Rush (16 page)

“Jace!”

“It’s just Marcus. What? I can’t tell Marcus?” She walks into the kitchen and opens a bag of Fritos as Marcus clicks off the TV and shifts his gaze between us.

“Is she for real? What happened?”

I let out a breath and tell him the story while Jace adds colorful commentary between mouthfuls of corn chips. Marcus rubs a hand slowly over the back of his buzz cut, listening intently. When I get to the part about Tyler shoving me into the room, he flinches.

“Oh, no, no, no…” he says in a serious tone.

“Oh, yes,” Jace responds, moving to the couch to sit next to him. She pats her lap, beckoning to Rasputin, who blinks but doesn’t move from her perch on his long thigh.

Her mouth drops. “Rasputin, come to your mother,” she says in a reprimanding voice.

“She’s comfortable,” Marcus responds, shifting to me. “You all right, Slow?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. My bodyguard scared ’em off.”

He glances skeptically at Jace and catches her bribing Rasputin with a Frito. “Hey, now, what are you doing there?”

“It’s corn,” Jace offers in justification, as Rasputin creeps slowly toward the chip. “And I thought you were going to shave that ’stache after the season opener.”

“I’m going to take a shower and do some studying,” I murmur, heading to my room and leaving them to their argument.

Chapter Eighteen

Preston

My mom and aunt had another incident with my uncle last night. I feel like shit that I wasn’t here but at least I came up with a solution. We’re all moving into one side of the duplex, sealing the interior door and leaving my uncle alone on the other side.

I asked Carson if I could borrow some tools and he volunteered to help. We’ve been working all day, and even with the quick-dry joint compound, we’re barely going to make it. We have to be at the SEU Lafayette Center by seven, which is in about an hour. As part of our day before a game protocol, we spend the night sequestered in a hotel—it keeps anyone from partying too hard.

“Ready?” I ask Carson.

For added security we’re retrieving a bookcase that’s been sitting in the back of the garage and bolting it to the wall over the sealed door.

“Yup,” he says, bending and lifting. I grip the top shelf, taking the weight as it comes down, and we carry the coffin-like shape toward the house. Birdseed crunches under our feet as we pass the village of birdhouses my mom has hung in our back yard. Carson stops suddenly, jamming the bookcase into my thighs. Our neighbor’s front door just opened, and he’s watching the small shadow of a dark-haired girl. She raises a running shoe to the porch railing, moving into the light and lacing up. I push forward, and Carson pushes back, grinning without looking at me.

“Do you think that’s the niece they were talking about?” he asks, swiveling his head and watching her trot off.

“They said she’d be here for Thanksgiving,” I respond.

“Well, the neighborly thing to do would be to stop over and express how thankful I am that she’s arrived,” he says.

“Thought ‘good girls’ weren’t your thing,” I taunt.

He smiles. “Even good girls have bad days.”

“You might want to take a shower first, Romeo. You’re covered in drywall dust.”

“Good point.” He swabs his mouth over his upper arm and spits chalk.

Thirty minutes later, we’ve secured the bookshelf, and Carson is packing up. He swings his tool belt over his shoulder and loops an extension cord between his hand and elbow. “I’m going to throw these in my trunk and make some room,” he says, heading out the side door.

Minutes pass as I gather the rest of the equipment, clip the cases shut, and swing a box in each hand. My foot hits the uneven pavement just as a blood-curdling scream pierces the night air. My heart pounds in my chest and I pivot. Carson’s towering frame is hunched over at the end of our driveway. He’s holding out a hand, but I can’t see what’s in front of him until he sinks to his knees.
What the hell?

It’s the girl—our neighbor’s niece. She’s standing over him with a horrified look as Carson grips his face.
What the hell?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, then he shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear his vision. “Jesus, was that pepper spray?” he asks, wheezing.

I’m rushing forward, focusing on the hands she has raised to her mouth, and the small black tube she’s clutching.

“Hey, are you Zuzanna’s niece? I’m the neighbor, and he’s my friend.”

Her frightened eyes shift from me to Carson. He’s still on one knee holding a hand over his eyes and coughing. Understanding grips her features, and she drops down beside him, twisting her neck and peering up into his face.

“Oh my God,” she says in a panicked voice. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so.” He hacks and blinks.

