Page 66 of Dirty Hit
The possessiveness should make me bristle; instead, it makes something warm and terrifying unfurl in my chest. Dear God. I don’t have a healthy response to anything anymore.
Dominic:I have practice now, so behave yourself for the next two hours.
I grin, wrap my fingers around the phone anyway, and think about his voice in the kitchen, telling me to text if I started spiraling. The thing is, I’m not spiraling. I’m sitting here, feeling more grounded than I have in months, and the only thing that feels like it’s going to send me to Hell is how much I want to see him again when I’m not required to.
Which is how I end up at practice an hour later.
It’s a stupid idea; I know it before I even veer off the path toward the stadium, instead of cutting across to the library like I usually do.
He told me what we have stays between us; that no one else needs to know about what we have because it’s private and might impact both of our lives negatively.
He didn’t say I can’t sit in a crowd of students and watch him do what everyone thinks is the only thing that defines him.
There’s a part of me that wants to know if seeing that version of him—the golden boy, the campus god, the quarterback with a face made for ESPN—will knock any sense back into me.
Maybe if I watch him around other people, I’ll remember that I’m just another body on his roster, that whatever intimacy I think I felt last night is something he can manufacture with anyone.
The lie tastes bitter even in my head, but it’s enough to get me moving. I follow the stream of students toward the stadium, hand wrapped tight around the strap of my bag.
The late afternoon sun slants low over the bleachers, turning the metal rail warm under my palms when I climb the steps and find a seat halfway up and far enough from other spectators.
There are girls with painted cheeks, a couple of guys from my ethics seminar, some random freshmen wearing Volkov jerseys that make my stomach twist with a feeling I don’t want to name. I sit down, slip my bag between my feet, and stare out at the field like this is normal for me.
It’s so not normal.
I know enough about football from existing on this campus and having a cousin who plays for Blackthorne U to understand the basics.
My eyes immediately find him, andoh, my good God.
From the stands, he looks exactly like the image the school sells: six feet four inches of controlled aggression; all muscle and flow. Black hair pulled back into a messy tie at the nape of his neck.
He’s in compression pants that cling to every line of his thighs and ass and a white tank top plastered to his chest with sweat. Even from here, I can see the defined cut of his shoulders and the ink climbing up his biceps and over his collarbone, hints of it peeking from under the tank near his ribs.
“That’s obscene,” I mutter to myself, dragging my eyes away, then failing instantly and looking back. “Compression pants should be illegal. That’s definitely in Leviticus somewhere.”
When he jogs back to the huddle with his helmet under his arm, the compression pants stretch across the curve of his ass in a way that makes my brain short out. I stare like an absolute creep—heat rising up my neck into my face—the noise of the stands fading into a dull hum.
“This is my Devil,”I think helplessly. This is the Hell I’ve always been warned about, except nobody at church mentioned it would be six-four, tatted, and wearing a white tank that sticks to his stomach every time he wipes sweat off his forehead with the hem.
If Hell is real, I’m definitely booked, because there is no version of a righteous life where your Devil looks likethat.
Golden boy. Coach’s dream. Campus god.
Daddy.
My brain decides to be a traitor and replays that one moment from last night—how his face changed when I said it. How his eyes went dark, and his hand tightened in my hair.
“Stop,” I mutter under my breath, jaw clenching. “You’re in public. Be normal for five seconds.”
I drag my eyes away again, forcing myself to look at anything else. The scoreboard. The sky. The girl two rows down, twirling her hair and very obviously staring at Dominic’s ass. The urge to lean forward and tell her to look somewhere else is both irrational and so strong it scares me.
Really, Lane?I scold myself.You had one night of being a whore for him, and suddenly you’re jealous?
I watch him move through drill after drill, calling plays, arguing with Keller, patting backs, swearing at someone who drops a pass. He’s in his element out here. It’s weird seeing him fully in that role while knowing what his hands did last night.
The same hands pointing receivers into motion were tangled in my hair. The same mouth calling plays, whispered filth while I was on my knees for him.
“You’re going to Hell,” I mutter under my breath, not sure if I’m talking about him or myself.
