Rush (4 page)

“Martin Todd’s already got his hooks into a half dozen players,” I remind him. “You ask him for a thousand bucks, and he’ll put that in an envelope in the glove compartment of your new truck—then you’ll be on his payroll, expected to repay him with favors. If the NCAA finds out about what he’s been doing, we’re toast.”

Carlos wanders into the room, and Moses lifts him onto his lap. “Eat Mosey,” he says, pinching a yellow fruit snack between his fingers, and raising it.

“My cousin works with social services in Wayne County,” Carson explains. “She’s a resource for finding programs. We can start there. We have a fund the players have contributed to. It’s not a lot, but we can help with the groceries for awhile.”

After my problems freshman year with Martin Todd, Carson and I started making a conscious effort to help our teammates avoid the booster trap. We started talking about financial problems in the locker room instead of pretending they didn’t exist, and players began coming to us before getting desperate enough to start taking booster money. Over the last two years we’ve helped a dozen players or so.

“Eat,” Carlos says, rolling another fruit snack over Moses cheek, then stopping to scratch at a rash of red bumps just to the side of his own mouth. My stomach sinks as I look closer. I remember the cockroach problems I saw in some of the houses in my neighborhood growing up. I’m pretty sure those bumps are bites—especially the way he’s itching them.

I recall a homemade pest remedy and head out to the BMW. I grab two beers from the six-pack Carson bought at the grocery store, bring them in, and mix up a concoction of half beer, half vegetable oil. Swirling the amber liquid and holding the bottles up to Moses, I give him the instructions. “Leave this out until it’s full of roaches. It’s the poor man’s answer to Orkin. The roaches climb in and die in a drunken orgy with their friends.”

“Thanks man,” he says as I cross the kitchen.

Grabbing the handle of the stove for balance, I kneel to place the bottle. A glint from the heat register catches my attention. I lean in, focusing on the gray vent as a feeling of dread crawls up the back of my neck. Antennae poke out of the slats, waving in front of the amber shells of the roaches—they’re lined up like spectators in a football stadium. My stomach turns. Not good. This sucks. Those poor kids. I blink hard, knock the register with the bottle, and set it directly underneath. Come and get it, planktons.

Sadness and frustration churn in my gut as I unload the rest of the groceries. “I’m going to put everything in the fridge,” I mention to Moses. “Helps keep the roaches out.” He nods, and as he and Carson review his mom’s budget, I grab a bag of carrots and head to the living room. “So who’s everybody’s favorite SpongeBob character?” I ask, flopping on to the sofa between Mya and the two boys.

“I like Sandy cause she knows karate,” Miguel says, leaning over the armrest. I rip the plastic bag and hold it out to Miguel, then Jayden.

“I like Patrick,” Jayden says, withdrawing a clutch of tiny orange spears as I inspect the red bumps between his thumb and index fingers.

“Patrick?” Mya’s tone charges him with haughty offense. “Patrick is just plain dumb, Jayden. He ain’t ever gonna do nothing with his life.”

“He’s nice, Mya,” Miguel says, defending his brother.

“How about you, Mya? Who’s your favorite,” I ask, swinging the bag her way.

“I like Mr. Krabs cause he’s the boss,” she says, pointing to the TV.

Bingo. She’s my girl.

“I’ve got a job for you kids. You think you can be the leader, Mya?”

She crosses her arms and arches a brow. “How much it pay?”

I smile and reach for my wallet. “Five bucks.” I hold the wrinkled bill above my head. “Listen up, boys, cause I’m going to ask Mya for a report. If you do a good job, you each get three bucks. All you have to do is wash your faces—especially your mouths and your hands—before you go to bed. Do it after you’ve brushed your teeth—you can’t leave any toothpaste by your mouth. Now, I’m gonna know if y’all don’t do it. You know how? See those little bumps on Carlos face, and here, on Jayden’s hand. Those are from the Bubble Fairy. If the Bubble Fairy thinks you’re not using her enough, she sneaks into your room at night and pecks at you.”

They still, looking mesmerized for a moment, and I notice Carson and Moses leaning in the door jam, watching the magic.

“I ain’t never heard of no Bubble Fairy,” Mya blurts out. “But I’ll do it for five bucks.”

“She’s the Tooth Fairy’s bad sister,” Jayden says.

Moses claps his hands to get their attention. “You kids get off Mr. Preston now. He’s got more important things to do than teach y’all how to use a bar of soap.”

I confirm our plan, telling the kids I’ll give the money to Moses. We say our good-byes and load in the car. I watch the small shadows moving behind the curtains of the living room, feeling a heaviness in my chest as we pull away. It’s hell to watch your family suffer—I’ve been there. Carson tried to help me, too, only my problem was too big for his bank account.

