I Promise You

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Why do you care?”

  “I’d help anyone,” he mutters. “I gave you a ride, didn’t I?”

  “Jersey chaser giving you trouble, Grandpa?” comes from another player who’s coming down the tunnel. Tall and lean with blue hair, he watches us, amusement on his face.

  “Don’t be dissing jersey chasers,” I snap. I liked Chantal and Bambi. Yeah, I called them kittens, but come on, they are adorable.

  “You heard her, Sinclair. Women rule,” Dillon rumbles, hoisting me up higher. “Get out of the way. She needs first aid.”

  “Feisty one. When you’re done, pass her along.” He runs a hand through his spiky hair and marches out of sight.

  “Friend of yours, I presume,” I mutter.

  “Owen Sinclair. Big chip on his shoulder. My nemesis.”

  “Your rival?”

  “I prefer archenemy. Sounds more dramatic.”

  “So you’re Superman to his Lex Luther? Batman to his Joker, Spiderman to his Green Goblin—”

  “You really do have a thing for superheroes.”

  “I have a whole list in my head if you want me to continue.”

  He grunts as he takes the stairs, jostling me around, and I squeal when it feels like I might fall. “Please don’t drop me.” I peek up through my lashes and study his face then look away quickly. He’s too much this close, too heady, too perfect.

  He carries me into the locker room and sets me on top of a table. The space is vacant, yet I hear the distant sound of showers running, the rumble of male voices just around the corner.

  He walks to the cabinet, pulls out a first aid kit, and stalks back to where I am, the fabric of his jeans brushing against my thighs as he moves between my legs. He kneels on his haunches in front of me, slowly unlacing both of my boots and easing them off, hissing under his breath at the torn red skin on both ankles. A drop of blood slides down my leg. Gross.

  “Merde. This looks bad.”

  I start. “Did you just curse in French?”

  He shrugs. “My minor. The curse words are the easiest. New shoes?” He frowns as he glances at my footwear. “You walk a lot, Serena? You need sneakers.”

  Tell me about it.

  “A person walks 65,000 miles in their lifetime. That’s enough to go around the earth three times.”

  “I make you nervous. This explains a lot about how you acted at the Pig.”

  “No. It. Doesn’t.” I give the words a little extra clip.

  “Maybe wear socks next time you go around the world.” His hair falls in his face, obscuring his features as he hovers over my feet, holding them in his hands. His fingers are long and nimble, his nails blunt as he tears open an antiseptic pad, pulls it out, and brushes it over my ankle. My skin sizzles.

  I flinch and gasp. “Oh my God, it feels like a blowtorch!”

  His lips quirk. “You gonna pass out?”

  My face feels clammy, the air in the room sparse. I lick my lips. “I hate to admit this, but I banged my toe on the coffee table last month. Blood everywhere. Total carnage. I woke up five minutes after the murder scene. So, maybe I have a tendency—” My hands clench as he touches another blister, ramping up the sting.

  “Hmmm, you’re pale. Talk to me, it will help.” He blows on my skin, soothing the burn.

  I suck in a breath. “Well, back to nemeses, there’s my favorite, Harry Potter and Voldemort—” I pause, my heart skipping as another bead of blood trickles down my foot. “Oh, no…” I sway on the table, my throat moving convulsively.

  He looks up at me, searching my face. “Just breathe. Big inhale, long exhale.”

  The room spins, and I lean forward, resting my forehead on his chest.

  He pulls my face up. “Serena? Hey, baby, focus on me.”

  “Don’t call me baby,” I whisper. That was Vane’s nickname for me.

  I stare into his ocean gaze, trying to focus, but the sting isn’t going away, and the crimson color that’s dripping down my foot… “This is incredibly embarrassing, because I’d like to believe I’m tough, and I apologize in advance, but I think I might…” The room darkens, dots flashing in my field of vision. “Pass out.”

  He presses my face down between my legs, maneuvering me until my back is bent. “That’s it, breathe for me.”

