Rush (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

Priscilla

I close the door to our apartment and follow Jace into the stairwell. “Nervous?” she asks.

“For what?” I scoff, pretending I have no idea what she’s talking about as I stare at the glossy black hood of Preston’s truck waiting below. The guys scored a parking pass for the Kresge arena lot where Marcus plays tonight, and they offered to pick us up. Curls bounce around her up-do as she descends, looking up at me with a crooked grin. “You do know that after four years of being roommates you can’t bullshit me, right? Have you seen him since the training room showdown last week?”

“No, but he’s been texting me with updates on the Shirt Off Our Backs program—he actually did a pick up last week for me.”

Her lashes flutter with sarcasm. “Shocking,” she gushes.

I laugh and challenge the reaction. “It doesn’t surprise you that Mr. Big Deal football player would take time out of his busy schedule to help with a charity campaign?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

She steps onto the pavement and waits until I’m beside her to speak. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Mr. Big Deal wants you. He stares at you like he just came in his pants.”

I nudge her with my shoulder. “You’re a pig.” But I can’t help laughing at the crass comment and her smug smile.

“I knew he’d be the first to cave when I shamed them all after they tried to boot us from the training room. He’s already sexually invested.”

“You’re not giving him enough credit. Not everything he does revolves around my panties.”

“Said the virgin for the last time.” She flips me a smart-ass smile and yanks the door open. Boom. There he is. The soft light of the cab illuminates his face, and we stare at each other for a long moment. His lips curl, and he stretches long fingers to help Carson fold the seat forward from the driver’s side. I step onto the running board and climb, balancing a hand on top of his and twisting into the seat. The bees in my stomach have started to buzz, as if I’ve just pulled my turtleneck over my head and shouted down to them,
Daddy’s home, kids.

Jace gabs away, responding to Carson’s warm conversation with animated laughter. I attempt to punctuate the convo with intelligent quips, but somehow they tumble out as one-syllable grunts, and I give up, leaning back for the rest of the ride.

We park ten rows from the arena, and I walk beside Preston in the unseasonably mild air. Jace’s hands octopus around her shadow as she and Carson talk, several steps ahead of us. Suddenly I’m aware of the quiet echo of our footsteps.

“Great game Saturday,” I say to fill the silence.

“Thanks.” He smiles softly. “I heard you guys won your game, too.”

“Yeah,” I respond with a small smile, but both of our teams advancing just reaffirms the bind we’re in…

“How are the donations going?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Well, I thought it was going great until I got a call from the Superintendent of Detroit Schools. He asked me if I could expand the program to include the junior highs, and because I like to feel constant pressure, I said yes.” The sound of his chuckle fills the air, and I note the lights are still on in the building across the street.

“Hey,” I call up to Jace. “I want to swing through the field office real quick. Coach Howell left me a message about a donation that came in today.”

She looks at her watch, glances across the street, and pushes Carson’s shoulder in that direction.

“It’ll just take a minute,” I say. We cross and enter the long hallway of the field sports building.

“Are you sure the door’s open?” Jace asks, as I stop in front of the room Coach Howell is allowing me to use for the program.

“He said he’d leave it unlocked in case I couldn’t get by earlier.” I push it open and step in, feeling Preston’s big body behind me as my fingers fumble over the switch plate. Light punches the air, and I blink at the foreign sight in front of us. The back wall has half-disappeared, covered entirely by boxes. “What the what?” At the end of last week I only had two boxes. “I bet they gave my room away and this is their way of telling me. Great.”

Jace and I cross to inspect the stacks. I tilt my head and examine the small black words above the bar code. “There’s a Detroit Lions logo on this label,” Jace announces, and I read the rest aloud.

“Care of Duffy McCray, forward to Miss Priscilla Winslow. Who the heck is Duffy McCray?” The quick turn of Carson’s head draws my attention. He’s staring at Preston with a knowing grin, watching him as he lowers one of the boxes to the floor beside me and runs a key down the taped center. We peel back the flaps, and my gaze widens at the layers of gray T-shirts. I hold one up, unfolding the long sleeves with the snap of my wrists. A royal blue lion stands on his hind legs, pawing the air. My arms collapse against my chest, and I stare at Preston with a bewildered look. “You don’t think these are for us…as donations?”

