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.”
When his bright smile turns hungry, I realize my error. Oh, Ellie, you are such a dumb girl. Stop flirting with the hot jock and get your ass out of here.
“If you don’t, I wouldn’t worry. Running shorts, work out T-shirts, and ponytails are moving to the top of the list of things I’m a fan of.”
He leans even closer, and the smell of fresh turf, sunshine, and earthy male fills my lungs and my frame quakes the tiniest bit when I gulp in that dangerous cocktail. This is very bad for me. Yet…I’m not moving.
“So, breakfast?” he prompts with a slightly raised eyebrow. “We can talk about our favorite running shoes and exchange minor details like names and phone numbers.”
“I’m a big fan of New Balance,” I murmur even though I know I should pull away.
“I’m a big fan of names.” He squeezes my hand. “Mine is—”
“Knox! Your smoothie is ready!” A cheery voice calls out from the player tunnel. The sound manages to shake me free from Masters.