Rush (3 page)

“I won’t let anything happen to you. If tonight causes you any trouble, I’ll fix it. Will you trust me?”

Her brow pulls tight, as if the thought of trusting me causes her some sort of pain. Despite her bravery and her smart mouth, something about her seems fragile, vulnerable. Her voice is smooth as she speaks, her look dissecting. “I don’t see that I have much choice.”

“Not exactly a vote of confidence,” I say, chuckling.

She’s silent a moment, and her gaze lowers to my mouth. “The only thing I’m confident about right now, Rush, is your ability to get me in trouble.” A surge of blood hits me where I feel it most. Her voice is a sexy whisper, full of sass, and I want to kiss her. Actually, kissing her is the least of what I want to do, but I’d settle for one kiss.

My eyes drop to her mouth, wondering if she’d let me, and another memory drips into my senses. It’s the vision of her hovering over me. I think that’s what woke me. I replay it in my mind, narrowing on her as my smile grows. “Were you trying to kiss me, Peep?”

Her face lights up, and she straightens. “No,” she says, looking sheepish.

I tilt my head. “Your were thinking about it, though, weren’t you?”

She flinches, and her eyes widen. “Well…sort of.” Her fingertips massage her forehead. “My roommate has been hounding me about…well, about not dating anyone in awhile, and I just thought if I kissed you, I could tell her I kissed a guy tonight.”

I’m laughing inside. She thinks she’s offended me. If she only knew what a complete turn-on it is. I can feel the heat growing down below.

“It wouldn’t have worked. It’s not really a kiss unless both people are participating, Peep.” Her chin tics up, and she looks skeptical. My hand rises slowly to touch her neck. Silky strands brush my knuckles. “You’ll have to try again, if you’re going to tell your roommate.”

She doesn’t move toward me, but she doesn’t pull away, either, and I see the slightest invitation glimmering in her eyes. I move cautiously closer, lowering my mouth onto hers. I kiss her, gently at first, making an effort to avoid the left side of her jaw. She returns my kiss, pressing shyly, and I breathe her in. She smells like summer air and something else faintly floral. I angle my head, parting her lips with mine, and move my fingers deeper into her hair. She balances a small hand on my thigh, which I feel like the brand of an iron. I tug at her bottom lip with my teeth and slide my tongue over the spot I’ve offended. She follows my lead, catching my tongue with hers.

A groan builds low in my chest, and I flex my fingers and tighten my hold. She arches against me. The urge to fall over and pull her on top of me courses through my muscles. She pulls back, and reality surfaces. An innocent kiss is one thing, but there’s no way I can go any further with her. Not today. Not ever. I’m already way too involved with Little Bo Peep, and I’m not the kind of guy that has anything to offer a girl like her—other than the opportunity to experience my problems with me.
Humph
. I’m sure she gets that after tonight. I drop my forehead to hers, and sultry green eyes soothe my heart. My thumb traces the line of her bottom lip, and I smile as I speak.

“You can tell your roommate, now—because that just happened.”

Chapter Three

Priscilla

One Week Later

My head is pounding, and the walls in the room are shifting, closing in on me. I grip the sides of my seat. I’m sitting in front of the athletic board, and they’re going to disqualify me. I can feel it. They’ve been drilling me with questions about my arrest for the last thirty minutes. I turn my head to the back of the room and stare at the double doors—still closed. He’s not going to show.

My sole witness—the only one who could support my self-defense claim—is a no-show. My stomach sinks into my feet.

By the time I left that jail cell, I was convinced Preston Rush was Mr. Everything—sweet, caring, kind, and hot as hell. More importantly, I was convinced he’d show up for me. His words echo through my head.
I won’t let anything happen to you—if it causes you trouble, I’ll fix it.
I had actually let myself believe that. He was right—I
am
a dumb ass.

Just before we were separately escorted out of the jail cell, he asked for my number and I yelled it to him. I failed to get his in the commotion, but he yelled back that he’d call me next week to check on things. I didn’t expect my hearing to be held within days of my arrest.

