“No.”
I sigh, but she steps up to the window again, her arms crossed over her chest, and I guess that will have to do.
Now . . . I just need to figure out what to say.
The silence stretches on for several long moments and she adds, “This is you talking?”
I snap, “I’m sorry, okay? You’re not the only one who got a shock today.”
“If you’re worried that I’m going to tell him, don’t. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“Dallas, that’s not it. I don’t care about that.”
“You should. You think he’s tough on you in practice now? It can get much worse. Trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
She makes a noise on the other end that I can’t quite identify.
“This is complicated, I know.”
“Let me uncomplicate it. Whatever might have been going to happen between us, isn’t. I don’t date football players.”
“I don’t want to date you.” I wince. “That came out wrong.” And I realize when I say it, just how much of a lie it is, too. “I like you, have liked you from the moment I met you. But the whole reason I wanted to go on a walk tonight was to explain that despite wanting to date you, I can’t. I decided that long before I knew you were Coach Cole’s daughter.”
“I have a name, you know. God, I’m so sick of just being Coach Cole’s daughter.”
“Before I knew you were Dallas Cole, then. I’m not a scholarship player, Dallas. I could be cut at any moment. And I’m not the best student in the world, which puts me even more at risk. If I want to stay on the team, I have to stay focused. I have to work hard. And for now at least, that means no dating.”
“Isn’t this kind of a moot point now? We’re both well aware that no dating will be taking place.”
I sigh. “I wanted to go for a walk and explain things because I hoped we could still be friends.”
She disappears from the window. I wonder if she’s pacing or just tired of me when she says, “Seriously?”
“I know it sounds stupid. But I told you the truth on Friday night. I’m a transfer. I’m nonscholarship. I’m an outsider on the team, and at this school. I think you’re pretty great, and I’d hate to lose that because our situation is . . . complicated.”
She snorts. “Complicated. Right.”
I wish she would come back to the window so I could see her face.
“Is that a no?”
She doesn’t say anything, and it drives me crazy not being able to know what she’s thinking. Damn it, why don’t dorms have balconies?
“It’s an I don’t know.”
“Can I help you figure it out?”
“No. Not tonight. I’ll text you or something.”
She hangs up the phone, the blinds drop, and I have no choice but to drag myself home.
I DON’T SEE Dallas again that week, not even when I stick around the environmental science building trying to catch her before whatever class she has there. She sure as hell never comes back to practice, and even though I want to obsess over it, there’s no time.
On Wednesday, Coach tells me I’m traveling with the team, and the rest of the week speeds by, until I walk out on a football field in a Rusk University jersey for the first time. Mom and Dad are supposed to try to come since this away game is closer to home than Rusk, but Granny is sick again, so they don’t make it after all.
It’s just as well because as expected, I ride the bench the whole game, and now in the dark quiet of the charter bus on our way home, I finally have the space in my head to think about Dallas again. I sit and stare at the few texts we exchanged before everything went to shit, while the rest of my teammates are sleeping or listening to music. Most of them have a reason to be tired, though. They’ve actually worn themselves out playing, and I’m still keyed up with nowhere to burn that energy off. We managed a narrow victory for our first game of the season. The win wasn’t pretty, especially considering it should have been a fairly easy win for us, but it didn’t feel nearly as ugly as the feeling in my chest reading those damn texts.
Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
Why does the one night I had with this girl suddenly hold more weight in my mind than relationships that lasted months of my life?
When we get back to Rusk, we pile out—a long line of sleepy guys in sweatpants with duffel bags.
We all have Sunday off, and I know a few of the guys are going out tonight despite their sleepy appearances at the moment. They’ll want to celebrate the win while they don’t have to worry about enduring an early morning workout with a hangover.
I stop to drop off a few things in the locker room when I hear someone mention Firecracker. It’s the team’s nickname for Dallas.
“Heard she and the Asian chick might be at that party on ninth tonight. You gonna try again, Moore?”
I am so sick of hearing them talk about her that I have half a mind to anonymously tip the coach off about Firecracker. Let him hear their conversations and take care of it.
Instead, I grab my shit and head out without saying goodbye. And once I’m in my truck I text Dallas.
You going to a party tonight?
She hasn’t answered by the time I make the five-minute drive back to my apartment. I didn’t expect her to, not really. But the thought of one of them making a pass at her for some stupid bet sends my muscles into a fit of rage that could rival tetanus for tension.
I’m not asking you out, Daredevil. Just
answer the question.