Rush (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Priscilla

Class is almost over and I’ve barely heard a word the TA has said over the last hour. I flip my phone and check the time. Two hours until my hearing. Ugh. I haven’t communicated with Preston since he walked out on me on Sunday—or maybe I walked out on him. My head pounds when I think about it. In the back of my mind I’ve been holding out some hope that he might call or send a text. I’m slowly letting the thought trickle in that I might never see him again—it’s too painful to think about it for more than a second.

I can still hear the high-pitched ring of Jace’s voice when I told her we’d broken up.
Are you kidding me? You break up with him two days before your hearing? He’s your lead witness, Sil. Fuck, he’s your only witness!

I reminded her that I wasn’t dating him because he was my witness, and we started shouting at each other until Marcus slid between us. Then, because Jace doesn’t know when to shut it, she accused me of sabotaging the relationship, and told me I have a problem trusting men. That felt good. And as I’ve whipped myself with those words over the past two days, I’ve come to the humiliating realization—she’s right.

The students around me are closing their laptops, swinging backpacks over their shoulders, murmuring words of relief that class is over. I’ve got just enough time to get home, change, and head to Lockhart Hall. My stomach starts to churn with anxiety. This is it—my last chance.

If the board listens to what I have to say, and if they choose to give me the benefit of the doubt, I’ll be on the bus headed to North Carolina with my team on Friday to play in the National Championship Game. The. College. Cup. It doesn’t get any bigger than that. If they don’t, I’ll be standing in the arena parking lot waving good-bye to my teammates and hello to the long list of people I owe an explanation to, starting with my family.

My legs stretch, passing the line of students pouring out of the building. I jog to my car to shake off some nerves, drive home, and run up the stairwell. “Hey,” I call, letting out a rush of breath and pushing our apartment door open.

“Hey,” Jace replies. She lowers Rasputin into her penthouse and grabs her coat. “I have a quick errand to run, and then I’ll meet you at Lockhart,” she says, pulling her jacket on.

“Oh, okay.” I swallow the pang of sadness—things still seem a little off between us. Marcus walks into the living room in an SEU hoodie and waves over his shoulder. “Heading out,” he calls.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Quick meeting for a group project. Hearing’s at four o’clock, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to care that my friends are deserting me.

“Are you going to be okay to drive yourself?” Jace asks me, and Marcus looks at her.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I’ve got a thing,” she says, pointing to the door.

I wave a hand to them. “I’m fine. I’ll meet you guys there.”

“Be strong, Sil,” Marcus says, ducking out of the apartment.

Jace purses her lips and stares at me. She moves across the room, grips my arms, and gives me a little shake. “Stop looking so forlorn. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. This shit will be over, and we can move on.”

I feel my eyes welling up, and she steps back and taps my nose with her index finger. “Do
not
do that,” she says in a stern voice, but I see the redness creasing the corners of her eyes, too. “Stop blubbering and start acting like the Priscilla Winslow I know and love, or I will personally give you a reason to cry.”

“Go,” I say, shooing her off. “I’ll see you there.”

I change into a black turtleneck, tan slacks, and black boots, confirm my conservative J. Crew appearance, and head out.

I meet Coach Howell in the long hall a few minutes early and break the news to him that my witness may not show up. He stares at me with a blank expression then clears his throat, swallowing the disappointment. We spend the rest of our time going over the appeal paperwork, and head into the hearing room at five to four.

A side door opens as we’re taking our seats behind the long table, and my heart thumps hard. The appeal board files in, composed of four women and five men. Two of the men are student ambassadors, and none of them served on the original board that doled out my suspension. That could be a good thing. My hope is that they will accept Preston’s statement as written on the appeal paperwork.

Coach Howell takes off his glasses and approaches the hearing director. He requests a ten-minute delay, which the director grants. I exhale a long low breath—and try to think about anything other than Preston. My mind slips back into the memory of the night we spent in jail and moves through the
Slow-Rush
mini series. I check my cell for texts. Nothing. The back of the room is strangely quiet. Not one of my friends is here. No Jace. No Marcus. No soccer girls. At least there’ll be less people to witness my final humiliation. Why am I even here?

