Promise Me Not

Mason

Now, July 9

“We’re having tacos.”

“I’m tired of tacos.”

“Who gets tired of tacos?”

“The people who have to cut all the toppings up every time, that’s who.”

“Well, maybe if you paid attention when Noah’s teaching Ari tricks in the kitchen, you wouldn’t be stuck with the shitty tasks no one else wants and you can’t fuck up.”

Brady dodges Cameron’s right hook with a laugh, throwing her over his shoulder right there in the middle of the store.

Ari sighs, shaking her head at our friends as they disappear around the aisle, Cameron cussing him out all the way. “Bet you five bucks he’s taking her to the cookie aisle as an apology.”

A smirk pulls at my lips. “I’ll keep my five, thanks.”

Noah walks up, locking his arms around my twin’s middle. “You two really are best friends if food works to get both of you into b⁠—”

I raise a brow at him, and he pivots.

“Brunch.”

Fighting a smirk, I point to Chase as he steps up. “We’ll get the meat. You two get the veggies.”

Chase rubs the back of his head. “I need some things for my protein shakes…”

“Chase and I are on fruits and veggies, then.” Noah looks to Chase. “You ever tried adding peanut butter powder instead of peanut butter?”

Chase glances away, and I swear it’s a shame thing. He can’t quite meet Noah’s eyes without flinching, but he knows it’s his own doing and mans up every time. “Does it help thin it out more?”

“Oh, yeah, man.” The two start walking, Noah talking as they go, and Ari and I stare after them until they’re gone.

She looks to me with a half smile and leads us toward the meat counter. “Noah hates the tension in the room when Chase is around.”

“A little tension is good for Chase. He can’t be let off the hook too easy, and he doesn’t want to be.”

“And that’s exactly why Noah hates it. Chase is punishing himself, distancing himself. It’s not right, Mase. He’s family, too.”

An uncomfortable sensation builds in my gut, just like it does every time I think about how my best friend tried to get in the middle of my sister and Noah when the couple was at their most vulnerable. The truth is it sickened me to see him go after her when he did, especially after learning he had his chance and blew it…but at the same time, a small part of me understood.

Or maybe that’s a new revelation, considering.

All I know is if before I was against doing something a little less than honorable to get what I wanted, I’m not anymore. You’ll never change the score if you don’t dare to make the pass, right?

I want the girl, and I’m not sure there’s a move I wouldn’t make to get her.

“Are you still mad at him?” my sister asks.

Pulling a deep breath in, I slowly let it out, a small shake of my head following. “I was pissed, but I think I was more disappointed than anything, and not because of what he was doing. It’s like I’ve said before. Chase is a good man. I know that, you know that, and we’re all young. There’s a lot of shit we’re going to fuck up along the way. What I didn’t like was that he had you and only decided to do something real about it after your accident.”

Panic pricks at my skin at the thought of everything that went down just seven months ago. I thought I was losing my sister, my twin, and for the first time, no matter what I did, I couldn’t protect her. I failed at my position, and I damn well knew it.

And then she healed, and I realized something.

My sister had someone who meant everything to her, who wanted to give her the world, and that meant she didn’t need me anymore.

Football was over for the season, so they didn’t need me either.

I was floating away, and only when a certain strawberry blond was around did that sense of worthlessness deflate.

I don’t know why it’s there in the first fucking place. I hate it, and it makes no sense.

My parents loved the shit out of us, raised us well, and had our backs no matter what. They came to all my games, and we had more family time than not. We weren’t neglected or expected to raise ourselves once we were old enough to know how. I had friends, and I was as happy as any other kid who had a good home like mine.

Regardless of all that, though, I was still the “big brother.” The only brother.

My dad lost his sister when he was young, and after I heard the story of how she was killed by a car while riding her bike, I saw the sadness and fear in his eyes and I knew I had to be the protector. My family needed me to shield our home from that same fate, because we wouldn’t survive a loss like that.

