“Yup,” she replies without a shred of remorse. “Does that mean the turf contest is off?”
“No way.” I pluck the T-shirt out from the waistband of my shorts and tug it on. She makes a sound and I like to think it means disappointment, but since wet grass burn is no laughing matter, I cover up. “Longest slide wins,” I tell her. I swing my arms in warm up.
“What am I winning?” she asks.
I grin at her cockiness. “I’ll let you run with me tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait to lose then.” She rolls her eyes.
“Personal pride, babe. That’s what we’re competing for.” I’m not making dumb bets. I don’t need a bet to get what I want. After we’re done here, I’ll take her out to breakfast and find out everything about her. This is for the fun of it, because I want to see the longing in her face satisfied.
“You first then. I don’t want you to accuse me of cheating.” She nudges her shoulder against my arm, and that small, innocent contact is like a cannon right to my nervous system. I’m on the edge of obliteration but I want more. Now is not the time. The compression shorts under my running gear can only hold so much in.
“Don’t be sad when you lose. I’ll take you out for breakfast either way,” I reassure her and then take off before she can turn me down. At the twenty, I launch myself and slide a good seven yards.
“That’s not enough for a first down,” she yells from the end zone.
“Let’s see what you got!” I holler back. Rolling over onto my side, I prop myself up on an elbow and gesture that it’s her turn.
She places one foot in front of the other and swings her arms a few times for momentum. She sprints down, leaping forward and then slides to a stop about a foot past me. Damn. I drag her back by the ankle so that her face is next to mine.
Drops of water cling to her grinning face. I lean forward, ready to lick the moisture from her face but I stop myself when she winces.
“Your knee okay?” I ask, worried that she’d hurt herself.
“It’s fine.” Her chest rises and falls as she gathers her breath. I have to force myself to look away. Rolling on my back, I listen as her breath evens out.
Apparently the universe’s gift requires some work. I’m not afraid of hard work. As the great Vince Lombardi said, only in the dictionary is work preceded by success. Rolling on my back, I stare up at the gorgeous blue sky and revel in the fact that what I’d waited for arrived.
“So you love football, huh?”
She shrugs and turns her face to hide her smile. “It’s okay.”
Yeah, and I’m not Knox Masters, decorated defensive end, captain of the Western State Warriors, and projected top ten NFL draft pick.
2 Ellie
I should get up and leave. Actually, I should get up and sprint the hell out of Union Stadium like we’re in The Dark Knight Rises and Bane himself is blowing up the field. But I can’t. There’s a magnet fastening me to the wet turf—a magnet named Knox Masters. It could be that I’m shocked into passivity. I’ve been around football players my whole life, and not one of them had the gravitational pull of Masters.
“I need to go. Thanks for the run.” I push to my feet. I keep the words I won to myself. They’d be a red flag to his bull stomping.
“Won’t let me have a rematch?” He pushes onto an elbow and I have to force myself to look away from the damp fabric clinging to his chiseled abs. Why couldn’t he be a little round around the waist like some linemen? Does he have to be good looking and talented? In the football world, grown men get excited hearing his name. Here at Western, he’s the ruler of all he sees.
He doesn’t need to have a face that would fit in on a runway. I’m surprised someone hasn’t broken his nose yet, if not out of jealousy then sheer frustration that one guy has been given so much.
It’s unfair, criminally so. Advertisers will love him once he goes pro. That he intends to declare for the draft at the end of his junior year is no surprise. The fact that he told me, some nobody he’s never laid eyes on before, is a shock. What was that all about up there in the stands?
Can I blame it on the thin air, as he suggested? I feel like he’s playing me in some way, but I haven’t figured out his angle. Worse, I shouldn’t care what his angle is. “I’m quitting while I’m ahead. Besides, it’s getting late.”
Masters hops to his feet and smirks at my weak excuse. “Because you can get so much done on campus at six in the morning.”
I check my running watch. “It’s six twenty. The day’s almost over.”
He tilts his head. “Fair enough, but does that mean skipping breakfast? Because I’m capable of talking about lots of other topics. I’m pretty conversant in basketball, some baseball, and hockey.” He flicks up a finger for each sport. “Also, up on Assassin’s Creed, Angry Birds—although I’ll admit I haven’t played that since high school. I’m more Clash of Clans right now.” I laugh against my better judgment. His eyes twinkle as he continues. “I’m so-so on topics like fashion, but I’m partial to miniskirts, tube tops, and skinny jeans.”
He’s running out of fingers. I grab his hand and fold his fingers down to get him to stop. It surprises us both and I start to draw back, but his reflexes are quicker. He flips his hand over and pulls me flush against him.
His long, hard frame against mine causes my electrical system to hiccup, which is the only reason I recklessly say, “I don’t know if I own a tube top.”