Promise Me Not

Mason

Before, November

Tugging my sweats on, I towel dry my hair and step out of the hotel bathroom. Noah’s chilling in the same spot I left him, grinning at his phone like a fool.

“That better be my sister you’re smiling at, dick.” I hear her laugh and grin to myself as I slide back into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

When I come back, Ari’s girlish squeal fills the room.

“Ah shit, you told her, didn’t you?” I shout, popping my head beside Noah’s to catch a glimpse of my sister on the screen.

“Holy shit!” She beams, Cameron crowded beside her.

“I know.” A chuckle leaves me, and I give a playful glare when tears fill her eyes. “Knock it off.”

“Oh my god, Mase.” Her tone is thick with emotion. “You’re going to rock it.”

“Love you, girls.”

“Love you!” they shout.

I heave a long sigh, stepping out into the hall before I, too, get emotional. That would be embarrassing in front of my captain, but aside from that, I don’t want to get sappy when I’m juiced like this.

What I want is to share this with the first person who came to mind when I learned the news.

I pull her name up, anticipation firing inside me with each ring, but when her voicemail picks up in the end, a defeated breath pushes past my lips. I kick off the wall, ready to head back to the room, but before I make it a single step, my phone is ringing, a picture of an unsuspecting blond staring out at the ocean lighting up my screen.

“Pretty Little,” I answer.

“Superstar.”

My lips curve, and I can picture her smirk. “Why didn’t you answer my FaceTime call?”

“Not everyone can look as perfect as you all the time.”

“I mean, duh.” She laughs in my ear, and I lean back against the wall. I like her laugh. “If everyone could, my superpowers would be insignificant.” I pull the phone way, hitting the FaceTime button again. “Answer, Pretty Little. I wanna see your face when I tell you what I called to tell you.”

“You just want your way.”

“Also true.” I chuckle, nodding at two of my teammates when they walk by and moving so I’m a little farther down the hall. “Come on now, and don’t tear your lower lip apart thinking too hard about it.”

She goes silent, and I smirk to myself. A moment later, I’m accepting her video call.

She pops up on the screen, her head propped up on a mountain of pillows. Her face is makeup-free, hair spread out around her and wet from what I’m assuming was the shower, if her pink pj’s tell me anything.

She looks as perfect as ever.

My smile is ridiculous. “Hi.”

“Hi.” She smiles back, shaking her head. “I never thought a pregnant belly would help hold things for me, but a little extra blanket and boom. Hands free.” She wiggles her fingers, and a low laugh leaves me.

I can’t help but note the color in her face and lax expression. She’s having a good day. No dark circles or redness around the eyes. I don’t think she cried today, and damn if that doesn’t send a sense of pride through me. She’s strong, and I hope she’s starting to realize it. “You look good.”

She scoffs, pushing herself up and holding the phone back to show me her swollen belly. “I look like I swallowed a watermelon and got stung by a hundred bees.”

“Watermelon is my favorite.”

“And the bees?” She lifts a brow, her playfulness making me all the more eager to share my news.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask, knowing she’s going to roll her eyes cause we both know she’ll be watching my game, if only to text me something in her brand of silly afterward.

She smiles, and I wait to hear it. “Actually, I’m going with Lolli to watch Nate’s game at USD.”

My face falls instantly.

She sits up, a small frown pulling at her forehead. “Why? What’s up?”

“Nothing.” My answer is too quick, and worry washes over her, her mouth opening, but I quickly add, “Hey, I’ve got to go. Don’t think about me too long, all right?”

She doesn’t buy the grin on my face, but a small smile does curve her lips. “In your dreams, Superstar.”

We hang up, and I wonder what she would say if I responded with more often than not.

Sleep doesn’t come so easily after that. I’m too keyed up, an anxious excitement blending with the bitter taste of disappointment knowing my girl, I mean Payton, won’t get to see me in action.

Sure, she’ll catch the highlights like always, but it’s not the same. I want her to hear the roar of the crowd and know she’s sitting on the edge of her seat when I step out on that field. ’Cause there is no doubt in my mind she would be, just like my sister and Cameron will.

Or are right this minute, because it’s time, and nothing is going to sour this moment for me.

Let’s.

Fucking.

Go!

I growl, stretching my lips out along the mouthpiece as I bob from foot to foot, hopping high into the air to the heavy beats blasting through the stadium speakers, but it’s go time now.

Slowly, the music fades, the crowd goes crazy, and I watch with sharp eyes as Jency Fayo, our kick returner, catches the ball and dances his way down the field. He jukes left, then right, spinning until he passes the thirty-yard line. The defenders come at him from every direction, and he goes down at the twenty.