She grabs his hand. “Stand up. Stand up, come with me, I’m a doctor,” she says, and then qualifies her words with the comforting phrase, “Well, almost a doctor…” I follow them into her aunt’s house and over to the stainless steel sink. She flips the faucet and angles Carson’s head under the stream. “Stay there while I get some washcloths,” she says, running into the other room.

“How ya doin’?” I ask, looking down at the waterfall sliding off his nose.

“Peachy, feels great,” he replies, raising a thumbs up from his hunched position.

She returns, shuts the water off, and presses a washcloth against his lids. “Don’t open yet,” she instructs, then leads him like a blind man to a kitchen chair. “Sit.” She shakes a small white bottle and taps the side of his knee.

“Spread ’em,” she says, sliding between his knees as he opens.

“That’s some bedside manner you got there, Doc,” Carson murmurs, but she’s wholly focused on her mission.

She raises a knee onto his thigh, grabs his face with both hands, and tilts. “I’ll tell you when to open,” she says, “I’m going to put saline drops in your eyes.” She moves closer, working over him. “Okay, this one.” She taps his right eyelid with a finger. “Close and blink now.” She taps again, and I note that in her state of absorbed concentration, she’s leaning so that her cleavage is brushing his chin. He’s gotta be loving this. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he responds, gripping his thighs. I cross my arms and raise a hand to cover my grin. Despite the fact that she temporarily blinded him, I’m thinking Samson doesn’t mind being Delilah’s patient.

It strikes me that we don’t know her name. “I don’t think I introduced myself,” I interject, as she’s moving the dropper over his other eye. “I’m Preston, and this is Carson.”

She squeezes another drop and taps his eyelid. “Okay, if it feels better you can open,” she says. Carson’s eyes open as if they’re attached to springs. She’s holding his face, shifting an inspecting gaze over his dark eyes as he stares back, unblinking. She stills and swallows, and the look on her face transforms from that of a disinterested caretaker to a spellbound sorceress. She moves a slow finger to the corner of his lid and smooths away a drop. Her standing foot wobbles, and the knee she’s resting on slides deeper into his lap.

“I’m Sasha,” she says in a breathy voice.

Carson raises stabilizing hands to her hips. “It’s nice to meet you, Sasha,” he responds, his voice carrying an intimate tone.

Okay, I’m out of here. I pivot and head for the door, “I’ve gotta go check on…something.”

His words layer over mine as he speaks to her. “I think I might need a couple more drops…”

An hour later, we’re seated in a banquet room with our teammates, coaches, and trainers, hunkering down for the night. Coach Cannon has just given us his night before the big game speech, and the wait staff is streaming in with trays holding steaks the size of my face. Usually I don’t mind being here, but tonight the women’s soccer team is playing. Their quarterfinal game is under way a mile from here at the Maxwell–Fisher Stadium. Sucks ass that I can’t be there.

I’ve pulled up the ESPN app on my phone, and I’m hitting the refresh button every few minutes, only halfway following the conversation around me.

“Sasha’s coming to the party at my house tomorrow. Okay if she hitches a ride with you?” Carson elbows me out of my stupor.

“Sure, just give me her address and I’ll swing by,” I say, tapping my phone again.

“She’s your neighbor, Doofus. What are you doing over there?”

“I’m monitoring the women’s soccer game—they’re in the last ten minutes and there’s no score yet.”

Carson snatches my phone and shoves back from the table. He approaches the bar at the side of the room and leans toward a bartender. Seconds later he’s sauntering back with a huge grin as the big screen on the wall blinks through channels. He slides the phone back to me, flips his chair with two fingers, and straddles it.

“You’re the master,” I say, moving to join him.

The Buckeyes are a tough team. They look bigger and faster than our girls, dominating the field by controlling the ball. We attract the attention of our teammates with our jeering commentary, and by the time the clock reaches the final minutes, a dozen football players and a handful of the coaching staff have join our exiled fan club. I’m surprised to see Tyler among the group. Usually he’s not interested in anyone other than himself. Over the next few minutes, my gaze keeps returning to him. He’s reclined in a banquet chair, not bothering to move his outstretched legs for the waitresses clearing the table. Darren and Homer are beside him, and none of them are reacting to the breakaway shots—in fact, their faces are firm, devoid of all emotion.

The television screen flashes to two male sportscasters, wearing dark suits and seated behind a half moon desk. It’s too loud to hear more than a few words of their broadcast, but the next image needs no explanation. They’ve posted an SEU roster headshot. It’s Priscilla flashing a radiant smile. They split the screen showing her amazing stats. A pulse of pride skips through me, but a second later the graphic overlays the word
Suspended
.

