Page 60 of Fast Kill

Despite the loss, Dillon had played well, throwing four touchdown passes and only being sacked once. From the sidelines, he watched helplessly as the clock dwindled down in the final seconds while the visiting team’s fans went nuts in the stands.

Disappointment settled heavy in his stomach. The season was over.

He grabbed his helmet, stood, and accepted the back slaps and consolations from his coaches and teammates.Good game, man. The defense screwed you over. Get ‘em next time.

On his way off the field he glanced up once into the stands, looking for Taylor. She was still sitting in her spot like she always did, waiting for him with a blanket wrapped around her and a knit cap on her head. Frank was still nowhere to be seen.

Taylor gave him a sunny smile and a thumbs-up to say she was proud of him. And damned if it didn’t make something inside him glow. His whole life he’d never had anyone who meant enough to him to want to make them proud. But he did Taylor.

He showered and changed before meeting her outside the locker room. “You played really well,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning into him for a hug that he returned. “Too bad the score didn’t match that.”

“It’s okay. Next year.”

“Yeah.” The parking lot was pretty much empty as they left the school and headed up the sidewalk through the residential neighborhood.

A few blocks up, the area changed to small shops and restaurants. Most of the football team was already at the diner with the cheerleaders and girlfriends. Dillon’s stomach growled as they drew near, and he couldn’t help a twinge of envy at the sight of his teammates wolfing down burgers, fries and milkshakes inside the warm building.

Next to him, Taylor shook out the blanket she’d folded up and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her coat was too thin and didn’t zip up properly. She had to use safety pins to keep it closed. “That wind is killer,” she muttered.

It was cold enough to sting his cheeks as it whipped past them, kicking up dry leaves that lay curled up on the sidewalk. He took his hands out of his jacket pockets and stuffed them into his jeans. Two dollar bills met his fingers. Enough for a hot drink, but nothing else. “Feel like a hot chocolate?”

“Nah, it’s okay. Thanks, though.”

She never let him spend what little money he had on her. Not even when she was freezing after sitting in the cold for three hours watching him play football. A sport she didn’t even care about. She went solely to support him, when he knew she’d much rather be at home with a book or one of those math puzzles she liked.

Soon he’d have a lot more money and neither of them would have to worry about going hungry again. He’d have enough to buy them dinner every night of the damn week if that’s what they wanted.

They passed by the diner, and he noted how Taylor kept her gaze straight ahead, not looking at the others inside. A few of his teammates had guessed things were tight financially for them, and had offered multiple times to buy them something after the game. Dillon always refused, out of pride. He didn’t want anyone’s pity or charity. He was going to make it on his own.

He was going to make it big.

They didn’t talk much as they walked the remaining two miles to their house. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Frank’s car missing. Maybe he’d taken another night shift or something. That would allow Dillon to relax the rest of the night.

The temperature inside the house wasn’t much warmer than outside, but at least the wind wasn’t cutting at them anymore. Taylor kept her knit cap and jacket on as she hurried to the kitchen and started warming up a couple cans of soup for them.

He was digging a box of stale crackers out of the cupboard next to the sink when he heard it. The rumbling of Frank’s car engine came from the driveway.

At the stove Taylor froze and looked toward the front door. God dammit, he hated seeing that pinched, worried expression on her face. After what had happened to her to bring her to this place, he never wanted her to be afraid again. “Go to your room, Tay.”

She didn’t move, stubbornly staying where she was.

The front door banged open. Frank stomped in, wearing a heavy jacket over his uniform. One look at him and Dillon knew he was wasted.

Frank slammed the door shut with enough force to rattle it on its frame. “You had the lead into the fourth quarter, and you still lost,” he spat, contempt spewing from every word.

He’d seen the game. Dillon’s stomach balled up into a hard knot. He was in for it now.

“First time in six years the Warriors haven’t made the finals, and first time you’re the starting quarterback. Not a fucking coincidence.”

Dillon clenched his jaw and moved to block the doorway to protect Taylor. When Frank was drunk and in a mood like this, neither of them ever knew what he would do.

Frank stalked toward him, his boots thudding on the scuffed wood floor. “Nothing to say for yourself?”

He knew better than to open his mouth, except to be polite. “No, sir.”

“You could have clinched it with one more good pass, but you were too busy prancing around out there in the pocket like a fucking fairy.”

Had he been in the stands somewhere? Dillon hadn’t seen him.

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