When Coach Howell told me it was scheduled for Friday, I went to the football practice arena on Wednesday and waited for him—and waited, and waited. I wrote him a letter, asking for his help in the kindest way. One of the assistant coaches noticed me outside the locker room and told me he’d take my envelope right in and hand it to Preston. I’m an idiot to have trusted someone else with something that important, but I had committed to do a Girls on the Run 5k with the track girls I coach. If I had waited any longer, I would have missed it. In hindsight, I should have just barged into that locker room and called him out.

His statement would have helped me claim self-defense on the disorderly conduct charge. That would have taken me from two strikes to one. I let out an exhausted breath. Our University has a two-strike rule, and with two counts against me, it’s likely I won’t play the rest of the season. My senior year will be done. No warning. No probation. No playoff games. No chance at the championship. Oh, God.

Coach Howell is sitting next to me, a bead of sweat running into his beard. I cast a pleading look over my shoulder at the double doors again, willing them to open. My vision refocuses on the solemn faces of my teammates sitting in the last two rows of the large room. They’ve come to support me, but in some ways it makes me feel worse. I’ve let them all down. I want to throw up. I’m their captain. I’m also the lead scorer on the team, and we’re two games away from winning our conference and advancing to the NCAA finals.

I look at Jace. She raises a Hook ’em Horns sign and gives me a “fight ’em” look. I can hear her voice in my head.
Screw them, Priscilla—I got your back, girl, and we’ll get through this.
She’s sitting beside our roommate Marcus. The gentle, laid-back expression he usually carries has disappeared. His features look drawn, worried. He knows, too. I’m done.

“Priscilla,” my coach whispers, laying his hand on my arm. I snap my head back to the stares of the athletic board.

“I’m sorry. What was the question?”

“The police report stated that you pulled the fire alarm. Is that true?”

I hesitate. “Yes.”

Coach Howell drops his head and smooths a bushy eyebrow. He has the same look I’ve seen on his face when another team scores on us with minutes left in the game. Frustration. Disgust. Utter defeat. The lead examiner clears his throat.

“Miss Winslow, you have a solid two strikes against you and no witness to support your version of the events.” He stares over the rectangular spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “The police report speaks for itself. South Eastern’s athletic guidelines provide for an immediate suspension—thirty days for each charge.” He hesitates at the eruption of moans from my teammates and then keeps reading. “Suspended athletes may still attend athletic events and participate in team practices…all athletes are offered an opportunity to file an appeal…” His words fade out and his face blurs. I’m hearing every other word, trying to recover from the kick to the gut.

Game over. What am I going to tell my mom? And what about my scholarship? I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it sticks, and I choke out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. My coach raises his arm to my back and speaks in a consoling voice, but I can’t hear him.

Seconds later, I’m standing on numb legs, watching my team come toward me. They look like someone just died. Their arms link, and the light dims as they huddle around me, whispering sympathetic phrases.
It could have happened to any of us Sil. It’s only sixty days
.

They’re trying to find the silver lining, but they know as well as I do—sixty days takes me out for the rest of the season. The only silver I see is the vision of Preston Rush’s eyes, smiling at me.

I’m going to hunt Chewbacca down like he’s the last trophy in a big game grand slam and kick his fury ass into hyperspace.

Chapter Four

Preston

“Great game!” I high-five Zander on my way out of the shower and head to the lockers. The guys are fist bumping and hooting around me, celebrating our twenty-seven to seven win. We’re approaching the end of our season undefeated.

I open my locker and search the pocket of my jeans for my cell. Thumbing through the slew of congratulatory messages, I find my mom’s text. Her MS has gotten so bad she can’t make it to the stadium anymore. I text her after games to make sure she feels included.

Thanks for watching mom. I’ll call you when I’m back at my dorm.

“Preston.” I look up to see Darren leaning back from the row of lockers with a grin, pointing toward the exit. “Duffy McCray’s here to see you.” My brows shoot high, and I feel my jaw drop. The wave of adrenaline I’ve been riding ignites again.