“No one’s died, but I feel like we’re leaving a funeral home,” he murmurs.

“I think it’s their childhood that’s dying.”

Minutes pass in contemplative silence before he crooks a smile my way. “So is this Bubble Fairy hot? I’m picturing heels and stockings.”

I shake my head. “She’s anything you want her to be, bud.”

“Did you make that shit up?” he asks, laughing.

“Yeah, well, those of us that can’t rescue people with a wad of cash have to use creativity.”

“Speaking of wads of cash, what’d McCray say? Think you’ll sign with him?”

“I can’t sign anything until the season’s done, but I’m hoping. He seems pretty interested.” I spit out a laugh. “It still blows my mind the type of money he’s talking. I could have dropped to my knees and coughed up a lung when he showed me his estimate for year one in the NFL—over a million dollars, for playing football.” I lean an elbow on the doorframe and rub my chin as the ache in my gut starts to rise—it happens anytime I think about that kind of money. Having enough money to improve things for my family—that’s a fucking dream come true, but it seems surreal. “Hard to believe a poor Polish kid from Hamtramck’s going to wake up one morning a millionaire.”

“It’s gonna happen, Prez,” he assures me. “Just remember to write in season tickets for your old pal.”

“Ditto,” I respond. Carson may not have an agent on his tail yet, but he’s got a better than good chance of being drafted.

I deflate the seductive thoughts. I’m not there yet, and I have too much at risk. I can’t let myself get distracted by shiny things…like Priscilla Winslow. Time to put the shake down on Little Bo Peep. When I see her tomorrow, she’s going to tell me what’s going on. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it then send her back out to pasture with her soccer ball tucked under her arm and unload her from my conscience.

Chapter Five

Priscilla

Jace blasts the horn for the third time. “Come on,” she growls, staring up at the third floor of our apartment complex. The door opens, and our roommate Marcus appears. His six foot seven frame weaves slowly around the three flights. He opens the door and drops into the front seat.

“Morning, Texas Sunshine,” he says, smiling at Jace.

She glares and throws the Jeep in reverse. “You are as slow as frozen molasses.”

“Frozen molasses?” he repeats, smacking his lips as if he’s tasting her words.

I know Marcus from home. He grew up in Detroit, but he’s lived on our block in Grosse Pointe ever since his mom started dating our neighbor, Mr. Trebuchet. He transferred to SEU to play basketball this semester. It was a last minute decision, and he was in a housing bind. I talked Jace into letting him shack up with us.

“How you doin’, Slow?” Marcus asks, turning back to me.

“Fine,” I respond, lying. Since the hearing, my brain has been one big cobweb, and the interaction I had with Preston added a whole new layer. Coach Howell had asked me to continue coming to practice and events.
You’re still part of this team
, he said. Recalling his words sends a wave of sadness through me. I’m trying hard to put aside my pity party and adjust to my new role supporting the team from the sidelines, but I’m not there yet.

Were it not for the fact that I need to make an announcement about the charity program I’m spearheading
,
I would have sat out today’s event. But I can’t pass up this opportunity to speak to all the athletes together. On top of all of the track girls I coach, I already have twenty-two kids signed up for my “Shirts Off Our Backs” program—I’m going to need all the help I can get.

My cheek rocks against the cool window as Jace schools Marcus on the shortest route to the stadium, where the Gladiator Minute to Win It event is taking place. I can always count on Jace to fill the time that most people use to draw a breath. I zone out as Marcus responds to her with a series of monotone
Mm hmms
, and resume the debate I’ve been having with myself about telling my mom my soccer career is done.

A muffled version of “Strings” echoes from my purse, and I lift my cell to see a call coming through from my brother Ben.

“You’re up early for a Sunday morning,” I say.

“Hey, I’m a working man now. I’m not the partying rock star I once was.” He chuckles. His warm tone makes it easy to picture the smile on his face, and the image lifts the heavy feeling in my head.

“Thanks for calling me back. I have a favor to ask you,” I say.

“Oh God.” He laughs. “What now?”

“No, no, this is an easy one. I want you to tell mom we don’t want to have Thanksgiving at the country club this year. I want to have it at our house.”

He pauses. “How’s that going to work? Who’s going to cook?”

“We are
—
like every other American family. C’mon, Ben. I don’t want to go to the club and spend the holiday with a bunch of rich old people we hardly know.” We haven’t had Thanksgiving at our house, or any holiday dinner, since my dad left, and I’m sure Ben remembers. “I want the house to smell like turkey instead of Lemon Fresh Pledge, and I want to make one of those stupid cheese balls in the shape of a turkey like you see on Pinterest. Think about it—we could have leftovers in our fridge, like a real family. A real Thanksgiving.” My rant draws a glance from Marcus, and I pause, waiting for Ben’s answer.

