Chapter 15
Savannah
I woke up with the taste of regret on my tongue.
Not because of anything I’d actually done, but because of what I hadn’t. One little text message, sent in a moment of reckless courage, had left me staring at my phone like it was a live grenade. You still awake? Three words that could’ve cracked something wide open between us.
What did I do when he answered? When he said yes, when the opportunity was right there, dangling in front of me? When I could have so easily got what we both wanted if I’d just had the courage to say it.
Instead, I panicked. I chickened out. I backed down like a coward and told him I hadn’t sent him the next week’s reading list.
Smooth, Savannah. Truly smooth. Nothing beats giving the star quarterback a pile of boring reading assignments to say I’m definitely not thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you right now.
I bet he was a good kisser. He seemed to excel at everything he did, and I doubt he was sloppy in the kissing department. I let my mind wander to what I might do sloppily for him. Gone were my unkind thoughts of him being shitty in bed. He had too much confidence to do something badly.
I really wanted him in my bed.
But the fantasy quickly vanished and was replaced by reality when my alarm clock went off.
Reality was Sunday brunch at Halston’s Country Club, a constant display of polite smiles and stiff-backed posture while Dad reminded everyone nearby that I was on track to follow in his footsteps, whether I liked it or not.
Though that last part was never said. Or probably even considered by my father at all.
I rolled out of bed with a groan and walked toward the closet.
My hands automatically reached for a kind of dress Dad would approve of.
In the shower, I spent the entire time trying not to picture Dante’s smile if he knew how hard I was trying not to think about him.
While thinking about him. God, I was a lost cause.
My dress was a cream tweed shift, perfect for this time of year, and I paired it with low-heeled nude shoes. I was ready for the country club. I added a light cream three-quarter-sleeve cardigan over it to cover my bare arms. The whole outfit was perfectly suffocating.
Halston’s Country Club reeked of money and eggs Benedict. Dim lighting shimmered overhead, polished silver gleamed on white tablecloths, and every conversation sounded rehearsed.
The brunch spread was as stiff and starchy as the company. I slipped into the chair beside my father, smoothed the skirt of my pale dress, and maintained my polite smile. The one that said, Yes, I am listening, even when I wasn’t.
Because the whole time the table droned on about a charity luncheon, or an upcoming fundraiser, or Chuck Harrington leaned back in his chair to remind everyone that football builds character — while his wife ignored the way his eyes strayed toward the waitress — I was regretting not answering you when Dante had asked me what I needed.
“Savannah,” my father’s voice snapped me back.
I blinked, realizing too late the question had been aimed at me. “Sorry?”
The woman across from me’s lips curved in a prim smile. “I asked how your tutoring was going. I hear you’re working with one of the athletes. That must be . . . rewarding.”
The way she said ‘rewarding’ made it sound like I was ladling soup at a shelter. I forced a smile, careful and measured. “It’s going fine.” I speared a strawberry just to keep my hands busy.
“Which player was it again?” she pressed, and I felt my father’s gaze sharpen beside me.
My pulse faltered. I couldn’t lie — not outright — but I also couldn’t give them Dante. Not again, not like this. He was mine, and no one else would get to know what passed between us, not even if it was only sharp words and stolen glances.
“Just someone from the football team,” I said casually, swallowing my fruit and reaching for my glass of water before anyone could press further.
She hummed, visibly unsatisfied, but then shifted her focus to the man beside her, starting to tell a story about their vacation home.
I exhaled slowly, feeling my father’s considering look like a weight on my shoulder.
I moved my fork through the eggs on my plate, but all I could think about was the fact that Dante hadn’t replied to me. No sarcastic comeback about the reading list.
“So, Dean Cole, what are you going to do about last night?” someone farther down the table asked.
My dad cleared his throat. “Well, it’s not appropriate behavior—”
Chuck Harrington laughed loudly, and God, that man grated on my nerves.
“Teammates fight,” he boomed. “It’s a good thing, we want a team with fighting spirit.”
My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I had no idea what he was talking about. “What happened?” I asked my dad, who had gone rigid beside me.
The woman sitting across from me had heard my question. “It’s quite shocking,” she said as someone else tried to speak over the loudness of Chuck. I had to lean across the table to hear her.
