“I should have thrown it away,” I spoke quietly.
Jett said nothing as he stared at me, and then he stood fluidly, his face void of emotion. “Burn it,” he said before he went to the door. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I asked as I raised myself onto my elbows to look at him. “For having sex with me? Then or later? Or both?”
“For being a bastard.”
He left me without another word, and I stared at the ceiling, wondering when in the hell I fell for the Devil, and how was I going to make him understand he cared for me as much as I did him?
* * *
“If you don’t wear it, I will never talk to you again.”
Looking at my best friend, I fought the eye roll. “Mia, no.”
“But I got it made!” she wailed. “You need this,heneeds this.”
I looked at the T-shirt. It was black with the Saints mascot — an actual saint — on the front holding a red devil’s trident. On the back was a large silver number eight, and although I loved the T-shirt, she knew as well as I did that I couldn’t wear it.
“I cannot claim to behis,” I hissed at her. “What if he hooks up with someone and I’m wearing this like a loser?”
“He isn’t going tohook upwith anyone!” Mia wagged her head back and forth as she threw her hands in the air. “You owe me a top.”
That was kind of mean. I couldn’t believe she went there; it wasn’t my fault that Jett had ripped the top she bought me last week. As I stared at her and she rolled her eyes back at me, I knew she would get her way, so I held my hand out in resignation. “Give it to me.”
Mia crowed in triumph, and I shrugged out of my tank top and pulled the T-shirt on. “Size is small,” I told her.
“No, you need to let him remember you have curvesandremind him how much he loves your curves.”
“Mia!”
“Hush, I think high ponytail for effect.” Her hands were already in my hair, and I decided to give in and let her do what she wanted. My nerves were already shot for today, so worrying about Jett not liking my T-shirt was not a big deal. Jett getting injured or, worse, hooking up with someone else . . . that made me feel sick.
Eventually, when she was finished putting makeup on me for a football game, she let me leave the apartment.
Like all the other tens of thousands of supporters, we walked to the stadium, black and silver mixing with blue and white. Balloons and decorations dominated the campus, and it was so hard not to get caught up in the buzz.
At the stadium, Quinn was at the entrance, and she rolled her eyes as she saw us. “Finally, I almost sent someone to get you!” she snapped as she fastened two wrist bands around our arms. Her hair was also in a ponytail. Black jeans and a Saints jersey completed her outfit. I noted that there was no number on her back. She turned me swiftly to admire my T-shirt. “Nice.”
“Mia made it,” I told her.
“Sure.” Quinn pulled me forward.
I looked back at Mia, who looked sheepish. “It was her idea.”
They ganged up on me? When did this happen?
“Where are we going?” I asked as I was hauled through a crowd.
“To the seats. If I miss them warming up, I willnotbe happy.”
She was happynow? I trailed after her, reaching behind me to grab Mia, who was grinning in excitement.
We were in the family seats, and I felt anxious again as I looked around nervously. “Quinn?”
“Our parents are in the box, but I like to be down here for the warm-up,” she told me as she watched the tunnel. “They need to know they have support allthroughthe game, including warm-ups.”
I nodded. Whatever reservations I had about Quinn, it was clear she was fiercely loyal to her friends.