“Ouch,” Carson murmurs. I strain to catch the audio:
underage drinking…bar fight…irresponsible…devastating for the team.

My stomach rolls. Fuck me. Hard. I fist my hands and tilt my head to acknowledge Carson’s gaze, but in the background, I see several of my teammates staring at me, making it apparent they know my status with Priscilla. One face stands out in the blur. I laser in on Tyler, and there’s emotion on his face now. It’s opposite from the half-anxious, half-sympathetic expressions of the others. He’s channeling twisted satisfaction, and I stiffen my jaw. I’ve seen that look on his face before.

When we were walking into the Rathskeller the night of the fight, Tyler told me Martin Todd was pissed at me for bad mouthing him to one of the new recruits. It was one sentence, said in passing. I dismissed it, but in hindsight, I think it was a message, intentionally delivered just before the pirates jumped me. My steak dinner feels heavy in my stomach, spoiled by the anger that’s boiling in my gut.

Carson shifts, following my cold glare. I stand up and Tyler straightens his legs. He knows I’m about to head his way and beat his ass to a pulp. Carson rises and steps into my personal space, blocking my way. “Bad idea, Rush.” His voice carries a low warning. “Tyler’s day will come, but it’s not today. You’ll be lucky if you get in one hit before the coaches jump you.” I let out a breath and he turns me back to the screen. “Last forty seconds.” I clench my jaw, redirecting my attention. Next team to hit the net seals the deal.

“C’mon girls,” Carson growls, clapping hard. We all see it at the same time. Two Sparks have broken free, one with the ball, the other positioning. The runner gets tripped by a Buckeye, and a swirl of red, white and gray whips around the screen. The ball shoots out, dead-on for its target. Number fifteen takes two steps and beams it into the goal with three seconds left.

Yes! Sweet victory. My heart skyrockets, but the familiar rush reaches beyond what I usually feel. Swept up in this win is my opportunity to get Priscilla back in the game. Relief courses through my veins. The appeal hearing is Wednesday, and nothing’s going to stop me now.

Carson raises a hand high to smack mine. We let loose a series of whooping battle cries, watching the team rush the field and dive on the shooter. I see Jace fly onto the huddle, and I’m watching for Priscilla. The camera pans to the coaches—they’re shaking each other’s hands, and a flash of blond moves in the background. She’s kneeling, packing a duffle bag, but her grave expression looks incapable of celebrating.

I pull out my phone and text her. God, I wish I could see her right now, but a text will have to do. I’ll see her tomorrow. She’s coming to our game and to Carson’s party—but it’s not soon enough.

Five more days until the appeal. Hang on, baby.

Chapter Nineteen

Priscilla

Jace, Marcus, and I are sandwiched against each other, packed as tight as overcrowded teeth alongside the red-and-white clad fans in the rowdier-than-hell student section. It’s twenty-four to twenty. Eighteen seconds are left on the clock, and the Sparks are down. If they lose this game, football season’s over. Despite the fact that a loss would eliminate the conflict Preston will have if he appears at my hearing, I’m all in, cheering, jumping, chanting—pitching a fit when the ref calls a penalty against our guys. We’ve been standing since the fourth quarter when Donovan caught Preston’s Hail Mary pass.

The huge overhead display is broadcasting the game, and I have a kink in my neck from turning around to stare at my boyfriend up close and personal. Curls of wet hair lick the edges of his of helmet as he calls the next play. I’ve watched plenty of football games, but I’ve never watched from the perspective of having an emotional connection with someone on the field. It’s intense. My heart stutters every time he takes the snap, then restarts when he completes a pass. The few times he’s been sacked, the bone jarring landings have knocked the breath from my lungs, and I can’t breathe until he stands.

“First and goal,” echoes around us. The ball is at the nine-yard line. It all rests on the next four plays. Nerves clamp around my stomach, making my knees weak as the Sparks run two more plays, both handoffs to Tyler. He’s stuffed by the brutal defense on both attempts. He bounces up and trots back to the huddle, his mouth moving, spitting out forceful words. His teammates ignore him, focusing on Preston’s decisive instruction. The huddle breaks and they line up for the third down play. I watch the chiseled line of his jaw as he shouts and catches the snap. His arm retracts, and his feet split and bounce.

