Page 32 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“I didn’t say sexy.” I grit my teeth to prevent a blush of embarrassment. I’m tough as nails. I can’t blush. Especially not in front of my sister. I shrug.

“Same difference.” I don’t care if it’s true. It’s my story and I’m sticking to it. The stadium roars to life with cheers, ripping my attention away from my sister.

“Look at him go,” someone in front of us shouts. “Jones is taking the ball himself into the end zone.” They shoot to their feet. I jump up and pay attention, my heart thundering like a train in my ears and the kind of excitement that should be limited to a bedroom zipping through me.

Fucking Dylan Jones streaks through a hole in coverage, but one of the opposing linebackers tracks him down.

“Go Jonesy, go! Don’t let him stop you!” The shriek is coming from my mouth as I jump up and down and grip Brook’s arm like she’s holding me up. She’s yelling too. We’re all standing, watching and screaming.

The linebacker catches him and grabs onto him two yards short of the goal, but Jonesy struggles and drags the guy, stumbles and leans forward, and as he’s knocked to the ground by a second defender coming in from the other side, he reaches the ball over his head into the end zone. The refs raise their arms calling it a touchdown and the crowd erupts. I erupt. I hug Brook as if we’ve won the Super Bowl and then I turn and hug Clark Kent because apparently I’m an indiscriminate whore when I’m celebrating a touchdown. The touchdown that’s a promise made by another man.

Dylan promised me a running touchdown and he did it. For me? Don’t be foolish, Mandy. The opening was there and he grabbed it. He’d have done the same thing whether he promised me or not. Besides, what does it matter even if he did? He’s just a kid I’m tutoring. A university student where I teach. A student athlete where I coach. He’s no one to me and never can be. Remember that. Forget his kiss.

I pull myself from Clark Kent’s eager return embrace and deflate back into my seat, barely managing to keep my smile.

“That was exciting,” Clark says. I nod and Brook leans in.

“I don’t think I ever saw you that excited at a football game. You only go berserk like that at your girls’ basketball games when you’re coaching. You must really love this place. Or something.” I don’t like the or something comment, but I shrug. Again.

“When in Rome.”

“Aha.” That’s all she says, but I know there’s a whole diary of thoughts behind it.

“What?” I don’t know why I ask, because I don’t really want to know what she’s thinking, do I?

“You know the QB? Jonesy?”

“Yes. I’m tutoring him in finance. Damn proud of him.” She raises her brows.

“I bet. He’s quite a specimen.”

“Dumb as a rock,” I say and feel the immediate sting of guilt. She laughs and we move on to getting refreshments and watching the rest of the game, with me schooling my every utterance until the end when the marching band plays the alma mater in triumph and SPU wins 21-10.

Chapter Fifteen

Dylan

We lose the coin toss and we’re on defense first so I’m stuck on the sidelines with my nerves amped up and a load of adrenaline with nowhere to go. I pace the sidelines talking to the guys, saying shit like let’s shove the ball up their asses. I can’t help myself. The first game jitters will never get old. Lucky for me and my team, excess nerves usually mean big-time plays from me. Once I settle down.

Walking past the bench as the ref blows the whistle signaling the end of the second play, I pump a fist. Our defense is killing it, holding our opposition to two yards in two downs. One more down and we can rush these guys off the field and my offense takes over. While the other team takes their time lining up, I glance into the stands. Another thing I can’t help doing. It’s not because my mother is up there watching with Aunt Viola, or even because my dad and his new wife actually showed up for the game, though that is miraculous.

No, my eyes wander over the crowd looking for my obsession, the woman I need to kiss again even though I know I can’t. The woman who’s driving me out of my mind. Coach Amanda Lake is up there. With some guy no doubt. At least I know she’s not with Coach Ryan, though he hasn’t been quiet about his interest in her. I think he wants to rub my nose in the fact that he can pursue her and I can’t.

I snort, returning my attention to the game, or at least I return my eyes to the field. Ryan hasn’t kissed her, hasn’t felt that lightning unleashed the way it was between me and her, and I doubt he ever will. Because I may only be twenty-one, but I’ve had a Mardi Gras parade of experience with ladies and I know a rare connection when I feel it. Even though I’ve never felt anything like it before.

Trotting onto the field releases me from all the crazy thoughts, all the pent-up energy, and I slap my hands together in the huddle on the eighteen-yard line, ready to go. My senses zone in so I can see the individual nose hairs on my lineman, smell the hint of pine in the air mixing with the scent of sweat and grass and bad cologne, feel the way the tape wrapped around my feet and ankles presses against my arches. Hyperaware of my surroundings as if God Himself removed the mortal filters of ordinary life, I run through the play as Coach’s voice buzzes in my ear, and I’m visualizing and talking my team through the number one, two, and three options.

“If all else fails I’ll run like hell. Set. Go,” I say. They all grunt and we line up. The first play is a short pass to Shelby and he storms past his first defender and spins past another and almost breaks a third tackle before being brought down at the thirty-five-yard line.

The ref yells, “First down.” We line up again and continue down the field. We’re on a roll until we get inside the eight-yard line at third and goal. Only one more try to get into the end zone. We get to the huddle and the guys are gassed. The coach calls a play and I hear him, but I ignore him and say, “I’m running the ball in.” My line and the rest of the offense nod and grunt, all on board, all understanding their assignments.

We line up and as I call out the nonsensical words and numbers, my adrenaline rises, shutting out everything but me and the ball as it’s hiked into my hands. The play is a blur of instinctive motion as I zero in on the goal line and reach for it. And then I get slammed to the turf and all I see are stars, all I feel is a vibrating sting run through me for an endless fraction of time. Until the whole world roars back into focus and I see the ref’s arms in the air and my teammates swarming me, pulling me to my feet and slapping my back, headbutting my helmet and shouting all manner of craziness. Jasper shouts in my face what a badass motherfucker I am and I feel restored, the pain and aftermath of the impact falls away, and we gallop our way back to our bench.

“It’s only the first TD, in the first quarter.” I try to calm down the sideline, willing my heart to slow, but the excitement of the first game and first score of the season is hard to beat down. Until Coach storms over and pulls me aside.

“What the fuck was that, Jones?”

“A touchdown, sir.” I’m not being flip, but he looks like if we weren’t in the middle of a loud and happy sold-out crowd at SPU’s oversized stadium he’d cuff me across the face.