Page 71 of Promise Me Not

“And the bees?” She lifts a brow, her playfulness making me all the more eager to share my news.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask, knowing she’s going to roll her eyes cause we both know she’ll be watching my game, if only to text me something in her brand of silly afterward.

She smiles, and I wait to hear it. “Actually, I’m going with Lolli to watch Nate’s game at USD.”

My face falls instantly.

She sits up, a small frown pulling at her forehead. “Why? What’s up?”

“Nothing.” My answer is too quick, and worry washes over her, her mouth opening, but I quickly add, “Hey, I’ve got to go. Don’t think about me too long, all right?”

She doesn’t buy the grin on my face, but a small smile does curve her lips. “In your dreams, Superstar.”

We hang up, and I wonder what she would say if I responded withmore often than not.

Sleep doesn’t come so easily after that. I’m too keyed up, an anxious excitement blending with the bitter taste of disappointment knowing my girl, I mean Payton, won’t get to see me in action.

Sure, she’ll catch the highlights like always, but it’s not the same. I want her to hear the roar of the crowd and know she’s sitting on the edge of her seat when I step out on that field. ’Cause there is no doubt in my mind she would be, just like my sister and Cameron will.

Or are right this minute,because it’s time, and nothing is going to sour this moment for me.

Let’s.

Fucking.

Go!

I growl, stretching my lips out along the mouthpiece as I bob from foot to foot, hopping high into the air to the heavy beats blasting through the stadium speakers, but it’s go time now.

Slowly, the music fades, the crowd goes crazy, and I watch with sharp eyes as Jency Fayo, our kick returner, catches the ball and dances his way down the field. He jukes left, then right, spinning until he passes the thirty-yard line. The defenders come at him from every direction, and he goes down at the twenty.

A hand slaps my shoulder, and I look over.

Noah grins, shoving me forward. “Take it home.”

“Let me show you how it’s done, pretty boy.” I smirk, and Noah chuckles goodheartedly, not in the least put off by the fact that I’m starting in his position today.

We couldn’t be more different in that sense. He’s mentally secure in what he does and has to offer.

I know I’m good but have no greater fear than falling over the edge of insignificance.

I need to do well, show Coach he made the right choice when he offered me this position, knowing his star player won’t be coming back next year.

None of my hard work matters if I’m not wearing that C marking me team Captain next season, when Noah retires it on his way to the NFL.

None of it.

I jog out alongside our starting offense, and the second my cleats hit the turf, all the noise falls away, my brain fires on a hundred, and I become the fucking game.

The call is given, the team lines up, and my nostrils flare as I drag in a long lungful of charged air. I give the signal, and the ball is snapped.

It’s a good fucking snap, the leather between my palms, the laces tingling against my skin.

The call is meant to confuse the defense, my side shuffle and the drop of my wrists leading them to believe we’re going for a quick toss to the running back. They shift, my line holds strong, and I step back, firing down the field. My receiver is wide open, and the ball drops into his open gloves with precision. He’s taken down instantly, but that don’t matter.

The crowd goes wild, the chains are moved, and it’s first down, Sharks.

We jog down the field, bending into position, ready to get the next play underway. This time, the snap goes a little high, forcingme to call an audible and change the play on the fly to maximize the potential of success.

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