I hold my breath. He pans the players shifting frantically and erupting into violent skirmishes, then pitches the ball to Zander. He plows forward, but the defense shifts, taking him down for a loss and the enthusiasm deflates to a low buzz. I peer up at the Jumbotron as the ball moves back to the twelve-yard line. It’s fourth and goal with four seconds left. Ugh. This is it.

Let’s Make Some Noise!
blinks from the billboard, prompting a deafening boom from the student section as the players move into formation. “Bring it home boys,” Marcus yells, cupping his mouth. I clench a hand over my fist and drop my chin.
God.
My stomach feels like a dryer tumbling a pair of cleats. I could honestly barf all over the couple in front of me. Jace climbs onto the bench seats. She clutches my elbow and pulls me up to stand beside her. The metal bleachers vibrate under my boots as Marcus blows a sharp whistle skyward.

Preston takes the snap, back pedals, and fakes the handoff, tossing back a play-action pass. I press onto my toes and crane my neck, trying to follow the swarm of chaos on the field. Even I know that the fullback’s not the usual ball carrier on a play like this, but I think Carson took the pass. He’s charging left toward the end zone, colliding with two huge defenders. He knocks one flat, wrestles with the other, spins, and stretches out an arm. It slices through the air as he’s falling, and the camera zooms in. His fingers are curved over the white laces and the ball is resting an inch beyond the white line. Pandemonium explodes, shaking the air around us. We’re in for the Big Ten Championship game.

Marcus lifts us against his shoulders, and we jump up and down, hugging each other as sprays of red confetti swirl down into my hair. Voices gain momentum, dousing the hooting with our fight song, “Sweet Victory,” and we sway with a thick crush of fans.

We follow the crowd, flooding the aisles and baby step toward the exit, bumping fists with students we recognize. I’m alternating my focus between the red and white hoodies blocking my sight line and the overhead monitor, which is televising the field. Preston’s face appears, flashing a heart-melting smile. He towers over the female reporter who is holding a microphone to his face. God he’s gorgeous…and amazing. He’s holding his helmet against his thigh, responding politely, shifting his gaze between her and the ground. Beads of sweat glisten over his temples, and I’m mesmerized by his mouth, thinking about the feel of those lips on mine…the taste of him…the smell of his skin.

Black hair flashes over the corner of the screen, and his head turns a notch, reacting to the passing swat Carson just gave him. The reporter steps center screen, and his body angles. The camera spins, and an auburn-haired girl hops into the picture. He looks surprised at first, then returns her smile full-force. I think I’ve seen her before—she’s the girl that was hanging on him when I shot him with the hot dog launcher. I should have shot her, too. He bends and kisses her cheek, and she throws her arms around him and hangs from his neck. The claws of jealousy sink into the tender flesh of my heart, squeezing hard. My mouth opens, and for a moment I can’t breathe. Black fills the screen, cutting to a commercial. I flip my gaze to the field, but it’s a clump of dark colors—there’s no way I can single him out. Fuck. I reach for my ball cap, resting my hands on the brim for a contemplative minute. It was just a kiss on the cheek, right? I plead with myself as my stomach twists into a tight knot. They looked close, like they knew each other well, and I feel like I just witnessed an intimate moment.

Jace and Marcus are distracted, chatting with the guy in front of them. I fall back a pace, wondering if I just saw what I thought I saw? Am I crazy to read too much into this, but he looked so goddamn happy, smiling at her like…like he smiles at me. And the way she was clinging to him. I feel sick.

I lower my head and watch my boots shuffle over the candy wrappers and the pink outline of spilled liquid, trying to focus on anything other than the image of her body molded to his football jersey. Of
course
she’s small and curvy.

I look up to the screen again. The commercial’s over, and I’m watching the word RUSH shrink as he exits the field through a narrow tunnel. His arms are stretched, mirroring the position of a goal post, touching hands with the fans leaning over the silver rails. I shake it off. Preston Rush is a big deal, and he deserves every single second of the glory coming his way.
Grow up, Priscilla. It was a stupid peck on the cheek.

Deep breath. I am not going to be one of those drama dimwits who pouts and scowls every time her boyfriend speaks to another girl. At least, I think he’s my boyfriend. At Thanksgiving, we sort of agreed to…something? Oh God. I clench my jaw. Why did I have to see that?

“Priscilla!” Marcus shouts back to me, his face a head above the crowd, searching. He and Jace turn out of the stairwell. They step to the side and wait for me. “C’mon,” he says, “I can get us into the back of the house—outside the locker rooms. The team should be out there celebrating for a bit. We can congratulate them.”