Duffy McCray is
the
big deal of all big deal makers in the NFL. We met over lunch in the summer, and he mentioned he was interested in representing me when my college season is over. The fact that he’s come to my game is a huge honor.

I pull my shirt over my head and finger comb my hair, wiping my suddenly sweaty hands on my thighs and walking out of the locker room. He’s smiling and chatting with a small crowd, sporting a custom suit and steel-toed cowboy boots. “Hey, hey,” he sings, pumping my hand and gripping my bicep. “What a game, son. You’re a real talent.”

“I’ve got a great team behind me.” I nod to Coach Cannon, who’s part of the circle. “And even better coaches.”

McCray points a thick finger my way. “That’s what I like about you. You’re always the first to give the credit to someone else. You don’t see kids coming into the NFL as clean as you are. These days everyone’s got problems, and the teams are starting to realize it’s not worth it. You’re going to make my job easy.”

“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to have your support.”

“You bet. My pleasure. Coach Cannon was just filling me in on the talent coming up the pipeline.” I stand and chat, listening to the opinions fly. The conversation ping-pongs from NFL teams, to recruiting, to bowl games, when Carson taps me on the shoulder and leans to my ear.

“Sorry to bother you, bro, but there’s a girl waiting for you at the end of the hallway. Says her name is Little Bo Peep.” My body straightens to full alert and I lean to look.

She’s facing me, resting a shoulder against the wall. Blonde hair streams from the ball cap she’s wearing. It’s pulled low, shadowing half her face, but I recognize her instantly, and my pulse kicks up at the prospect of seeing her. She must have seen my game and come down to congratulate me. “Tell her I’ll be with her in one minute,” I say, and I rejoin the conversation, waiting for an opportunity to excuse myself.

I sent her a text message earlier today. The athletic department sponsors group events for all SEU athletes, and the annual Gladiator Minute to Win It Games are tomorrow. I’d asked her if she wanted to have coffee with me after, and told her I wanted to make sure she was all right. My message showed as delivered but I hadn’t heard back.

I glance down the hall at Carson as he’s speaking to her. Even from a distance I can tell she’s annoyed. Yep, that’s her all right. I smile to myself as Coach Cannon asks me another question, but the sight of her, shaking her head and walking away, distracts me.
Oh, come on.
Can she seriously not wait a few minutes for me? I’m talking to the big guy here—not that she would know that. Carson signals me with empty hands and shrugs. Damn it. I’ve thought about her every day this week, and I don’t want to miss her.

“I’m sorry,” I say, interrupting. “I’ve just got to catch someone really quick.”

McCray smiles and nods. “Oh, sure, sure. Go ahead, son.”

I walk fast, shouldering past the people gathered outside the locker room.

“Great game, Rush,” a voice calls.

“Thanks,” I respond, moving farther down the hall. “Hey,” I call, just as she’s about to round the corner. She stops, standing stone still, then does an about face. I close the ten-foot distance with cautious steps.

She’s wearing a dark gray T-shirt with the words, “That’s what,” written across the front, and a flannel shirt is tied around the waist of her faded jeans. I stop in front of her, an anxious feeling swirling in my stomach. “Hi,” I say, tilting my head under the brim of her hat. But when she raises her eyes, fury smacks me in the face. It’s like the sight of me up close and personal has tripped a trigger.

She moves into my personal space but other than angling my head down to maintain eye contact, I don’t move. “Have you ever shown up for anyone?” She sneers. “Anyone other than yourself?”

I pause. Where the hell is this coming from? “What?”

“Have you ever shown up for anyone in your life?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about?”

“Well, let me help you out,” she says, crossing her arms. “I see Chewbacca getting beat up in a parking lot and, despite the fact that I don’t know you, I jump in and help you. When the police come, instead of taking off, I crawl over to make sure you’re not dead. I get thrown in the drunk tank at the police station, charged with disorderly conduct and a minor in possession offense, and all I asked in my letter was for twenty minutes of your time…”

“Hey, hey,” I say, instantly conscious of how loud she is. More than a few heads are turning, and I check to see if McCray is watching. Thankfully, he appears to be engaged in conversation. I raise my hands to touch the sides of her arms and speak low.