  I suck in air and blow it out, trying to ignore his hands in my hair, the way his fingers knead my nape. It’s not a sexual touch, but careful and deep. My muscles unlock as I let out a long breath.

  “I like your dandelion tattoo,” he says quietly. “What does it mean?”

  The image on my nape is about four inches long, a blue dandelion with the seeds flying away on one side. “Thanks,” I say, my head still bent. “Second chances. It’s a weed, but has deep roots, like a close family, and comes back again and again. Got it when I was seventeen with a fake ID. There might have been vodka involved. My parents grounded me for a month.” I pause, feeling better already. Talking does help. “These days, it symbolizes hope for happiness and love. I’m a bit of a dreamer, I guess.”

  A gruff laugh comes from him. “Seventeen? You’re a rebel.”

  “Not so much lately.”

  He pauses, as his fingers drift over my tattoo. “To me, a dandelion means wishing for something. I happen to know a lot about that.”

  “Oh. What do you wish for?”

  There’s a silence, then, “Besides being a good quarterback, I wish I could go back in time, knowing what I know now, so I don’t screw it up. Do you have any more tattoos?”

  “No. I was a little wild when I got it, I guess, but in my defense, my dad was covered in tattoos. He was upset about the drinking. He was a cop. He is—was—the best man I ever met. Yours are nice. I like the roses.”

  “You noticed them,” he purrs.

  I rise up and look at him. I imagine my face is flushed from being bent, and I can feel the color deepening.

  “I saw your”—magnificent chest—“tattoos at the Pig.”

  “You might feel better if you let this down.” He pulls my hair out of the messy bun and spreads it out with his hands.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” My eyes land on his lips then dart away. Oh, man. Is he flirting?

  That question is answered when his hands fall away from me as he gets back to work, kneeling down and inspecting my ankles. He wipes the rest of the blood away with another alcohol pad. “What about Seinfeld and Newman?”

  What? Oh…

  “Oldie but a goodie.”

  “Ever watch Alien? Ripley and the alien were archenemies.”

  “Kept my eyes closed through most of it, especially the nightmare scene where she delivers a baby alien…” I wince. “Let’s talk about something else. That movie isn’t helping.”

  “You know… One could say I have the upper hand with you right now.”

  “You’re the one on your knees.”

  “Ah, there you are, ornery as usual. I best get used to being on my knees around you.”

  I start. “Why?”

  “No reason.” He dips his face so I can’t read him as he pulls out a square bandage from the kit, rips the package with his teeth, and removes the backing. Carefully, he holds my foot and applies the beige bandage, his fingers dancing over my foot. Goosebumps rise on my body and I glare at them. Dear Body, ignore the fine example of male hotness in front of you. He is a womanizer as was evidenced in the Pig! Yes, he speaks French, the language of love, but you must ignore it!

  Moments of silence pass as he takes my other ankle and performs his ministrations.

  I clear my throat. “Are you what everyone thinks? Party boy who’s just passing time before he goes to the NFL?” I recall the countless girls on his social media, hugging him, kissing his cheek, smiling up at him…

  “People see what they want to. What do you think?”

  I think he’s got layers underneath that carefree demeanor. Or, at least, I hope he does.

  He looks up, and I realize I haven’
t answered his question. Instead, something weird comes out of my mouth. “When I look at you, I see storms in your eyes.” Maybe a glimmer of sadness. “It makes me wonder who you really are.”

  He gives me a searching look then drops his gaze. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  There are ten beats of silence. I know because I count them.

  “I figured a girl like you, you’d be hard to hold onto.” His eyes hold mine, intensely, as if willing me to understand the meaning of his words. When I don’t take the bait, he exhales, a frustrated look on his face. “Anyway. Back to your earlier question. Most think I have everything, but no one ever does. I lost my brother.”

  I hear the hint of barely suppressed grief in his voice.