“There was trouble on campus last night — a fight between the football team’s own players, can you imagine?”
“What players?” My voice was sharp, warning bells going off in my head.
“The quarterback. Dante Spence, isn’t it?” Her tone was gleeful, the kind of relish that comes from enjoying the downfall of someone’s golden boy. “Well, from what I heard, it was almost the whole team. Campus security was called to break it up.”
I looked at my dad, eyes wide as someone else spoke.
“Well, Dean, what are you going to do? Your star quarterback is messing up. Typical jocks. They can play ball, but they can’t keep their fists to themselves.”
Dad’s jaw clenched, his smile so stiff it seemed carved from granite. “I don’t talk about ongoing investigations,” he said sharply, cutting the conversation short.
But my ears were roaring. Dante. Fighting. Campus security.
Is that why he hadn’t replied?
I forced my hands to stay still on my lap, nails digging into the soft cream tweed. Outwardly composed, inwardly unraveling. Because the image of him laughing, teasing, alive in the library just nights ago was clashing with the picture of him throwing punches under the campus floodlights.
And . . . I couldn’t decide which version of him unsettled me more.
Despite Dad trying to shut it down, the table was still buzzing with the excitement from last night’s skirmish, after the Benefactors Booster, too. Could you believe it?
Yes.
Dante was fighting with his own teammates, and for the campus police to be called, it must have been wild. I’d seen him frustrated with me, but that was just words. Teasing. Needling. Not . . . fists.
What if he was hurt? My stomach flipped at the thought, quickly followed by the harsh reminder that he wasn’t the hero they made him out to be.
I gripped my knees, frantically telling myself not to show any reaction where they could all see me. Where my dad could see me.
But the truth was already coiled in my gut. I did worry about him. Too much. Enough that the idea of him in handcuffs — or worse — made my throat tighten.
I knew my dad would be working with the media team to downplay this — these were the kind of headlines he wanted to avoid. What if the fight wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a carefully crafted statement from the athletic department?
What if Dante Spence was the kind of danger I couldn’t afford to care about — but already did?
By the time brunch finally ended, my face was sore from fake smiling. For once, my dad was just as eager as I was for the event to finish, and the sight was enough to keep me on my best behavior so I wouldn’t draw any more attention to myself.
The second I got into my car, I pulled my phone out and stared at our thread.
I shouldn’t. Absolutely shouldn’t. But my thumbs were already moving.
Me: I heard what happened. Are you okay?
The three dots appeared almost instantly, and I swore my pulse jumped into my throat.
QB10: Who told you?
I bit my lip, hesitating.
Me: Doesn’t matter. Just answer the question.
There was a longer pause this time. I gripped the steering wheel with my free hand, glaring at the phone as if I could will him to reply. Finally, his text came through.
QB10: I’m fine, Sav. Don’t worry.
That was it. No explanation, no details — just that infuriating calm. I stared at the screen, my chest tight. Don’t worry? Frustration burned as my fingers raced across the keyboard.
Me: Don’t worry?! Too late.
I hit send before I could overthink it, dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, and started the car. The engine hummed, but I didn’t shift into gear. My phone sat face down, daring me to pick it back up.
Too late.
What was wrong with me? I didn’t talk like that. I didn’t . . . care that much. At least not about him of all people.
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, groaning, telling myself not to think about it anymore.
But that wasn’t what I did.
My hand inched toward the phone. I flipped it over, half dreading, half hoping he’d replied.
Nothing.
I checked again. Still nothing.
The longer the silence went on, the more it gnawed at me inside. Was he ignoring me? Was he in deeper trouble than he was letting on? Or was he sitting there, smirking, taking pleasure in the fact that I’d broken first? Because I was pretty sure everything was a game to him.
I buckled my seatbelt and muttered to myself, “You’re pathetic, Savvy. Absolutely pathetic.”
Still, as I drove away, every streetlight seemed to count down to a message that never arrived. When I finally pulled around the back of my dorm, my chest was tight with questions I shouldn’t have been asking.
I got out of the car, listening to my inner monologue scolding me for being reckless. As I walked through the back door and slipped off my shoes, I jogged up the stairs to my dorm and came to an abrupt halt at the top of the staircase.