Scrimmage Gone South (Crimson Romance) by Alicia Hunter Pace

eyes closed and his head leaned up against the building. I took a minute to look at him because I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to look at him again, except in the paper and
Sports Illustrated
. If he’d been good looking before, here in the sunlight, he was spectacular. Aside from his buttery caramel hair and this perfect body, his face was nothing short of beautiful — with good reason I guess, considering his mother was one of the original elite Glitter Star models for Celestial Silk lingerie. He was a little dressed up in khakis and a blue oxford cloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up to expose his million dollar forearms.
    I wondered if he’d dressed up for me. I had not dressed or made myself up to try to look older this time. I wanted to look pretty (I have some pride, you know) but I didn’t want to be deceptive. I wore jeans and a soft pink sweater, with only a little mascara, blush, and lip gloss. Part of me hoped that he’d see me and realize I was sixteen so I wouldn’t have to tell him.
    I guess I’d been looking at him about five minutes when he finally looked up. His eyes were red rimmed and for just a second I thought he’d been crying. But then he smiled and he didn’t look sad at all. In fact, he looked happy.
    “Hey,” he said and stood up.
Hey
. Who knew a word could sound so sweet, so wrapped up in a smile?
    I knew I needed to open my mouth and tell him right now, tell him before he could say
hey
again, or my name, or utter anything that would make it impossible for me to tell him. But he was stepping toward me with his arms open and I thought, what could it hurt if I let him hold me just a second? Just one little second and then I’d tell him.
    And his put his arms around me and bent and pressed an incredibly hot cheek to mine. Hot. A face wasn’t supposed to be that hot. I put my hand on his cheek and then his forehead. That explained the sleepy looking red eyes.
    “You’re sick,” I said, but he was like, “Oh, no, not so much. I’m doing okay.” Then he coughed and it sounded like he might turn himself inside out. I asked if he’d been to a doctor and he said the team doctor had given him a shot and some cough syrup and would I like to go out to lunch? I told him he wasn’t able to go out to lunch.
    He said, “Most girls want to be seen in public with me.”
    I told him I thought I needed to turn around and take myself back to school and he needed to go to bed. He said that was not going to happen. He finally had a weekend off, he finally had me here, and he wasn’t going to let me leave.
    “You’re burning up,” I said and he had another coughing fit. Finally, he said that okay, maybe he didn’t feel so good but it was just a matter of time before that shot took effect. Maybe we could go in his room, watch some football, and order a pizza. Then later, he’d take me to dinner.
    What could I do? He was so sick. I couldn’t tell him, not yet.
    I’d been in the athletic dorm before and Nathan’s living quarters were just like Harris’s. The suite was made up of four single bedrooms, two bathrooms, a little kitchen, and a living room. I was terrified. For all I knew, Cute Jon might be sprawled out on the sofa and Austin might occupy the bedroom next to Nathan’s. But Nathan told me most of the team and all his suitemates had left for the weekend.
    Nathan’s room was just like Harris’s — except Nathan’s didn’t have a matching comforter, curtains, and rug. There was a desk and chair, chest with a TV on top, and double bed. (I guess you really can’t fit most football players in single beds.) He turned the television on and told me he was going to change clothes. I was afraid he might do it right in front of me. I mean, who knows what a college girl would expect? But he didn’t. He went into the bathroom and came out wearing a pair of shorts and a Crimson Tide t-shirt.
    He came over, put his arms around me, and kind of collapsed against me. “Thank you for