Page 35 of The Comeback Pact

I grin. Hopefully, it all pans out and Kenna isn’t mad. It’s time to show everyone that the football team isn’t just a bunch of obsessed jocks prowling campus in blue and white.

I pull open the door, and Aidan yells, “Go get ’em, Tiger!”

“See you soon, asshole.”

I have to run the gauntlet to get out of the dorm. It’s Friday night, so everyone is out and about, making plans to party. I get invited to two keggers and a tipsy girl wraps her arms around me and invites me back to her place. After carefully extracting myself, I tell her no thank you and hightail it to my truck.

The day they handed over the keys, I sat it in for an hour just staring. My parents never had a vehicle this cool. Hell, they barely even had a working vehicle. It’s a dream come true to own a truck like this.

Everything is happening like I wanted. Football is saving me. Not only did the dealership give me this car, but it came with a generous stipend, too. Enough to last me the entire year and then some. Coach said a couple of other businesses have reached out that he hasn’t gotten a chance to get back to yet. Even the trampoline place gave me extra hours for Kenna to practice as long as I agreed to do a commercial with them. Plus, a local brewhouse that wants to work with me has been blowing up my phone. I just have to figure out if it’s right for my brand.

I didn’t even know I had a brand.

The truck thrums to life underneath me, and I make the short drive to Kenna’s apartment. Earlier, she tried to tell me that she’d just meet me there, but I wasn’t having that. This is a date. She’s not walking anywhere.

With a stomach full of nerves, I park on the street and walk up her front steps.

I press the doorbell and stand back. When I do, it suddenly hits me: I’ve never actually been on a date before. Not a date-date. I’ve hung out. I’ve been someone’s boyfriend and hook-up buddy, but dating? Nope. I hope it’s not—

The door swings open, and Kenna stands there, gazing up at me with her beautiful brown eyes flecked with gold. Form-fitting jeans hug her body while a simple black top with sleeves past her elbow gives the slightest hint of cleavage. For a moment, I can’t talk. She’s stunning. Her hair is down, the majority of it hanging over one shoulder and somewhat hiding her scar.

“Hi,” she says. “I would’ve walked.”

“I know. Maybe I wanted an excuse to drive my truck.”

“Ha,” she exclaims, smiling. “Why am I not surprised?” Turning, she starts back into the house. “I just have to grab a sweater.”

I walk in after her, shutting the door behind me. The house is cute. To my right, I peer inside an open door and instantly recognize it as Kenna’s bedroom. It’s just soher. She has a gray and yellow comforter on her bed and a small white desk along one wall, but what really drew me in is the almost full-length poster of a man in a pair of Speedos, water dripping from his torso.

Is this the kind of guy Kenna likes? I know it’s a poster, but I would crush this dude. Despite the six-pack he’s sporting, he’s…tiny. Fit but trim.

“West?” she calls out.

“In here.”

She turns the corner, her expression lightening when she sees me. “Oh, you found my poster. That’s David Boudia. He swam for Purdue and was in the ’08, ’12, and ’16 Olympics.” She reaches out, her fingers touching the edges of the full-color print. She beams when she looks at it.

“Is that something you want? To go to the Olympics?”

“Oh God, I would die.” She laughs, pressing her palm to her chest. “I don’t think I quite have what it takes, but I used to pretend when I was little. McKenna Knowles, gold medalist.” She smiles wistfully.

“And does Mr. Speedo have a gold medal?”

“He certainly does,” she states, facing me with her hands on her hips. “Are you making fun of David Boudia?”

I raise my hands in surrender. “Never.”

She lifts her chin. “He has a medal in every color, actually. Two bronzes.” Shrugging, she says, “He’s retired now. It was the 2008 Olympics in Beijing that made me want to be a diver.”

“And let me guess, you think he’s hot?”

“Of course. It’s David Boudia,” she shrugs, like that’s supposed to mean something to me.

“Aren’t most girls obsessed with rock bands or celebrities or—”

“Davidisa celebrity,” she interjects. “In the right circles...”

Oh, the right circles. I give her poster a look. “I’m not sure about his choice of swimming apparel.”

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