He smiles and nods slowly. “I know they are.”

“What?” I gasp. “How? Where? Who is Duffy McCray?”

“He represents over forty NFL players with eight different teams, and he’s about to sign my man.” Carson boasts, dropping an arm around Preston’s shoulder.

He shrugs Carson’s arm off and speaks in a casual tone. “He’s, hopefully, my agent—once my season ends. I told him about your program. He said most teams have a stash of defective stuff.” His arms spread, sheepishly. “I asked if he’d be willing to make a few calls.”

My mouth opens, and I survey the boxes again. A laugh bubbles out, and then another. “Are you serious? All these boxes are donations?”

He pulls another box from the stack, lines it up with a push of his foot, and starts to open it. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Jace leans in whispering to me. “I don’t say this very often, but I think you were right—I wasn’t giving him enough credit.” We stare dumbfounded as he shreds the tape and lifts the flaps of the second box filled with Lions baseball caps.

“Sweet!” Carson says, grabbing one and putting it on. Jace swipes it off his head and tosses it back into the box.

“We have to go,” she calls over her shoulder, heading for the door. “I want to be there for tip off. You coming?”

“I’ve got to see what’s in the rest of these boxes. I’ll be there in ten.” I turn to Preston, intending to thank him before he leaves, but he’s nodding to them.

“You guys go ahead. We’ll catch up,” he says, and they disappear.

I draw a deep breath, watching him. Cardboard thumps the tile as he drops another box and tears the seam. I feel overwhelmed and slightly disoriented. It used to be so easy to keep a tight lock on the gate of my emotions, but it’s like I lost the key when I met him. He stops, waiting for me to open the flaps of the box between his long legs but my head is spinning and my eyes are watering. “I…I don’t even know what to say,” I stammer, lifting my shoulders into a small shrug.

He straightens, and his expression softens into an appreciative smile. “It would have taken me a year to collect this much stuff.” I press my fingertips to my hot cheeks and shake my head at the boxes. My voice sounds hoarse when I speak. “I can’t believe you did this for me.” There’s no gloating or arrogance on his face, no hint of “look what I did to impress you.” All I see is kindness and I’m melting.

In this moment, I don’t give a rat’s ass about anything else. I. Fucking. Love. Him. And, oh my God, my bottom lip just trembled. What is wrong with me? His smile falls, reacting to my distress, and he giant-steps toward me. I smash the gray T-shirt to cover my face, breathing in the vinyl smell of the decal as a sniff escapes.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle as he cups my upper arms and speaks. “Are you crying?”

“No?” The firm response I was going for wobbles out as a muffled question, and he pulls me in, folding heavy arms around my back. His chest pulses with a soft chuckle.

“Don’t cry, Peep. You’re supposed to be happy,” he says, sounding tenderly amused.

My forehead rolls against him as I shake my head. “Do you know what this means to the kids in my program? So many of them have such bad lives. Broken homes. Dads that have disappeared. Moms that can’t get their shit together. Poorer than dust. The only reason some of them come to school is so they can play sports, and they love these teams.” Another sniffle escapes, and he rubs my back with a big hand. A beat passes and he speaks low over my ear.

“I know, Priscilla. I was one of those kids. My dad died in a car accident when I was three. My mom was diagnosed with MS when I was in fourth grade.” His chin settles on my hair and I’m tucked close, my cheek pressed to the warm skin of his neck. The deep vibration from his voice spreads an aching pulse into my heart. “Playing football was the only thing that made me feel like a kid. I know.” I squeeze my eyes closed and rest in his arms, hating the thought of it for him.

A moment passes. I swallow and raise my head. His arms fall away softly. “Me, too,” I say. “Soccer saved me. My dad left us when I was in grade school. He just decided one day he was done and bowed out.” His jaw moves and his eyes narrow, searching my face. The difference between our dads is that mine left voluntarily, which always warrants more questions that I never want to answer, but I feel an ease with him.

“It wasn’t as bad for us kids as it was for my mom,” I offer. “My dad never really participated in our lives.” I let out a small, humorless laugh. “He never came to my soccer games.”

