Rush (5 page)

“Oh.” She smirks and turns away, stepping next to her friend. “Looks more like they’re being lazy to me.” I think she was trying to murmur, but she has the kind of voice you’d hear from across a football field, and we do.

My teammates and I stand, smacking dirt off our hands with peeved looks. The girls snap a series of selfies while players photo bomb the backdrop with self-indulgent poses, raising both arms, flexing and kissing their biceps. “They’re as cheesy as a Speedo on the beach,” Jace says, rubbing the back of her hand over her chin. “They’ve got all the goods, but no one wants to see the display.”

Preston is chatting with another player off to the side. The auburn haired girl drags him into the next picture and hangs on his arm. He smiles for the shot and a charge of heat spirals through me, rising into my head. I have the urge to hiss at something. Not a care in the fucking world. No letter, no trouble, no problems.

Light flickers to my right, drawing my attention. Ten feet away, the hot dog blaster is resting in the sun, its aluminum canister glistening with appeal. Hmmm. The little voice in my head that usually says,
Better not, Priscilla,
has changed its tune. It’s skipping and whistling,
What the hell—it’s not as if you’ve got anything to lose
.

I slip away from my teammates and pick up the blaster. Tilting my head left and right, I’m channeling casual curiosity, warming up my act. I cup the shiny tube in the curve of my fingers, balance it low on my hip, and rotate. Let’s see if the god of pigskin can catch this.

A brilliant
pop
erupts, followed by a low
whooooosh
. Silver foil spins through the air like a bullet, nailing Preston in the temple. I flinch at the
thwapping
sound.
Well, that worked.

The auburn-haired girl lets out a banshee wail while the other two stumble sideways. The hot dog drops to the ground and rolls to a stop in front of a pair of glossy Hunter boots, but my victim has barely moved. He’s paused in the moment of
What the Fuck?
He pivots, turning toward me in slow motion until he’s facing me full on. A prickling sensation moves up my arms and into my neck as I absorb his icy stare, but I hold my game face.

“Wow,” I say, loud enough for all of the onlookers to hear. I shake my head in exaggerated disbelief and raise a palm to the sky as if I’m checking for raindrops. “I don’t know what happened.” I pause and look at the gun, maintaining my doe-eyed expression. “It just kind of exploded.”

A dark look clouds his features as he considers me. Finally, he nods and turns back to his conversation. My index finger crooks against the smooth metal trigger again—as if it has a mind of it’s own.

Pop!
Another
whoooosh
through the air.

This time he moves with the instinct of an NFL-bound player, measuring the twirling missile as it barrels toward him. He takes a direct hit to the chest, cradles his hands, and catches it on the rebound.

“Jesus! This trigger must be loose.” I shake the gun with gusto and resist the urge to join in with my teammates, giggling around me. Stalking slowly toward me, he steps all up in my personal space and pierces me with a warning look.

My brow scrunches, and I cock my head, peering at the red welt on the side of his face. I choose my words carefully to avoid saying anything remotely apologetic.

“Wow, that one must have really hurt.” I point to his temple with my index finger then press it to my lip. “That—just happened,” I say, repeating his words after he kissed me in the jail cell.

His jaw moves, tightening the seam of his lips. “Maybe you should put the gun down until we’re ready to start.” His words are a suggestion, but his tone is an outright demand.

“Absolutely.” I let a small laugh escape and hold a hand to my chest. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for taking out the football team’s star player. I mean you guys are having such a great season, about to head to the playoffs”—my fingertips flick air—“and all that impressive stuff.”

He stands in front of me, absorbing all the frustration and anger I’m hurling at him, and yet somehow he still looks calm when he speaks. “I need to talk to you.” I turn and walk away just as Cho and his helpers jog back.

We line up according to the instructions, and the whistle blows. Hot dogs soar through the air as shouts of encouragement boom around us. Bodies shuffle together in a line of hooked arms, trying to catch the dogs. I end up on a team with Sydney and three football players. We laugh as we bump and stumble a dozen times before the guy on the end makes our catch.

“All right. Challenge number two. I need my soccer players sitting single file here,” Cho says, slicing an arm through the air. “And football players, fall in and sit back to back.” A tall blond plants a high top next to my thigh, about to take the seat against my back, but he loses his balance and stumbles. I look up to see Preston shouldering him out of the way.

