The Revenge Pact (Kings of Football #1) - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,55

face and smile.

She sighs. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

“Yeah. No problem.” I stick my hands in the pockets of my jeans, not sure what else to say. There’s an intimacy between us that wasn’t there before, a fragile thread that feels as if it might disappear at any moment.

A red-tailed hawk swoops past us and lands on a tree. “They mate for life,” I say. “Crows too. Weird, right? Swans, bald eagles, barn owls, beavers, gray wolves, coyotes—now that’s an interesting one. There’s this website with videos of coyotes, showing them nuzzling each other…” I stop at her expression. “What? I watch Animal Planet.” I twist my ring. “Why are you staring at me like I just grew an extra head?”

“I like you. Who you are.”

“It’s the weird stuff that sticks in my mind.”

She hums. “Did you not try hard in high school and now it’s catching up with you?”

“Yeah.” I sway on my feet, part loopy exhaustion, part No, that’s a lie.

“Thank you, you know, for indulging me. I needed this.”

Any time is on the tip of my tongue, but I shut it down.

She points at the horizon. “It’s coming! Go!” She takes a breath in, her cheeks puffing out as she faces the east.

I suck in air, and she startles me when she clasps my hand and laces our fingers together. We face the sunrise as it peeks over the horizon, a soft gleam of orange illuminating the dimness, slowly brightening the day. I count out thirty seconds in my head.

She lets out a long exhalation and we stand there for another minute or two, not speaking as we hold hands and watch as the glow inches higher. She faces me, too close, and I stare down at the smudges of black under her eyes, the delicate slope of her shoulders, the rise of her breasts in her dress.

My jacket that engulfs her.

Neither of us speaks for several moments.

Ten.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Forty.

Fifty.

Sixty.

Her voice is soft. “New day. New beginning. Life’s full of possibilities in this moment. It’s a fresh start. It’s like a book when you open it to page one. Can you feel it?”

Rainbow… I feel everything.

“Be a football star. Live your best life. Take chances and have no regrets. Those are my three things for you on this new day,” she says, her face tilting up to me. Her hand squeezes mine.

My voice is husky. “You stay gold, Anastasia, breathe every breath, read all the books, get into law school, fuck the haters, and stay beautiful. Six things for you because you deserve them all.”

She smiles tremulously, a mist appearing in her eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“River…your words.” She bites her bottom lip.

“Yeah? Tell me.”

“No. I shouldn’t say it. I…” She swallows thickly and looks at the ground.

I can’t resist tipping her chin up. “What?”

Her eyes cling to mine. “I need someone to tell me that every day of my life. Just like this. In person. Looking into my eyes.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Anastasia.

Drawn inexplicably, I take a step toward her and almost wrap my arms around her. Almost.

But I can’t do it.

Shouldn’t.

Mustn’t.

14

“Order up, Ana!” comes the cook’s voice as he sets a burger and fries up on the kitchen window.

Lila elbows me out of the way and takes it. “You stick to the bar. The prick and Harper are in the back. I’ll take this out to Carl.”

I tuck my hands in my green apron. I can’t keep on avoiding him. It’s been two days, and at some point, we’re going to come face to face. “I’m surprised he had the nerve to show up here tonight,” I mutter.

The Kappas always come in on Sunday evenings. There’s a twenty-top near the back, and it’s an unwritten rule that it belongs to them. They came in an hour ago, filing past me, most of them giving me uneasy glances when they waved.

“No,” I say and take the plate out of her hands. “This is for Carl. I’m fine.”

“Are you?” she asks. “You didn’t look fine yesterday.”

I’m doing okay, considering.

But my rage, it’s simmering under the surface. For the past two mornings, I’ve awoken to a sharp sense of shame over his words, his accusations that I was a Lolita type, and I hate it—which feeds my anger, stoking it higher and higher.

Lila takes the plate back. “I’m doing it—”

“Somebody needs to take it while it’s still hot,” Derek, our cook, grouses. “The fries will get cold.”

Marilyn gives me an eyebrow arch as she pours draft beer in a pitcher. “Ana, it’s your table