A hand slaps my shoulder, and I look over.

Noah grins, shoving me forward. “Take it home.”

“Let me show you how it’s done, pretty boy.” I smirk, and Noah chuckles goodheartedly, not in the least put off by the fact that I’m starting in his position today.

We couldn’t be more different in that sense. He’s mentally secure in what he does and has to offer.

I know I’m good but have no greater fear than falling over the edge of insignificance.

I need to do well, show Coach he made the right choice when he offered me this position, knowing his star player won’t be coming back next year.

None of my hard work matters if I’m not wearing that C marking me team Captain next season, when Noah retires it on his way to the NFL.

None of it.

I jog out alongside our starting offense, and the second my cleats hit the turf, all the noise falls away, my brain fires on a hundred, and I become the fucking game.

The call is given, the team lines up, and my nostrils flare as I drag in a long lungful of charged air. I give the signal, and the ball is snapped.

It’s a good fucking snap, the leather between my palms, the laces tingling against my skin.

The call is meant to confuse the defense, my side shuffle and the drop of my wrists leading them to believe we’re going for a quick toss to the running back. They shift, my line holds strong, and I step back, firing down the field. My receiver is wide open, and the ball drops into his open gloves with precision. He’s taken down instantly, but that don’t matter.

The crowd goes wild, the chains are moved, and it’s first down, Sharks.

We jog down the field, bending into position, ready to get the next play underway. This time, the snap goes a little high, forcing me to call an audible and change the play on the fly to maximize the potential of success.

The O line opens up a gap, and I break through, my legs pumping, ball gripped tight. The safety drops down, and a linebacker charges from my left, so I propel my feet faster, getting one extra yard before sliding onto my side.

The whistle is blown, and I pop up, tossing the ball to the ref.

First down again.

Fuck. Yes.

The coach gives the next play, an outside slant, the target being the deepest corner of the end zone, and I’m going to make it happen.

We get set. I line my boys up and step back.

“One! One!” I look left, then right. “Set, hike!”

I drop back, focused downfield, shifting on my feet as I get ready to bomb it. I draw back, knowing without a doubt this ball is gonna land between ten fingers with ease.

My arm whips forward, and I don’t see the moment my line collapses. I’m blindsided. As hard as a bull, I’m slammed on my right side. My body bends, and in the same moment, a second body collides with my left. My lips pull back, pain exploding in my ribs. I briefly register my feet leaving the ground. The crowded stadium whips across my vision as my helmet is thrown from my head seconds before my body slams into the ground, emptying my lungs and turning the whole world black.

It’s no wonder people go mad after long stints in the hospital. The incessant beeping of machines alone is enough to drive you insane, and if that doesn’t do it, the pitying looks from the nurses will.

Outside of a quick phone call to let my family know I’m alive, I’ve spoken to no one over the last twenty-four hours.

My team is already back on campus, preparing for a long day of practice tomorrow, and I’m sitting in a fucking wheelchair at an airport. The gang thinks my cousin is picking me up, but I lied to my sister when I told her that.

I can’t face any of them right now, especially Nate when I saw the score from his game. He slayed, and I got fucking filleted.

My cousins likely think I’m headed back to my parents’ house, and my parents think I’m headed to the beach house where my cousins can help look after me. I don’t plan to tell anyone, and I’m hoping the others won’t find out I’ll be staying just down the road. I don’t need their help or pity during this mandatory recovery period.

That’s right. I’ve been benched, deemed useless to my team.

Not my team. The team. The team I’m technically not a part of for the next who the hell knows how long.

Who gets injured on the first drive of the first game they start in at a higher level?

Weak, slow, worthless fuckers, that’s who.

A familiar truck pulls up, and my buddy jogs around, but I don’t meet his eyes. I can feel him staring though, taking in my injuries and this chair I don’t need but am required to sit in so long as the team facilitator is standing beside me.

The second he pulls open the passenger door, my glare grows deeper.

“I can open a door.” I push to my feet, forcing myself to stand tall. My ribs scream in protest, but I don’t show it.

Duke lifts his hands and stands back, watching as I walk toward the vehicle, my hoodie tight due to all the bandages wrapped around me beneath it.

My shoulder is on fire, burning like a dozen branding sticks are pressed into my skin, but I hide that, too. I climb inside and don’t look his way when he glances over.