  He stands, too close for comfort yet not touching me. I have to hold myself back from leaning in and inhaling him. The air between us crackles, and part of me—the insane crazy girl part—wants him to kiss me. Maybe it’s because he’s being honest with me. This isn’t the guy in leather pants at the Pig.

  “When was that?” I ask softly.

  He studies my face. “Four years ago.”

  Compassion fills me. “My parents passed four years ago as well. I’m sorry you lost him. There’s not much else people can say to make it better, is there?”

  “No,” he says. “Most don’t get it. Your parents…what happened?” He pauses. “Sorry. Is that rude? I never quite know. I don’t talk about my brother much so…”

  “No. It reminds me that they were real.” I dip my head, thinking of another loss I dealt with, a baby’s fragile heartbeat that faded away before it even had a chance. “They went for a ride on their motorcycle, and just never came back.” A long exhalation comes from my chest, emotion clawing at me. “It was a Saturday in September, and my mom made breakfast for all of us that morning. She spilled coffee on her shirt and Dad called her a klutz and kissed her on the nose. I remember how hot it still was when they rode off…” I swallow thickly. “Then, a state trooper showed up at the door, and the solemn expression on his face… I just knew. My life was never the same again.”

  His throat bobs and he looks away, then back. “My brother died in June at a party with my friends at the lake. It was a beautiful day, sunshine and low humidity, not a cloud in sight. He wore these bright yellow swimming trunks with pink flamingos on them. Some of us were diving off a cliff, and he wanted to try.” He blinks rapidly. “He jumped before I could stop him.”

  My heart clenches. “That wish. You’d want to go back in time to save him?”

  “I never would have gone to that party with him.”

  “Same. I’d save my parents.”

  “There’s another thing I’d wish for…” His voice trails off, a guarded look flashing on his chiseled face.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah, never mind.”

  “Tell me.” I cross my heart. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  He chews on his lush bottom lip and shrugs as he stares at the floor. “Alright. I’d wish for someone in my life who’s real, you know, not just some hanger-on, but someone who gets me.”

  His head rises and our gazes lock as butterflies take off in my stomach.

  Is this the real Dillon McQueen?

  My heart pounds as the intimacy between us deepens, a sense of connection growing in the air. I decide that eye contact with him is a rollercoaster ride. One moment you’re at the top, about to lose your breath, and the next you’re soaring down a hill and clenching the railing.

  “What else?” I ask softly.

  He inhales a deep breath and glances away from me. I picture walls going up around him. “What does it matter? Wishes aren’t real.”

  I study him as he avoids my eyes, taking in the sharp jawline, the straight nose, the proud stance of his shoulders.

  I keep coming back to the fact that we lost loved ones the same year.

  Is that why I feel this attraction to him? This kinship?

  No, girl, you’d like to kiss him, admit it. It’s been eighteen months!

  “I’d like to write a story about you. Everyone already knows your stats and how good you are, but I want to focus on who you really are, what makes you tick. Would you want to talk about your brother?”

  He lets out a heavy breath. “No. It’s too…” He shakes his head and lifts his hands in an expression of I don’t know.

  “Painful?”

  “Yeah.” He scrubs his face as he takes a step back from me. Several moments tick by as we stare at each other. I can feel him retreating from the topic of his brother.

  He smirks. “I’ve got something interesting. You believe in legends?”

  “People find them fascinating. ‘Bigfoot Marries Coed in Mississippi’—I wrote that short story for the World Enquirer, freelance, and it paid for last year’s tuition.” It also helped with a small portion of my sister’s private school. I danced around my apartment with that check in my hands for an hour. It was my first real success.

  “Jesus, and now you’re doing sports?”

  “Scary, right? In 2014, a study showed that more people believe in Bigfoot than the Big Bang theory.”

  “Bigfoot is a myth, Serena.”

  “Maybe he’s just a really tall, hairy guy who’s forsaken society for the forest. It could happen.”

  “Weird.” He huffs out a laugh and walks away, tucking the first aid kit inside the cabinet as I slip my boots back on. Returning to me, he takes my hand and helps me off the table. “Give me your number.”