At four ten, the director leans forward and clears his throat. “We’re going to go ahead and get started, Miss Winslow. If your witness shows up during our proceeding, we’ll allow him to offer his statement at that time…” My face feels numb as I nod my head in agreement, and he proceeds.

“I’m Robert Cobb, and I’ll be conducting today’s proceeding. We’ve all read the information that was presented at your first hearing and the board’s decision. Each of us has questions we’d like you to answer.”

Oh God. Here we go again.

I scoot to the edge of my chair, fold my forearms on the table, and prepare to relive the worst night of my life.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Preston

I pull my skullcap over my head, jog down the stairwell and push out the exit door of the dorm. It’s three thirty, and I’m on my way to Priscilla’s hearing, ready for all hell to break loose. I’m even looking forward to it.

Moses came to our room last night. Apparently, Tyler has assembled a group of players who think they’re going to stop me—they’re planning an ambush in the south campus lot. Moses was able to relay the details to me because Tyler asked him to join them.

It’s December first, and the air whipping around my shoulders spits a light mist over my face. The wind eases as my path angles between the six high-rise dorms on south campus, and I see the south lot in the distance, rows of cars stretching over a quarter mile square.

Lurking somewhere in the checkerboard of vehicles are Tyler and his cronies. Thanks to Holy Moses, my dream team is lurking, too, waiting for me to call the play.

I cross the entrance gate, passing the long bike rack, and walk casually down the center aisle. Blood rushes in my limbs, and I feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I’m ready to move, and I scan the rows without turning my head. I may not look pretty when I arrive at Priscilla’s hearing, but they’ll have to kill me to keep me away. I wonder if Tyler has thought about the consequences of what he’s about to do.

A light-colored vehicle is creeping slowly through the center lane. It turns directly in front of me, rolling forward. Shadows reflect through the windshield as it draws closer. My heart skips, and I stop. Holy shit. I think that’s Jace’s car.

I walk faster toward the white Jeep. It is Jace’s car and it’s loaded with soccer girls. Who the fuck invited them to this party? I hold a hand up and trot toward them—I’m going to have to play this off as if I’m just saying hello while I tell Jace to get lost.

She rolls her window down, and I smile. “Checking up on me?”

“Yup,” she says. “Need a ride?”

“No,” I say, and then I lower my chin and move a little closer, holding a stiff smile. “You’ve got to get out of here. Something’s about to go down, and you can’t get involved.” She looks confused for a minute, and I smile wider. Understanding dawns in her expression.

“Seriously? Do you need help?”

“No. I don’t need help.”

“Yeah. You need help,” she says. “You should get in and I’ll get you out of here.”

“No, Jace. I’ve got a bigger plan.” I lower my voice and widen my eyes at her. “I’ve got it covered and I need you to trust me on this. Please. I do not want to fuck this up for Priscilla.” She looks past her windshield.

“Eyes on me,” I say, and she turns back. “Now smile.”

She reaches a hand out, grabs my shirt, and pulls me against the frame of the Jeep’s window.

“If you’re lying to me, Rush, and you don’t show up for my girl, you’re going to be missing some teeth tomorrow.” She raises her lips as if she’s showing me her gums, mocking a smile. “You get it?” she snaps.

“Yeah, I got it. Now please, get the fuck out of here,” I sneer through my grin.

She nods, pats my shoulder, and rolls up her window. I wave and turn, resuming my battle march down the center of the aisle.

I’m approaching the intersection of the two main aisles. I step into middle of the giant cross and turn right. A shadow flickers fifty feet ahead. I watch the dark head skimming above the car tops, moving to the end of the row. Tyler steps into the space, grinning. I am so ready to knock that smile down his throat. Ten paces behind him are Darren and Homer. I walk toward them, stopping several feet away with my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

“How’s it going, boys?”

“I think you know why we’re here,” Darren says, letting his long jaw hang open.

In the distance, I hear another car door opening. I take a few steps, moving slowly toward them, conscious of the muffled scraping sounds drawing closer from my left. “We can’t let you appear at that hearing.”

“Well, looks like you’ve got a problem, then, because as of right now, I don’t see anything that’s gonna stop me.”

As if on cue, the doors of a blue car open behind them. Wearing combat boots and trench coats, the pirate cousins who jumped me at the bar step into the wide row and line up behind the stooges.

Tyler spreads his arms and smiles. “How about now?”