Duke is a cool dude, a surfer we met years ago who gives cheap lessons off the pier. Sure, I had to pay him to come get me, but I like it that way. Now I don’t feel obligated to talk, and he’s perfectly happy to sit back and listen to the soft rock bullshit he likes so much.

Needless to say, the ride is a long one filled with nothing but shitty music and an overwhelming array of emotions, the easiest of those to hold on to being anger. Anger is good. I might buckle under anything else, but at least rage can be funneled into something else.

When we pull up to the beach house, he parks in the damn grass, getting as obnoxiously close to the front door as possible. He’s grinning when I swing my scowl on him, and I almost relax, but the tension doubles when I struggle, and he quickly looks away.

Sighing, I face him with a forced smile. “Thanks for coming, man.”

“I was free, so no big.” He shrugs. “Let me know if you… Just call if you want.”

I nod, climbing from the truck, every inch of my body objecting. That’s the only reason I don’t get pissed when he carries the small, worthless duffel I had taken on the away trip. There’s nothing in there but a toothbrush, some deodorant, and the pills the doc sent me home with, the clothes I’d brought for the ride home already on my back. I don’t even have a phone charger.

He doesn’t try to come in, and I don’t bother with an invite, just close the door and hide myself inside.

With each aching step, I curse the world a little more, determined to make it to the kitchen for a glass of water.

By the time I get one filled, my limbs are shaking, and it hurts to breathe. Pushing off the island, I head back for the living room. I nearly pass out from the throbbing in my temples, my hand shooting out to grip the wall, but of course, my dominant hand is what goes out to save me, sling be damned.

“Ah!” I scream in agony as my shoulder erupts in flames, and this time, my knees buckle.

The glass falls from my fingertips as my body goes down. It shatters across the tile floor, and I slam into the broken shards, screaming again when my ribs seem to crack a little more.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I shout, kicking at the wall, my head lolling to the side.

That’s when I do a double take, my entire body freezing in horror, gaze focused out the floor-to-ceiling window of the back deck.

One the other side, big blue eyes stare back at me in shock.

Payton

My mouth is hanging open, my limbs frozen as I stare through the clear glass.

Mason.

He’s…here.

Why is he here?

He squeezes his eyes closed, and mine fall. The blood on the floor is what snaps me out of it, and I jump up, my camera tumbling to the wooden deck beneath my feet as I dash for the slider. I tug, but it’s locked. My eyes snap up to him, but he’s facing away from me now, so I run around the wraparound porch. Thankfully, the front is open, and seconds later, I’m barreling into the house, coming to a screeching halt when I reach the kitchen.

“Oh my god.” My hand drops to my belly, worry washing over me and completely unsure of what I’m really looking at. “Mase.”

“Leave.”

My head snaps up, our eyes locking, and he gives me a look I’ve never seen from him.

Anger. His lip is curled, teeth clenched, and there’s a dark fire in his brown gaze.

I move closer.

“I said leave,” he snaps, his head yanking in the opposite direction.

I bend down in front of him, one hand holding on to the island to keep me steady, my other trembling as I reach out and brush my fingers over his knee.

Slowly, he glances over, and the bravado falls instantly. “Please leave,” he whispers, his tone so desperate, something stirs in my chest. “I can’t stand you seeing me like this.”

“Well, we have to get even, don’t we?” I whisper, smiling softly when he frowns. “You’ve seen me a heck of a lot worse.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips before it’s gone. “So you’re saying this is only fair?”

I shrug and he drops his chin to his chest.

“Can I help you stand? You may or may not have glass sticking out of your ass.”

Mason huffs a laugh, and instantly his back bows, a harsh wince whooshing past his lips. He starts panting, and worry claws at my throat.

He’s hurt, that’s obvious. But how? When?

I stand, tugging gently on his left hand, seeing as his right is cradled to his chest, but he doesn’t budge, instead yanking back with a look of horror on his face.

“The baby.” He shakes his head.

“If I feel like I’m straining myself, I’ll stop. Trust me.” I reach out again, and Mason’s jaw twitches.

Slowly, he allows me to take his hand, but he gives me little to no weight, his nostrils flaring with his own exertion. He turns slightly as he stands, leaning a hip against the island, and I shift behind him. I glance at his back, and there’s no glass in his sweats I can see, so I shuffle closer, hoping he’ll lean on me at the least.

“Be careful,” he whispers. “Don’t get glass in your feet.”

I look down at the sandals I’m wearing but say nothing as I try to slide under his left arm, but he doesn’t allow it, shifting away and moving ahead at a slow pace.