“Letter? What letter?”

She jerks away, and we stare, our minds trying to connect the dots. “What letter?” I ask again.

“I came to see you,” she says, enunciating each word. “Right here after your practice on Wednesday. The guy I talked to said he was an assistant coach. He promised me he’d give you my letter.”

“I never got any letter,” I respond, and this time when I glance at McCray, he’s looking our way. I nod to an open room, touch her elbow, and guide her in, shutting the door. I opt to leave the lights off, hoping for a few minutes of privacy. She moves further into the training room, and when I follow, she positions herself on the other side of a chest press machine.

I stop, watching her through the long cables, contemplating the disgusted look on her face. Less than a week after our run in, she tracks me down in this rage. I’m missing something. “Look, I’m sorry, but I never got any letter from you on Wednesday. I sent you a text this morning to check on you. Did you get that?”

She raises a skeptical look as if she doubts my sincerity.

“Yeah, I got it,” she says, her tone making it sound more like “Yeah, you’re worthless.”

What the fuck?

“Priscilla, wait.” I step toward her, reaching out. “I told you I’d help, whatever you need.”

Her hand is a stop sign in my face. “Conveniently for you, your chance to help me has come and gone. I really didn’t come here to ask for your help.”

I spread my arms, stammering, “Then…why’d you come?”

She cocks her head, and her eyes tighten, intensifying the heated look she is boring into me. “I wanted to see the real you.” She pauses. “And then I wanted to tell you to fuck off.” Her hand drops to the door, she yanks it open and walks out.

What the hell was that? The sharp edge of guilt gnaws at my insides, which is ridiculous because I don’t even know what I did. All I know is that she believes I did it, and watching her look at me with disgust makes me disgusted with myself. Here I was excited to see her, and she chews my ass over something I don’t even understand. Some damn letter?

I’ve got to find that letter and figure out what’s going on. I return to McCray and my coach, easing back into their conversation, but all I can think about are her words running through my head.
Have you ever shown up for anyone?

All I do is show up for other people—football, my team, my coaches
,
my mom, and my aunt.

“Everything okay there?” Duffy asks, nodding to where Priscilla and I had been standing.

“Yeah, just some old business.” I force a chuckle, but in my head I’m bracing my hands on my knees, trying to shake it off.

When I had texted her earlier, about getting together after the Gladiator Minute to Win It Games, I thought we could commiserate over our unfortunate stint in jail, chalk it up as one of those out of control college nights that you laugh about when you’re older, then say our good-byes. Something’s not right here.

Coach Cannon leaves with McCray to have a late dinner, so I can’t ask him about the letter, and when I step back into the locker room the only one that hasn’t left is Dante, our offensive line coach, and he has no clue. I grab my bag and meet Carson, who’s waiting for me in the hallway.

“Little Bo Peep?” he asks, grinning. “Can’t wait to hear this.”

He pushes the door open and a rush of air hits me. “Her name’s Priscilla Winslow. She’s the girl I was telling you I got thrown in jail with.”

“The soccer player?”

“Yeah, she was dressed as Little Bo Peep at the bar party. She just told me she delivered a letter here on Wednesday—someone took it and never gave it to me. I don’t know exactly, but I think she’s in trouble.”

His eyes pop. “Did you tap her in the jail cell?”

“No.” I smirk. “Not that kind of trouble. I mean in trouble with her coach.”

“Seven hours in a cell with Little Bo Peep sounds like a wet dream to me.”

I let out a laughing breath. “Yeah, well, press pause on that fantasy. I’m going to corner her at the event tomorrow and figure it out.”

Carson pops the trunk of his BMW, and we dump our bags and load in. “Do you still have time to swing by Moses’s house before we head to the dorm?” he asks, rolling out of the lot.

