Page 52 of Promise Me Not

Arms crossed,fingers digging into my biceps, I glare at the little fucker on the field.

Originally, I had agreed with Coach’s plan to use the second string to start us out. Toss them out there, throw off the opposing team, let them think they have a shot for a quarter of a quarter, and then make the swap. Show them what we really got and crush their little dreams of leaving here with the victory.

Now I wish I would have pushed back, becauseof coursethis dickhead hits the field in my position and does what he damn well pleases, game plan be damned.

The plan called for a pick play, and his receivers executed perfectly, feet flying forward, one putting himself in thedefender’s path, leaving the other wide open, but what does the punk do?

He tucked and ran, doing all he could to show off his twinkle toes. He cut man after man, not only picking up the first down but an extra six yards on top of it.

The crowd cheered, he got hyped, and Coach tore into him from the sidelines. Alister looked our way with a nod, threw out some excuse he knew we couldn’t hear, took the next play call, and went back into the huddle.

Next play, same thing, but this time, instead of juking the outside linebacker who came down on a blitz, flying right toward him, he leapt into the air, coming down over his head. He gained three more yards.

Everyone went wild that time, and instead of tuning them out and focusing on the task at hand, the freshman fame chaser turned to face them, threw his hands up, and begged for more.

He’s a fool, and a move like that will end his career before it even begins.

Jump too low, too late, or too high, you risk getting flipped in the air and landing wrong. Break your wrist or injure your arm for a bit of crowd chasing, and it’ll be game over.

Coach Rogan and I look at each other at the same time, both shaking our heads. The clock ticks down, and finally, it’s time. I tug my helmet on and get ready to take my position. Because it ismyposition.

All eleven of our boys on the field jog off, the first-string crew jogging on for the first game of the season.

Alister slams his shoulder into mine as he passes, and our glares meet. “Let’s see if they like you half as much as they like me,” the smiling bastard spits.

“Don’t worry, second string.” I smirk, snapping my chin strap. “They won’t see you enough to like you.”

Alister’s face falls, and I spin, laughing to myself as I join my team on the field, and the second my feet plant on the turf, all thoughts of him fall away.

This is it.

I look across my teammates’ faces, each of us nodding, all of them waiting for my instruction, eager to follow my lead, to take themselves where I need them and make the play happen. The air is charged, and call me Electro, because I’m powered the fuck up.

This is what I’ve been waiting for.

What I’ve trained my whole life for.

I’m the starting quarterback at a D1 college, and I’m about to show every person in this place exactly why it’s my picture hanging in the halls.

And that’s exactly what I do.

I ball out, all my boys right there with me, and by the time the clock runs out in the fourth quarter, the scoreboard reads thirty-four to thirteen, Avix U Sharks.

I’m keyed up, jumping with my teammates as we enter the tunnel like a pack of wild wolves after a hunt. We’re loud and rough, laughing and joking, blasting rap music in the locker room as we listen to Coach deliver a fiery speech that has us banging our lockers in victory. When he leaves us, the speakers bump even harder, and we go about our own business.

I pull my phone from my locker, my smile wide.

It falls a split second later when my eyes focus on the screen.

There’s a message from my dad, my sister, and even Lolli…but nothing from the girl who started a routine I clearly became dependent on.

After every game last season, Payton would message me, without fail. If she was able to watch, it would be a joke about home runs or nothing but net, playing up her lack of knowledge of the game that she knew drove me crazy. If she didn’t, shewould search for the results, coming back with a sassy little remark, and I just knew she was smirking that cute little smirk when she sent it, usually because she was teasing me, talking about how so-and-so’s tight pants being the reason the tackle was missed that led to the game-winning touchdown she found on theAvix InquirerInstagram page. None of it made much sense, and I knew she understood more than she let on—I spent a ton of time breaking it down for her, after all—but that was the fun of it. Playful teasingshestarted. It was our thing. I never wondered if her message would be waiting for me. I knew it would.

It was a guarantee.

Keywordwas, my man.

Frustration claws at my skin, and I toss my phone in my locker with an angry huff, doing a double take when I spot Chase a few lockers away, grinning down at his screen.

---