“Beat it,” he says, as the blond grumbles and moves down the line.

“That’s a little aggressive,” I mumble, watching him sit.

Cho walks in front of my cross-legged teammates, passing out clipboards.

“Ladies, the men are going to describe an object. You have to draw what they’re describing.” He moves to the men, handing them index cards.

“Okay, gentleman, three minutes to describe your object, starting now.”

I pick up the pencil attached to my clipboard and listen for Preston’s voice. His back feels straight and strong against mine, and vibrations ripple softly through me as he speaks.

“Okay, this is basically what I am,” he says, “or what I do for a sport at college. There are balls involved. Sometimes we get tackled. It’s played on a field.”

This is too easy. Obviously, he’s describing a football player, but his words—
this is basically what I am
—give me the perfect opportunity to take this in another direction. I sketch my masterpiece, listening to the calm cadence of his deep voice coaxing me.

“How ya’ doing? You got it or need more clues?”

“Oh no. I got it,” I say, sketching a few more hairs. There.

“Okay, time. Stand up and see how you did,” Cho announces. I turn around and hand Preston the paper, watching him squint.

“It looks like the hot dog blaster you nailed me with, but I don’t get the plus sign or the teddy bear face.” I fake an innocent smile, lay my fingers over his large grip, and turn his hands, angling the paper. I’ve drawn a penis, a plus sign and a Chewbacca head—when you put it all together, the message is loud and clear. Dickhead.

His gaze narrows as he adjusts the paper, and the corner of his mouth tics up. His eyes brighten, shifting between me and the sketch. “You’re quite the little artist,” he says, appraising the picture with a head tilt. “Only…” He pauses, frowning. “If that’s supposed to represent me, the scale is way off.” He looks again and raises his chin. “Yeah. Way off.”

Cho’s announcement interrupts us. We follow his signal, watching him jump onto one of three knee-high balance beams. “Communication is the name of the game on this one. Partner up with someone from the other team. The object is to pass each other on the beam without falling. You can’t touch each other—you have to communicate to figure out a strategy. Rush, help me demonstrate. Grab that pugil stick.” Muscles in Preston’s arms flex as he grabs the Q-tip shaped stick and hops onto the beam to join Cho. With awkward dips and shuffles, they attempt to pass each other. “The pads at the end of the stick help you balance,” Cho explains, his voice distorting as he wobbles and falls. “Well, that’s the idea, anyhow,” he says, over the laughter. “Might as well stay up there, Rush. Take your spots, ladies.”

I march forward, pluck the stick from Cho’s grip, and step up to opportunity number three, springing onto the beam. With the twist of my wrist, I spin the stick once and hold it out. Preston narrows a wary gaze on me and moves in. His grip closes on the bar. He places one hand on the outside of each of mine, and then draws them slowly tighter, cocooning me within his arms. “You’re not supposed to touch me, remember?”

“I just changed the rules,” he says, pulling the bar closer. “Are you going to agree to talk to me?”

“Communication,” the trainer yells. “That’s the key.”

“Hold it tighter,” I snap, ignoring his question.

I feel the soft jerk as he strengthens his grip. Planting my toes, I bend and swing sideways. Despite the fact that I took him off guard, holding my weight on the bar seemed effortless for him. He pulls in, helping me balance, and in a blink, I’m on the other side of him.

“Nice job, Peep.” His voice comes out in a slightly surprised, appreciative tone, and the side of his mouth edges up. The compliment sends a small ping into my chest as he glances at the other couples struggling on the beams.

“After you’re done, head to the obstacle course. You and your partner can start without waiting for the others, but you have to cross the finish line together,” Cho announces.

I load the stick on my shoulder and knock Preston in the head as I’m turning. I leap off the end of the beam, toss the stick aside, and jog toward the giant obstacle course swaying in the distance. Other than the force of his feet running behind me, he’s silent, but I sense his growing intensity—I think he’s losing his patience with me, and I pick up my pace.

We arrive at the twin tunnel entrance of the inflatable in stride.

“Ready?” I ask, breathing hard.

“Yeah. I’m ready,” he huffs in a “bring it on” tone.