  My breath hitches. “For?”

  He gives me that lazy grin from the Pig, the one he gave his posse and the checkout girl. “You’ll need to talk to me if you want a story. Do you want to stop by the house? Practice is done and the night is mine, sweetheart.” His voice has deepened, his gaze lowering as he rakes it over me, lingering on my chest before coming back to my face.

  I sigh. I prefer the other Dillon, the melancholy one who wishes for his brother.

  “Real subtle. Phone is fine.” Which sucks. Normally, I would like to sit across from him, get a feel for him, but he’s more than I can handle.

  I recite my digits and he adds them to his phone.

  “When will you call?” I say. “I’m usually free after seven at night.”

  “Looking forward to it, sweetheart?”

  And here we go…

  “Egotistical jock. You aren’t used to girls not being into you, are you?”

  “Ah, if you only remembered… You are into me.” His eyes glitter like jewels.

  “You don’t even like me,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. “Wouldn’t I be just another notch on your bedpost?”

  “I notch my belt.”

  “Classy. I won’t be on it.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, too bad, Dominick.” I really suck at comebacks.

  He smiles and a tingle dances over my skin.

  Ugh. What is it with him and my body? Must resist! (Alexa, play “Womanizer” by Britney Spears.)

  He holds my eyes for several moments, until I can feel the blush on my face.

  “I’m not interested in you like that,” I say. Liar, liar pants on fire.

  He blinks, a resigned expression settling on his face. “I seem to never say the right thing in front of you.” He dips his head, then looks back up at me. “Honest? You make me a little nervous.”

  I don’t believe him. “Right.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Why?”

  Someone out in the hall calls out, breaking into our silence. He tucks his hands in his jeans and fidgets. “Your ankle should be good with the bandages. You need anything else?”

  A ride home, but I’d never ask him.

  “No.”

  He hesitates, watching me, looking like he might say something else, then… “See you at the games, Serena.”

  B
efore I can respond, he’s gone without another glance at me.

  9

  “You’re a real bastard, Grandpa,” Sinclair pants noisily as he runs next to me, his feet slapping the road. “And why the hell are we running in the burbs? Wouldn’t campus be better? Or a treadmill with air conditioning?”

  “Ah, Mississippi, I love you.” I inhale humid air.

  “It’s a hundred degrees,” he snarls.

  “Hold up…” I stop and stretch, easing some of the tension out of my shoulders, although it feels impossible. Day by day, the closer we get to our first game, the stress continues to build and escalate.

  He jogs back to me, sweaty and tired, and I smirk at the memory of the first day I dragged him out of his dorm room and made him run. He bitched and moaned the entire way then vomited in the bushes at mile five.

  His chest rises up and down as he puts his hands on his hips and nods his head at the driveway. “You know who lives here? We’ve stopped here a few times.”

  “Nah.”

  My eyes dart up to the garage where Serena lives. Where is her car at six thirty in the morning? She said she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but is she fucking someone?

  Thoughts of her in the locker room tumble around in my head, the softness of her skin under my hands, the way she leaned on my shoulder, her story about her parents—and my impulse to kiss her.

  Then, I had to go and open my mouth… I’d wish for someone who’s real, you know, not just some hanger-on, but someone who gets me. What possessed me to say that? Jesus! I totally freaked during our conversation, surprised by the level of intimacy between us, how easy she was to talk to. I got anxious and reverted to being a jackass. I acted like a douche, telling her I notch my belt. Not true. Please. Sure, I date girls, never staying with one too long, but I never leave them with hurt feelings. I treat them well and never fool around. My brief relationships come and go and that’s been cool for the past three years. I never formed a real connection. I never found the right one. Well, I thought I did three years ago, but…

  I couldn’t wait to get away from Serena, afraid I was going to blurt out everything from freshman year right in front of her. Hello, we kissed once. I may have imagined us as a couple. I looked for you for months. Yes, I’m a lunatic. Yeah, not cool.