“Yeah. I’d rather do it tonight so I can study tomorrow.”

Moses plays left tackle on our defensive line, and apparently his mom is having some serious financial problems. He put in a “Hail Mary” call to Carson yesterday. It’s a code our team adopted, along with the agreement that we reach out to each other when we’re about to do some stupid shit because were desperate. We’re meeting him at his mom’s house in Detroit to see if we can help.

The steering wheel spins as we turn onto Gratiot Avenue. The hallmark billboards of a struggling neighborhood whizz by, lining the sky with messages that carry the subtle serenade of desperation:
Check Cashing, Top Dollar for Junk Cars,
and
We Buy Go_d.
The missing letter
L
converts it to a whole new kind of desperate message.
We buy God.

After a quick trip to Foodtown for groceries, we arrive in front of the brick bungalow and head up the split path drive, carrying grocery bags and stalked by a husky and a pit bull, barking from behind the neighbor’s chain link fence. The door opens and a six foot six, three-hundred plus frame consumes the space.

“Holy Moses,” Carson sings.

Moses grips his hand, then mine, and thanks us for coming. “Step back now, Carlos,” he says, lowering his palm to the head of a little boy clinging to his thigh. The small living room is lined with plum carpet, empty of all furniture except a long brown sofa that’s loaded with three more kids. With comatose expressions, their eyes are glued to a small television as SpongeBob’s jolly voice fills the room. Moses introduces us to his half-siblings, Jayden, Miguel, Mya, and Carlos, who all look to be in elementary school. Then he points to the kitchen, and we follow him through the living room.

I dig my hand into one of the grocery bags as I’m passing the kids. “Hey you guys like fruit snacks?” Their heads turn. Mya stands on the couch and bounces, stretching her arms. She takes the handoff, and her brothers promptly tackle her into the cushions.

“Leave me alone, you filthy dogs,” she shrieks, kicking out at them.

“Hey, get off of her,” Moses growls, and he turns into the kitchen. He lifts an armload of papers off a small table to clear space. As he’s swinging the stack, a brown object flickers down. “Damn,” he mutters, lunging toward the shiny shell that’s crawling fast. He drops an arm, squashing the cockroach under his elbow.

“Nice block,” Carson says.

Moses grunts, swirling toilet paper around his hand and wiping his skin. “That sucker’s just one of my problems.” He whips the wadded tissue at the garbage can and collapses in a chair. We pile the grocery bags on the counter and join him at the table.

“I gotta do something to help my mom.” His head shakes, frustration evident in the long frown lines on his face. “She works at Long John Silvers up the road—walks to and from work. Her boyfriend left her a month ago, and she took a second job at the Payless.” He motions with a big hand toward the living room. “We don’t have anyone to watch the kids. We can’t afford to hire help…” He laughs, but it sounds more like an overwhelmed loss of breath. “I gave my mom every dime of the small stipend the athletic department gives us, but we still can’t afford groceries. One of the dorm cafeteria ladies busted me sneaking cereal out in my backpack last week. That was a proud moment,” he says wryly. “I’m not asking y’all for a handout. I know you ain’t got it much better at your house.” He nods my way, and I note the bloodshot lines cracking the whites of his eyes. Poor guy.

“I feel your pain, my friend. It’s going to get better. You just have to hang in there, finish school.” I just hope I’m right. This is reality for a lot of college athletes. Whether or not you’re good at sports doesn’t depend on your parents’ financial status, and a lot of college athletes come from poor families. Between practice, games, and classes, there’s no time to work, and we can’t take money from anyone involved with the university—even if it’s a loan, it’s a violation of NCAA rules. As if he’s read my mind, Moses continues.

“I already took one loan from Martin Todd freshman year, for two thousand dollars. I’m not proud of it, but my mom needed the money to pay her taxes. It was either that or lose her house. I don’t want to go to Todd again. I know it could mean trouble for me, for our team, but I can’t keep lacing up my new Nikes and trotting out on the field while my family goes hungry.”