“I’m game,” he says. “I’ll tell her and see what she says.”

“Thanks, Ben. I owe you.”

“How’s everything going with soccer,” he asks. “I saw you guys won your last game.” My skin tingles with guilt. I should have told him about my suspension. He’s done so much to help me over the years—driving me to practice when my mom couldn’t, helping me deal with the college coaches that were recruiting me. But the thought of letting him down burns a hole in my stomach. I can’t bring myself to do it. Not yet.

“Soccer is…kind of challenging right now.” My throat feels dry over the cowardly half-truth, and Jace’s gaze passes mine in the rearview mirror. “I’m not really getting the playing time I want, but I’m working on it.” I spy the massive SEU Sparks logo on the Stadium ahead, which gives me the excuse I need to say good-bye, and he tells me he’ll be in touch.

We park and enter the field through the tunnel, along with a dozen other athletes. Cool wind blows over my face, rustling my hair around my shoulders, and I adjust the brim of my ball cap, pulling it lower and tighter. There’s a fair chance I’ll see Preston today. After I confronted him, I thought of a dozen other questions, but I’d been on the verge of tears, and the last thing I wanted to do was turn into a blubbering idiot in front of him.

Red-shirted coordinators are spread out over the field, working to finish setting up the activities. We weave around the athletes gathered in loose groups, passing a humming blower inflating a bounce house. “That has the potential to be screamingly fun,” Jace says, smiling at the swaying red canvas.

Marcus spots the basketball players beyond the cross-country team, who are stretching their legs on the turf. He throws an arm out, extending two fingers. “Two cupcakes, stay sweet,” he calls, and veers left.

In the distance, Sam’s waving a hand, surrounded by our teammates. I nudge Jace toward them. “Hey, y’all,” she sings as we approach and blend into their huddle.

A whistle blows and an athletic coordinator steps onto a platform, waving everyone in. The herd moves, forming a giant half moon around his position as he tucks his clipboard under his arm and raises a bullhorn. “Welcome to this month’s All-Athlete’s Teambuilding Event: Minute to Win It—Gladiator Games.” Applause fills the air, and I pan an anxious look over the mass of dri-FIT T-shirts and sweatpants, searching for Preston.

“We’ve got a fun lineup today, but before we get going, I have a few announcements.” He glances at his clipboard, then back to the gathered athletes. “Where is Miss Winslow? I believe she wanted a minute…” I raise my hand and walk forward as he introduces me. “Miss Winslow has launched a new charity initiative. She’s going to share with us how we can help.”

“Thanks,” I say, stepping up. “It’s called the Shirt Off Our Backs, and I’m soliciting donations of gently used athletic wear—shirts, hats, shoes… Basically anything you have with a sports logo. Everything is given to Detroit kids to motivate participation in sports. If you have a donation, you can email me at Winslow11 on SEU mail or drop it at the field sports office.”

“Hey,” a deep voice shouts. “Can I get your number?”

I locate the source, and I’m about to spill my digits, but the cocky look on his face and a burst of snickering stop me. They call him Hatch—he’s one of the star hockey players at SEU, and we had a class together last spring. He’s big, with fire ant red hair that waves down to his shoulders, and I can’t tell if he’s serious or making a half-assed attempt at a joke. Maybe he just wants to embarrass me. Awkward, considering I’m pitching a charity program here.

He winks, holding his phone up as his buddies pull their phones out, too.

Uh, yeah. There’s no way I’m giving him my number. I contemplate my next move. I ought to use my sister Cate’s trick and give him
her
number—which is what she does to me when she doesn’t have enough balls to say no to a guy—but I dismiss the idea. Even though she’s number one, two, and three on my shit list right now, I’m not about to serve my little sister up to the unknown intentions of the goon squad.

“Ready when you are,” he says, lifting his phone and winking again.

Okay, one wink I can let slide, but two? No way. “Do you have something in your eye?” I ask, raising my ball cap a smidge.

“Just you,” he responds, smiling. The snickering erupts again, and someone whistles, eliciting another wink.

Three winks—that’s a record, and yet there’s something mildly redeeming about the way he’s smiling. I don’t think he gives a damn he’s scored a perfect ten on my lame-ass-meter or that the whole group knows his game.

A flash of golden-brown moves in the crowd, and my stomach tightens at the sight of Preston. He’s cross-armed, staring at the line of hockey players with a skeptical look. I turn back to Hatch and nine magical numbers appear in my brain.

“248-881-2013.”

I chirp the digits as if they’re my own. They’re not. Preston’s head snaps center, and he narrows in on me as half the crowd bows over their cells and types in his number.