His posture is rigid, his fist bloody and clenched. I follow behind as he makes his way toward the couch and eases himself down.

A harsh breath hisses past his lips, and he drops his head back with a pant, as if it took all he had in his tank to get there.

My heart rate picks up, concern consuming me. He’s so pale, no sign of the forever tan I know him to wear, and his face is scrunched in pain and misery. Before I turn to a pile of panic, I rush back into the kitchen, snagging the first aid kit.

When I come back, Mason glances my way from the corner of his eye. “I’ll be fine. You can go.”

I lower onto the cushion beside him.

“I’m serious, Payton.”

I fold my feet under me.

He faces forward with a frown. “I’m tired.”

“I could use a nap.” I tip my head. “I mean, you’re just a little bruised. I’m the one carrying around a bowling ball.”

A grin splits his lips, and he jerks, his hand flying to his ribs. “Fuck, it hurts to even think about laughing.”

I say nothing, and after a stretch of silence, he sighs and holds his palm out.

Gingerly, I take one, using a pair of tweezers to remove two small pieces of glass, and then wipe the skin clean. The little cuts aren’t big enough to need a Band-Aid, but I add one anyway because they have little footballs all over.

Mason glares at the small white strip, and realization hits me hard and fast.

Oh my god, football.

My eyes fly to his face, and when he looks at me, it’s with a loaded expression I know all too well. It’s panic and pain. It’s fear and loss laced with utter disappointment.

And it’s all pointed right back at himself.

I have a million questions, and based on his next words, it must show.

“I’m guessing you haven’t talked to the others?”

I wince, feeling a little guilty. “I’m sort of…hiding out?”

He turns his head my way fully, worry etched in his brown eyes when he’s the one who’s hurt. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

Something stirs in my stomach, drawing a sort of tension there. Mason is sitting here, hardly able to move a muscle, and he’s worried about me?

“I’m fine,” I manage to whisper.

Now he glares, and a low chuckle leaves me.

“Honest.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I fight a smile. Even in complete disarray, he’s still got his bossy boy edge. Or man.

I peek at him a moment, taking in his sharp features and vivid dark eyes.

Yeah, he’s no boy.

Clearing my throat, I focus on his hand. “So my dad showed up out of the blue.” I pause, scoffing as I unfold my legs to get more comfortable. “Well, supposedly it was out of the blue. I grilled Parker, and he swears he didn’t know he was coming, but I feel like that’s a lie.”

Mason nods slightly, waiting for more.

“Anyway, he asked me to dinner, and I felt like I couldn’t say no, so I ended up agreeing, canceling on Lolli last minute.”

“And?”

I smash my lips together. “And I wish I hadn’t.” I frown. “It’s just we’re not exactly father and daughter anymore, you know? When my mom refused to let him see me after he left her, he didn’t exactly go out of his way to try to get around that. But now that I got out of that house, he’s been around, if only over the phone, since he still works as much as he did when we were kids. I do appreciate the effort, I guess, and I love him in a way I could never love my mom, but I lost him a long time ago. I learned how to be fine with that.” I shake my head, looking away.

“What is it?” he asks.

This time, it’s me who drops their head back. “He asked me to move in with him. Says he has room for me and the baby and⁠—”

“No.”

My eyes flick up to his, and his narrow further.

“You can’t go. Don’t go.”

My stomach stirs with something unnamable yet familiar, and a heat touches my cheeks. “I don’t want to. I like it here.” I peep at him to find a strained expression on his handsome face, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what would come out if he opened his mouth.

“Anyway,” I quickly continue. “He took me to this cute little restaurant in Santa Monica, and when he dropped me back off this morning, I just…walked over here. Lolli’s and Kenra’s cars were both parked in the driveway, and I didn’t feel like talking. I’ve been sitting on the back patio all day.”

“Did you eat?”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you eat?”

Fighting a smile, I look up into his brown eyes. “Yes, I ate.”

I hold his stare, and with every moment that passes, a deeper sense of torment creeps into his gaze. He wants to talk, but he can’t quite form the words yet.

It must be bad.

The last thing he needs is to feel forced to chat when he isn’t ready. I would know. So I take a page from the Mason Johnson playbook, prop my head on my fist, and say, “Want me to kick his ass?”

I don’t know who “he” is, and clearly a fight didn’t do this to his body, but the line I borrowed from him does its job.

Another pained laugh escapes him, and he turns to me with a wretched smile, borrowing a line just the same. “So how boring is photography?”

“Well, Superstar.” I shift toward him. “Let me tell you all about it…”