I wouldn’t survive, so watching over her became my job. If she fell off the swings, I was there to pick her up. If she was scared, I would make her feel safe. If someone pushed her, I put them on their ass. There was no me without her, at least not until football came along.

Only when I was on the field did I discover I was capable of caring about myself, too, and it didn’t take long for us all to realize I was better than most in the sport. Suddenly, not only Ari needed me, but so did my team. It was like the other half of my brain sparked to life.

Just like that, I had two purposes in life, and I fucking thrived on that fact.

“Trauma affects everyone different, Mase,” Ari whispers, bringing me back to the conversation at hand. “You can’t blame them, hate them, or turn your back on them. The same way people process differently, they heal differently, too.” She looks my way, and I meet her gaze. “And some take a lot longer than others.”

A scoff leaves me, and I fight a smile. “Really? Just gonna leave that line hanging and hope I bite?”

Her brows draw in, worry blanketing her features. “Are you going to?”

A small scowl builds, and I look away. I hate that she’s concerned for me. She shouldn’t have to stress herself out over me and my shit.

Sighing, I change the subject. “I’m headed back to campus in the morning. Coach has a new trainer on staff he wants me working with. The team’s due back from break in a few days, and I guess since I’m the new Noah, it’s my job to make sure shit’s dialed in before they get there.”

Ari waits, hoping I’ll at least touch on what she was not so subtly trying to say, so I try to find a way to say what Ari thinks she knows without confirming or denying.

“Last year, I was champing at the bit to get there, and last night, I was sitting around trying to think of excuses my coach would believe so I could stay here a little longer.” My frown doubles. “Last summer, I felt good about the future, but I didn’t come back to what I left here last time.” I glance her way from the corner of my eye.

Ari’s face is full of understanding, and a small, sad smile curves her lips.

The line moves, and then it’s our turn, so we face the butcher with tight grins.

I don’t even hear what she ends up ordering, the sudden ringing in my ears is too loud.

I have to leave tomorrow, and I’m fucking terrified.

Too fast, the next morning rolls around, and when I walk out to my truck with my duffel hanging from my fist, my fears are validated.

Because unlike the last time, there’s no pretty little blond standing beside the hood with a baby carriage, just making sure she gets the chance to say goodbye.

It’s just me.

Me and the overwhelming sense of fucking failure.

“Last one, Johnson!” Coach Rogan shouts from the sideline.

I line up with the cones, dashing forward, only to cut back into the pocket. Assistant Coach Davies shoves out his pad from the left, and I roll right, evading. I dash to the marker, pull my arm back, and fake a pass, then return to the start.

I drop back, sling myself to the left when my secondary coach, Coach Nichols, approaches my right, my feet cutting across the grass. My arm shoots out, and this time, the ball launches from my fingertips.

A whistle is blown loudly, and I spin with a pant.

“Coach.” My hands go to my hips, my neck stretching to allow my lungs a deeper breath. “I got more in the tank. I can go another⁠—”

“Just because you can doesn’t always mean you should. What did I say about releasing?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t bother with an excuse as to why I let the ball fly.

“You’re on a detailed workout for a reason. Stick to it. We’ll see you back here before dinner for your brief with Coach Manu. Shower and recovery. After that, head over to get your meals sorted with the dietician. They should have everything settled. You just need to make your selections and replace what you might not like.”

“Yes, Coach.”

He eyes me a moment before nodding. “We’re counting on you, kid. Now get out of here and get cleaned up.”

“Yes, Coach.” A bolt of electricity fires in my bones, and I give a curt nod. “Thank you.”

They’re counting on me.

They need me.

Mason Johnson.

I tear the towel from my shorts, swiping at the sweat rolling down my face and the back of my neck. A satisfied exhale burns its way past my throat, my workout having really done me in good, and I chuckle at myself.