Plunging into the yellow vinyl, I crawl fast and roll out the other side, scrambling to my feet. I jump for the knotted rope hanging against a twenty-foot wall, and he does the same beside me. Catching it high, I swing and point my toes, stretching to land on one of the footholds. Muscles strain in my arms as I climb, and damn it, if he isn’t already six feet ahead of me.

Considering his height, he’s probably close enough to pull himself over the top, but he’s peering down from between his arms. He reaches for me, flexing his fingers. “C’mon,” he says, “I got you.” I bite my lip, staring. He ignores my hesitation, lowers a step, and grips my elbow, holding me until my foot finds a post.

I spring off the perch and climb fast. I abandon the rope, beating him to the top. His Good Samaritan gesture has allowed me a leg up—literally. Planting a foot on his chest, I shove him back. He growls something inaudible—my cue to move.

Shaky fingers gripping the wall, I flip onto my stomach and roll off. I’m weightless, toppling down the soft incline. The sky spins blue and white and I smile, marveling at my own evil genius, until everything jerks to a stop. I suck in a sharp breath and watch my ball cap fall to the mattress below.

I’m hanging upside down, stuck on something. Tightening my abs, I curl up. His hand is locked around my ankle like a manacle, and his dark gray stare glimmers down at me, devoid of the calm restraint he’d been mastering. He’s baring a smile like the Big Bad Wolf would give to Goldilocks—or in my case, Little Bo Peep. I thrash against the vinyl, trying to wrench free, but he captures my other ankle.

“I think its time we had a talk, don’t you, Peep?” I drop back, twisting left and right, as he begins the slow reel. Blood pools in my face, and my hair whaps the wall with angry snaps. My fingertips claw the slippery surface, trying to latch onto something as he draws my body slowly up. It’s no use. I’m a fish and he’s the hook. Caught.

Chapter Six

Preston

Playing college football, I’ve dealt with a fair amount of bullshit—overly aggressive players, unreasonable coaches, and disgruntled fans to name a few. Compared to my teammates, I know I’m a patient guy. But being beaned with a hot dog, then knocked in the head and stepped on by a blonde with a bug up her ass is about as far as I can stretch.

I draw her up until the top of the inflatable hits her hips and her body drapes over it. Straddling the wall, I rest a firm hand on the middle of her back. The feel of her legs and the sight of her shapely ass so close to my face stirs my blood, which is already riled from the beat-down she’s been giving me. I grit my teeth and swallow a hard breath.

“If you’ll agree to talk to me,” I say, “I’ll let you up. If not, I’ll be happy to sit here and admire the view.”

She arches her neck and snaps me a dousing glare.

“Look, I get that you’re pissed at me, and you might even be entitled. but I need you to tell me what happened. I asked my coach and all of our assistant coaches about your letter. No one remembers getting it. Tell me what I did to piss you off.”

“It’s not what you
did
. It’s what you
didn’t
do.” She smacks a balancing hand on my thigh and makes a rushed effort to sit up. I hold her arm, helping until she’s mirroring my position, straddling the top of the wall. She shoves a wave of hair off her cheek and lets loose.

“I needed you to serve as a witness at my hearing on Friday.”

“What hearing?” I ask, but her words plow over mine.

“And you couldn’t even manage to show up for a twenty-minute hearing!”

“Wait, wait. Are you talking about a hearing with the athletic board?”

“The fact that you don’t know what I’m talking about really, really bothers me. You got arrested, too. Did you not get in any trouble?”

I palm the back of my head, nerves sprouting in my stomach. This is worse than I thought.

“When’s
your
hearing?” she asks, “Or did you get out of it somehow?”

There’s no way to soften the blow. I have to tell her.

“My charges were dropped.”

A huff of air escapes and she scowls. “Your charges were dropped?” she asks, a note of accusation in her tone.

“Yes. That’s what I said. My charges were dropped.” My voice is starting to take on the frustration I feel.

“You football players deserve every bit of the bad rap you get.” She throws herself into a backward dive off the wall, intending to ditch me again, but this conversation is not over. In fact, it’s just beginning.

“Hey.” I reach an arm out, catching her behind the knee, but she’s too far gone. The momentum pulls us both down, and for a panicked second, I’m worried I’m going to crush her on the landing. My pulse sprints as my body crashes into the giant pillow. I land half on top of her, and she lets loose an involuntary
oomph
that socks my heart.