Well, well. The phone just rang and we have Mr. Big Deal on the line. I wink at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile under the fingers he’s slanting over his mouth. I remember his number from his text—the first three digits are the same as our apartment address and the last four are the year I started at SEU. Mentally, I swirl a hand in the air and take a bow. I think my work here is done.

“Thanks. I appreciate your help, everybody.” I wave and hop off the platform, and they clear a path. I hold my self-satisfied air as I pass through the spotlight of his heavy stare, catching the amused voice of his friend. “Looks like she’s got your number.”

The trainer finishes the announcements and explains the first drill. “We’re going to have teams pair up, and you’ll alternate to the events with your assigned team. In honor of the football team’s spectacular record—how about last week’s shut out against the Buckeyes?” he exclaims, pulling down a fist. “We’ll let the football players choose the team they want to partner with today.” A group of guys hoots, clapping and slapping each other’s backs, and my teammates exchange eye rolls at the obnoxious display—they all know about my run in with Preston and how his no-show status deep-sixed my hearing. It’s really hard to feel like celebrating anything about the football team right now.

Preston steps up to the platform, dimples flashing next to a gleaming smile. He’s recovered his easy, composed look—as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Burrowed in my brain like a tick is this tiny little nagging feeling. I don’t think he got in any trouble. Is it possible that I end up booted from the soccer field and nothing happens to him?

His confidant gaze zeroes in on me, lingering for a moment. His voice is deep and determined when he speaks. “We’ll take the women’s soccer team,” he says, and then winks at me.
Super.

Static cracks from the bullhorn as the trainer takes it from Preston. “Once you have your partner team you can head to your first event and get started. Have fun and remember—communication and teamwork. We’re building good sportsmanship today.”

A trainer named Cho signals us to follow him. We arrive at the south goal post, form a receiving line, and introduce ourselves with polite handshakes. My heart thumps a wild rhythm as Preston’s profile moves closer.

“Hey,” he says, his voice sounding resigned as he closes a big hand around mine. Despite my very public broadcast of his cell number, he’s regarding me with a concerned look. “We need some time to talk,” he says.

“Did you get in any trouble?” I blurt out, pulling my hand away.

His brow creases with three short lines, just in the middle of his forehead. “What?” he asks.

“Did you get into any trouble after our lock up?”

He pauses and cocks his head. “Look, I think we really need to talk…”

“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, moving on.

I circle back to my team and try to listen as Cho explains our first drill, but all I can concentrate on is that three-second interaction and his blank look. I think he just skated away from the whole fucked-up night. His coaches must have helped him, or turned a blind eye, and here I am, booted from the best women’s soccer team in SEU’s history. A team that I put my blood, sweat, and tears into creating. A team that could very well win the National Championship. My stomach boils with anger.

If I were a better person, I’d congratulate him for pulling it off—I’m sure football means as much to him as soccer does to me—but I can’t clear the steam. How is this fair? And why do I have the feeling it’s because I’m a lowly female soccer player, and he’s Mr. Big Effing Deal. I exhale a long breath, trying to cool my overheated blood and focus on Cho, who is motioning to the roped area in front of us.

“Here you’re going to be shooting for the goalpost, but rather than throwing a ball, you’ll be using this.” He picks up a gun shaped tube—it’s the blaster they use to launch hot dogs into the upper decks at games. “We’ll break into teams of five. Your team will need to catch a hot dog from the cannon. The trick is your arms will be linked together the entire time.”

A few low chuckles pepper the crowd as Cho checks his watch and squints downfield. At the forty-yard line, a group of guys is wrestling with a giant inflatable obstacle course. “I think they need an extra set of hands. Can I get a couple of volunteers to head down with me?” he asks. Two football players step up, following him as he shouts for us to hang tight a minute.

I join my teammates, sitting on the ground and talking about the Cirque du Soleil worthy save Jace made in front of the net last week. High-pitched laughter buzzes above our voices, drawing my attention. My gaze sticks on a small, curvy girl with shoulder-length auburn hair. She and two other girls are holding bottles of Gatorade and fresh towels, offering them to a small group of football players that includes
him
. Seriously? The events haven’t even started yet.

“Curled hair, full makeup, skinny jeans…seems a bit much for Sunday morning.” Sam makes the observation, leaning back and inspecting them. She’s right. The stadium seats are empty. It’s not like this is a spectator event. I’m not sure why she and her friends would even be here—other than to fawn over the football players.

“Whatever,” I say. I can’t look at Preston without feeling a spinning wheel of emotions, and I really need to ignore him.

“Hey,” the auburn haired girl calls to us. “Can one of you all take a pic…?”

“Nope,” Jace yells, cutting her off.

Her features freeze with confusion, and for some reason, I feel like I should soften the blow. “We’re going over plays,” I add.