I feel good. I’ve never been in such good shape in my life, and I’m so fucking ready for the season to start. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m going to show this team and everyone else why I deserve to be the guy who leads them to victory.

My head is high, and I can’t stop the smile on my lips as I strip down, turn on and step into the cold spray of the shower. My muscles tense for a moment but relax a second later. I press my palms to the cool tile and let the water wash the sweat off my skin before turning to lean my shoulders against the tile.

My eyes close, and a laugh escapes. Man, this year is bound to be epic. My best friends and I are going to do everything we talked about at twelve years old: start together on a D1 college football field in front of hundreds of thousands of screaming fans, be it in person or on TV. Avix University is top tier, the record Noah led us to the last few years earning us that prime-time spot.

Now it’s my turn.

I’m the man they’ll lean on.

The crowd will wear my number proudly on their chests.

I need to get Pretty Little a season pass.

My face falls instantly.

With jerky movements, I wash up, get out, and head back to my locker. Digging into my bag, I yank on a fresh pair of boxers and some navy Avix U sweatpants. My phone is in my hands in seconds, my frown doubling as I glance down at the screen.

Zero missed calls, no new messages.

I drop onto the bench seat, opening up my and Payton’s message thread, nothing but blue bubbled texts for pages and pages, dating back to May, the newest the one I sent this morning.

It wasn’t over the top, and I wasn’t prying. Neither was the one I sent last night when I was alone in my room.

Me: I’m back on campus.

Me: Good morning. Tell Little D hi for me.

With a sigh, I back out, checking the rest of my notifications and finding Cameron posted a picture on Instagram this morning. I click on the icon, and the image appears. I jerk upright, glaring at the screen.

It’s a photo of all the girls at the café down the road from the beach house. They probably walked there like we all used to. Cameron is taking the shot, Mia and her on one side of the table, Lolli, Ari…and Payton on the other. And at the end of the table is one of those old wooden high chairs, my little man perched right inside it, a blanket tucked against his back. He’s smiling, too, his fingers stuck halfway in his mouth, and my eyes soften at the sight.

He’s so damn adorable, his dark curls all over the place and hanging over his forehead. I scroll to the next picture, and a weighted warmth falls on my chest. He’s got the little football Lolli bought him in his hand, my signature right there in the shot as he tucks it to his chest.

Maybe the little man will be a running back when he gets older.

The next shot is taken from high above, showing only their hands and the plates they ordered. A scowl pulls at my brows, and I tug the screen closer. Payton’s pretty pink painted fingernails are delicately placed at the edge of her plate—which is nothing more than a pile of fruit. That’s not what has my blood pressure rising, though. It’s the phone that’s sitting right beside her on the table.

The phone that she would have seen my message on last night or woke to this morning.

That she’s seen and ignored all my messages and calls on for months now.

After everything that happened between us.

And then even after all that, when she stopped ignoring me and broke her silence on the Fourth.

After she gave in again and let me hold her on the dance floor four nights ago.

I swallow, my leg bouncing anxiously.

She’s letting me go, I know it. I fucking feel it, and it…hurts.

I don’t want to do this.

I can’t fucking do this.

My mind is screaming, my adrenaline spiking, and it’s too much.

I need to clear my head. Again.

Shoving my earbuds in, I start a random playlist, toss my shit in my bag, and throw it over my shoulder. I shove through the door of the school gym dedicated to athletes alone and move over to the treadmill.

I hop on, hit the incline, and turn the thing to max speed.

System of a Down screams angrily in my ears, and I bob my head, pumping my arms as if trying to scale a fucking mountain that seems to double its height every fucking time I reach the top.

I run and run, and I don’t stop until my knees buckle and I fall, flying backward until my spine slams into the weight machine behind me.

I groan, dropping my head back, but I don’t get up.

I sit there glaring at the man in the mirror, wondering if he’s enough to get all he wants out of this world.

All the while knowing damn well he might not be.

I might fucking not be.