A pang of anxiety ripples through me. All right. Time to snap out of it. He was celebrating, right? It was just a congratulatory thing—maybe they’re old friends. I hug Marcus all the time—sometimes I kiss his cheek.

By the time we reach the locker room, I’ve managed to bind and gag the green-eyed monster living in my brain. I’m going to pretend like I never saw that. End of story.

We follow Marcus as he pushes into the cluster of players, and I slide between two of them. They look huge with their gear on—like life-size Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots.

We find Carson first, and he smiles when he sees Jace. “Hey, football playaaaa,” she says, hugging him.

“Congratulations, Carson. That was an amazing play,” I say. He kisses my cheek and hugs me. Okay, there. So, it’s a thing they do.

“Too close for comfort,” Marcus says, gripping his hand.

“No shit,” he responds, wiping sweat from his face with a wristband. “Have you seen your man yet?” he asks me.

“No, not yet.” His head flips left, then right, and he leans over. “Prez!” he calls, and I follow his gaze to the end of the hallway, where Preston is talking to a huddle of people. He looks up, spots Carson and then me. His expression stills, and a slow smile spreads. He nods and ducks out of the huddle. I can’t take my eyes off him or the look on his face as he hurries toward us. He’s beaming, practically laughing he’s so happy, and I’m melting.

“You guys are coming to the party tonight, right?” Carson asks.

“Yep, we’ll be there,” Marcus answers. Jace hoots, and I look up to see Preston in front of us. He grips Marcus’s hand and kisses Jace’s cheek—there, see, another kiss. Then he stops in front of me.

I open my mouth to congratulate him, but my breath catches as he bands his arms around my back, picks me up and starts to walk. “Hey, what—?” I let out a nervous laugh, but he keeps walking, and his grin deepens. He turns into an empty hallway, backs me against the wall, and kisses me—really kisses me. Hard. Slow. Deep. Tender and urgent.

“God, I want to fuck you right now,” he says, smiling against my mouth.

I gasp, but I’m laughing. He is charged up.

“I do,” he says, kissing me again. “It’s the game—it works me up—especially when we win.”

“I can’t believe you can do all that—on the field. You were amazing, Preston.”

“Amazing?” he says, raising a brow.

“A-fucking-mazing.”

His head drops, and he kisses my neck. “I like the way you say my name, Peep.”

“Does anything hurt? You got hit pretty hard.”

“There’s only one thing on my body that hurts right now.”

“Preston.” A trainer is leaning around the corner, focused on us. “The AD’s here with some donors, and the Russell family wants to congratulate you.”

“Can you wait for me?” he asks. “It’ll only take a few.” I nod as he kisses my forehead and trots back to the trainer.

I find Marcus visiting with two guys I don’t recognize. Jace is a few feet away, talking on her cell. I pass the time checking emails on my phone, and when I look up the crowd has thinned. I look for Preston, thinking it might have been a bad idea to tell him we’d wait. He’s got a lot of responsibility, and I’ll see him tonight at the party.

“All right, bitches,” Marcus calls, swinging an arm in the air. Still on the phone, Jace twists to him, looking annoyed as she holds a finger to her glossy lips. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he says, heading down the hall.

In the distance, I see the man of the hour stepping out of a room. He’s speaking with someone, and I move so he can see me. His body half turns, and I start to raise an arm, but something stops me cold.

The auburn-haired girl who kissed him after the game is trailing out of the office, too. Behind her are an older couple and another younger girl. She fiddles with something in her hands then holds it out to Preston. He inspects it for a moment and hands it back, laughing at something she said. Her voice shoots ice into my veins. “Family picture time,” she sings, handing her phone to the same trainer that interrupted our kiss. I fall against the wall and peer around Jace. The girl circles one of Preston’s arms with both of her hands and flips a strand of glossy hair over her shoulder. The older couple and the other girl line up around his shoulders, pressing close and smiling. Are you fucking kidding me? I ball my fists. They’re taking a
family
picture, and she looks like she’s about to mount his right arm and hump it.

My throat aches, and I hear the faint sound of Jace’s voice through the suffocating smog coating my brain. She’s ended her call and turned to see what I’m gaping at—it’s the perfect picture of my “boyfriend” looking like he’s a permanent fixture in someone else’s Christmas card.

Her voice mimics the thought my mind is growling.

“Who the fuck is that?”