“Not even one?” he asks, his expression half disgust, half shock.

“Not even one—that wasn’t the worst part though. The worst part was watching my mom. She went half crazy for a few years, and the soccer field was the only place I could forget about the pain at home.”

We stare at each other a long moment, appreciating the new found connection. “We have that in common then,” he says, and I feel a smile curling my lips.

“Yeah, that and we’ve both been thrown in jail. But enough with the Hallmark moment. We should probably open the rest of these boxes if we’re going to make it to the game before the half.”

He watches me kneel and open the flaps of the box beside his legs.

“No way,” I say, reaching in and pulling out a shoebox. “This is better than Christmas,” I say, handing him a pair of black Nike high tops for his inspection.

“Hey, these are my size,”

“Uh, no, they’re for the kids.” I snatch them out of his hands and close the lid. “C’mon, next box, next box.” He mumbles something about my bossiness as I shove him toward the stack.

We chat casually as he splits the boxes and I label the sides with a Sharpie according to content. “How’d you get involved with the Shirt Off Our Backs program?” he asks as my fingers bounce through the air, counting boxes.

“I was the assistant coach for the women’s track team at Detroit Pershing last spring, and my girls always wanted my SEU stuff. I told them if they finished the season I’d take them to the campus store and buy them hoodies.” I laugh and scratch my head. “That was an expensive day, but well worth it. Every single one of them finished the season strong.”

“So you came up with the program on your own?” His tone is a mix of surprise and admiration.

Brushing dust from my hands, I answer him. “Yeah. Being an athlete, I knew how much extra gear we all end up with. It made sense to me.”

“It’s a brilliant concept,” he exclaims, drawing my attention.

“What’s brilliant was your idea to ask your agent to make some calls. We have seven boxes total—T-shirts, sweatpants, hats, shoes, blankets, sweaters, and jackets. It’s the mother lode of slightly defective athletic apparel.”

“I told you we were going to make a good team.” I cast him a sideways look, and he flashes me a flirtatious smile, which I return.

With an impressive display of muscles flaring over his upper back and shoulders he reseals the boxes and stacks the last one. “That’s it,” he says, and when he turns, I’ve intentionally moved to stand on his heels.

He reaches for my waist, surprise capturing his features for a brief moment then disappearing when he realizes my proximity is intentional. I reach my hands to his shoulders and speak softly. “No matter what happens with my soccer status, I am eternally grateful to you for this.” I press onto my toes, and he leans into my kiss. I linger for just a second, opening my eyes into his gaze, but it’s unreadable. This is by no means our first kiss, but it’s the first kiss with no pretense. I want to keep kissing him, and I want for him to keep kissing me, but I feel something in his stance harden, and a stiffening in his fingertips on my back. He draws back slowly and a thousand pinpricks of disappointment invade my chest. I recall his words after the bar make-out session.
It won’t happen again.
Of course it won’t. My face flushes as he steps back and puts his hands in his pockets.

“You’re welcome, Priscilla.”

I pick up my purse and strap it around my body.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Yep. I’ll feel bad if I miss too much more of Marcus’s first game,” I say, trying to shake the faint feeling of rejection.

As we’re turning to the door, he does a double take, spying a small bag.

“What’s this?” he asks, peering inside.

“Oh, that’s a donation from Gus Hatch.”

“Three hockey shirts? That’s it?” Indignation fills his tone. “That’s lame,” he whines. “The best he can do is three measly shirts?”

I giggle as he flips the bag and reads what Hatch has written in red marker:
For Prisilla Winslow
. And just under that, his signature, phone number and the words,
Call me
.

“He leaves his phone number and spells your name wrong. What a tool,” Preston mutters.

I shut off the lights and close the door as he continues to run him down. “I mean he didn’t even bother with the presentation—bag’s all crinkled and shit. Look at how he scrawled his name half across the front, like he’s a fucking celebrity. And what’s up with the phone number and the plea for a call?” His question hangs in silence for a moment. I know what’s coming next.

“I’ve already called him…to say thanks.”

His gaze fixes on me, waiting for more, but I remain focused on the hallway and silent. I can see him nodding from the corner of my eye. “Did he ask you out?” Not only is his tone unapologetic, he looks unapologetic.