one recruit in the country, Sinclair, picked Waylon over Oklahoma, Tennessee, and Alabama.

  “Drill stations. Let’s see what you boys have today.” He announces a full situational scrimmage, first team offense versus first team defense with Owen and me switching out after each play.

  “McQueen, you’re first up,” Alvarez calls. “Opening drive, first and ten.”

  After looking over the defense, I identify they’re in zone coverage with a straight four-man pass rush. “Hike!” I rumble.

  The team goes into motion, the defense dropping into a three-deep zone exactly like I expected. My line picks up the pass rush, and I throw to the tight end for an easy eight-yard gain on first down.

  “Nice read. Sinclair, your turn,” calls Alvarez while I jog to the sideline, victory thrumming through my veins.

  “Hut!” Sinclair yells. The tight end runs a slant and is wide open in front for an easy ten yards—and Sinclair hits him in stride. He breaks the tackle and turns up the field for another fifteen yards before the safety can make it over to bring him down. A muscle pops in my jaw.

  I’m up.

  “Two minutes to go in the quarter. Down by five. First and ten from the twenty,” Alvarez calls out from the sideline.

  “Hike!” I growl.

  Palming the ball, I study the blitz coming from both sides. I throw a perfect pass down the sideline to Sawyer. He catches it and heads to the endzone. Score.

  I pass Sinclair on my way off the field. “Beat that, rookie.”

  He huffs and gets into the huddle at the twenty yard-line. Right away, I see the blitz coming as an overload on his right side. He’ll need to keep the tight end in play to block and dump the ball off to his running back. It won’t pick up a lot of yards, but it might move the ball downfield.

  “Hut!”

  The play starts and the blitz surprises him. Sinclair falters but spins at the last second and runs toward the sideline, looking for an open player. He waves his hand at Sawyer, who breaks off his slant route just as Sinclair throws the ball, a wobbly spiral that hits Sawyer around sixty yards. He walks into the end zone for a touchdown. The freshman players run out and smack Sinclair on the helmet.

  My teeth grit. Yeah, it was pretty, but…

  “What the hell was that?” snaps Alvarez as he stomps out to the field and gets in Sinclair’s face. “That little spin worked this time, but it’ll get you sacked and probably a fumble. That shit might have flown in high school, but you aren’t the best athlete on the field anymore.” Coach turns to the defense. “And you just let some fresh-as-a-daisy kid beat you deep on what would have been a game-winning play. You have to contain…”

  He continues to yell at the defense as I swagger over to Sinclair. “You know what he’s looking for? Experience. This is real football, not a one-man show.”

  He bumps me with his shoulder and stalks to the sideline.

  Walking into the locker room after practice, Alvarez motions for me to come to his office. Sinclair is already there, hovering in the background.

  Coach scans his eyes over us, and I think I see a glimmer of uncertainty there. He crosses his arms, determination on his face.

  My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my face cool.

  Sinclair sends me dark looks, his fists clenching and unclenching.

  “You both did fine today.”

  And…

  “I’ll be announcing Dillon as the starter this afternoon at a press conference.”

  Yes! Elation rushes over me as the weight of summer camp eases.

  Sinclair exhales a breath and looks at the floor.

  Coach’s eyes narrow as he takes us in. “It’s no secret you two are at odds, and I get it. You both have different styles. McQueen, you’re steady and balanced. Sinclair, you’re talented but have a lot to learn. McQueen, I want you to spend some personal time with Sinclair—”

  “Sir?” I interrupt. “What do you mean?”

  Coach’s lips flatten. “You claim you want to lead this team, so do it. You’re the captain, and that means welcoming the new talent and teaching him what you know. I’m assigning you two to run together every day—on your own time. It would be good if you spent more time together as well. Eat together, hang out, whatever you boys do.”

  My personal time? I shoot a glance at Sinclair, and he curls his lips at me.

  Coach looks down at the mess of papers on his desk. “Sinclair, you may go.”

  He bumps his shoulder against me as he heads out the door, and I shake my head. Was I ever that much of a pill? No. I was an eager learner and deferred to Ryker, letting him mentor me. Hell, I welcomed his friendship with open arms. I might even have been a little needy. That first year was a hard time in my life, adjusting to college and the ghost of my brother.

  Coach leans back in his chair. “Congrats on the position. Take a seat.”

  My stomach jumps. Why do I feel like I still haven’t won? “Thank you, sir. I promise I’ll put the team ahead of everything. This means the world to me.”

  He nods. “You’ve been patiently waiting for your turn, and I have a lot of respect for your dedication. This is it for you, son. If you’re tight this year, the scouts are going to notice.”

  But? Is he just letting me start because he feels like he owes it to me and not because I’m the best? Insecurities rise up, and I tap my fingers on my knee.

  His gaze goes back to the door Sinclair left through. “He is good, you know, but he’s impulsive and makes it up as he goes along.”

  I’m impulsive too, but never on the field. Everything I do with football is calculated and sure.

  “Just because I’m naming you starter today doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind. Don’t flake out under the pressure, because trust me, you’ve never seen the kind of intensity you’re about to face. If you aren’t the best on the team at the end of each week, you won’t be playing.” He assesses me. “I need Sinclair to fall in line. Teach him what you know.”

  Oh, I see. Teach him my tricks… “So he can step up and take my place?”

  Coach frowns. “This isn’t a pissing contest between two players. Ryker taught you. You teach Sinclair. Regardless of who starts our games, it’s all about winning.”

  Right. This is cut-throat college football, and we
have a championship to live up to. I’ll have to prove myself every day. Tension builds in my head. Definitely gonna need another run today, maybe another lifting session…

  A long sigh comes from me. “I understand.”

  7

  Dear Asking for a Friend,

  Does it make me a slut if I swipe right on every hot guy I see on Tinder?

  A year ago, my ex cheated on me with my best friend, and they just got married in Hawaii. It feels impossible to move past the rage and betrayal—hence the Tinder addiction. These sexual encounters work for a little while, but I’m worried it’s a spiral of behavior. I want to stop screwing my dates and meet someone nice, but how?

  Sincerely,

  Dating App Addicted

  * * *

  Dear DAA,

  First, let’s take the word “slut” and put it where it belongs: in the trash. That word is degrading to yourself and other women, which is ironic considering it first appeared in the early 1300s when Chaucer used it to describe a male character as untidy. You are simply a person in charge of your own sexuality.

  Your ex and ex-bestie are not worthy of you. (Alexa, play “thank u, next” by Ariana Grande.) It would have been better if they’d approached their relationship in a thoughtful, honest manner, and I’m sorry you went through this turmoil. You’re right, seeking happiness in the arms of a hot guy might fill certain holes (heh), but it won’t nourish your soul.

  Instead of sex with your booty call, suggest coffee or a walk. If you still can’t resist getting tangled in the sheets, find a new hobby, adopt a pet, join a club, or take up knitting. Personally, I enjoy cookies. People say not to eat your emotions, but seriously, have you ever had a deep-fried Oreo? Orgasmic.

  ~Asking for a Friend

  * * *

  “Serena! Need you now! Get in here!”

  Warren’s booming voice reverberates through the office just as I hit send to the editor for next week’s column. Jumping up from my cubicle, I grab a notepad and a pen and dash down the hall.