“Are you all right?” I ask, raising my upper body over her. She’s lying on her back still and silent, staring at me for a long beat.

Her mouth is open and she’s shaking her head slowly. “No. I am not all right.” Her words begin with a forceful bite but morph into outright distress on the repeat. “I am not all right,” she says, and I know from the tremble of her bottom lip she’s not talking about the fall. She clamps her mouth shut, squeezes her eyes closed, and turns a cheek to the mattress.

I climb onto my knees, reach for her shoulders, and pull her gently up. “You’re killing me here, Priscilla. You’ve got to tell me what happened.”

I give her a minute, and the silence expands as she studies her hands in her lap.

“Look, I can let you keep taking shots at me if you want, but its not going to fix your problem,” I say in a firm voice.

“Makes me feel better,” she murmurs—more to herself than to me, but I answer her anyway.

“But it doesn’t solve your problem, and I can’t help you unless you tell me.”

She pauses a beat, twisting her lips and watching me with a wary expression, but I can see the fight dying in her eyes and she speaks in a resigned tone. “I had my hearing on Friday. I needed you to appear as my witness.You were my
only
witness. I asked you to come in that letter I left for you.”

“What happened?” I ask, steadying my jaw against the impending bad fucking news.

“I’m suspended. I can’t play soccer for the rest of the season.”

I blink hard, sitting back on my heels, letting her words sink in. Jesus. She’s totally screwed—all because she was trying to help me. The air mattress thumps as she throws herself backward and lies still.

Groaning in frustration, I flip onto my back and lie beside her. Blue skies above—nothing but blue skies and another mess I’ve created. I hold a clenched fist against my pounding head as thoughts pinball through my brain.

“This is not the kind of problem I need right now.” My voice is low grumble, but not low enough. I hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all, but I did, and the quick shift of the pillow under my back tells me she heard every word.

“Hey,” I say, reaching for her as she’s sitting up. She pushes onto all fours, and I see a tear glistening over the smooth skin of her cheek as she whirls away.

“Priscilla, wait.” I stand and lunge, catching up to her in three bouncing steps.

“I’m not your problem,” she grits out, her voice breaking.

“I didn’t mean it that way.” God, I’m an ass. “Let me help you.”

She shakes her head, raising a hand to her face and letting out a small sound that chokes me. The air mattress ripples under my feet—reinforcing how my whole world is on tilt. I have the urge to jam the butt of my hand against my head—as if I could knock everything back on track and regain the equilibrium I seem to have lost since I met her. The weight disparity between us is making it impossible to stand still, and the mattress sinks again. She wobbles against me, raising her hands to push off from my chest, but I circle my arms around her before she can, and her body caves into mine. I hold her close, pressing my cheek against her hair. “I’m sorry. If I had known about your hearing, I would have been there, I swear. Let me help you.”

“It’s too late.” Gulping in a breath, she shakes her head against my neck. “We’re on our way to the championship games this year. In thirty minutes they ended everything I’ve worked for—took me out of the game forever.”

I tighten my hold and stroke a hand up her back, speaking low next to her ear, trying to reassure her. “We’ll figure something out.”

I may have been willing to risk my own neck for the last three years, but now that my problems have involved her, there’s no way I’m going to let her take the fall. I’m going to fix this mess if it kills me—or worse, if it kills my football career. I close my eyes, feeling the vow I’ve just made like a million pounds of pressure on my chest. Fuck.

My insides are completely shredded, and I’m whispering anything I can think of to help settle her. “You should be able to file an appeal. Did they say you could?”

“Only if I have new information to present.”

“That’s what we’re going to do then. We’ll file the appeal, and I’ll talk to my coaches and see if they can help. We’ll find as many witnesses as we can.”

A voice echoes from over the walls. “Priscilla, are you in there?” She flinches in my arms then straightens, wiping her fingertips across her cheeks.

“Yes,” she calls, stepping away from me. I grab her wrist.

“Can you meet me Wednesday at three?” She pauses, and for a minute, I think she’s going to say no, but she nods once and disappears into the maze of giant inflated pillars. My complicated life just tightened the ratchet. Hard.