The answer is still no, but I don’t say that. Before I wipe the pavement with his face, I want him to sing like a Backstreet Boy.

“Why are you setting me up here, and why’d you set me up at the bar?”

Darren steps forward, and in a peacemaker tone, answers the question I directed at Tyler. “If you appear at that hearing, Mr. Todd thinks too much is going to come out about the night of the bar fight. You could expose us all. And I know you don’t want to be the reason the team gets disqualified.”

I ignore him. He’s a lead singer for sure, but I want to hear it from Tyler and the rest of the pirates. “I thought I recognized you,” I say to the tallest pirate. “You used to play ball right?” One thing that I know from hanging around former athletes is there’s nothing they like more than to relive their glory days. His eyes spark and he lifts his chin, taking the bait. “You were a good player. What position?”

“Fullback. Played pro ball for a season but tore my ACL too many times.”

“Sucks man.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You working for Martin now?”

“Ain’t got much choice seeing as I owe him forty g’s,” he says, laughing. “Martin’s name is on the deed of the house we live in. When you put my name on that police report, you linked Martin to the bar fight. Somehow, he got ahold of the report you turned in. He says you supplied them with written proof of his connection to us. They won’t take your statement if you don’t show up, though—at least that’s what they told him.”

“It’s nothing personal, but we can’t let you bring the whole team down,” Darren says.

“If you guys are taking money from Martin, and these clowns knocked me and Priscilla around because Martin told them to—how am I responsible for bringing the team down?”

“I didn’t mean to smack your girlfriend,” Pirate says in a defensive tone. “She was never part of the plan. I do harmless favors for Martin here and there, and he takes it off my tab—it’s either that or owe him money the rest of my life.”

I fist my hands and glare at him, recalling the welt on Priscilla’s face, but I’ve got to keep pushing.

“She was never part of the plan is right,” I say.

Next contestant I need to step up to the microphone is Tyler.

“How much are you into Martin for, Tyler? Forty g’s?” He smirks at me. “Fifty? I know you’re living the large man on campus life.”

“We all have our reasons for working with the man, but you don’t know shit about my life, Rush.”

“I don’t know shit about your past life, Tyler, but I know this is what working with Martin does to an athlete. You always answer to the guy who funds your lifestyle, and if that’s Martin, you’re answering to an asshole. I bet my Rathskeller friend here was as cocky as you are at one time.” I nod to the pirate. “I bet he thought he’d land a fat contract, pay Martin back, and wash his hands of him. Didn’t quite work out that way.”

“You got an awful lot to say for a guy who’s about to get his ass kicked.”

“You got half of that right, Tyler. I do have a lot to say, and I’m going to say it to that board in about ten minutes. But I’m not going to be the one getting his ass kicked.” I let out a loud, whistling call. “I brought my own team.”

Boots scuffle pavement and the stooges turn. Moses and Marcus step into the aisle, and I feel Carson moving behind me, lining up in the same position he plays on the field. “Got your back man,” he says. And the cherry on top of my kick your ass sundae surprise is Priscilla’s brother, former MMA badass, Ben Winslow. Tyler and his cronies follow our eyes as we watch him strolling forward.

Ben raises an arm as he’s closing in on the huddle. “Hey, guys, I just want to clarify one thing before we get started: which one of you smacked my sister?” His gaze shifts over the gang.

“If your sister is Little Bo Peep, she cracked me in the head with her staff. Twelve stitches, right here,” the pirate says, trying to present a good defense with his forehead.

“Good to know…good to know,” Ben says. He walks slowly toward his target and stops directly in front of him. He spits on his thumb, presses it against the guy’s forehead and twists, as if he’s snuffing out a cigarette, and shoves him hard. “Today’s your unlucky day fucktard.”

Ben turns his back. The angry glint in his eyes bleeds over his features. “Ready when you are,” he says. He lets out a small
hup
as the pirate jumps on his back, wrapping a thick arm around his neck. In a flash, Ben flips him and combat boots cartwheel through the air like an arc of water. His body slams to the concrete with a hollow sound. Game on. From the move Ben just executed, I think he turned his back on purpose.

I sidestep and lunge for Tyler, gripping his coat with one hand and landing my fist on his mouth. Bodies shift and arms fly. Grunts and curses sail through the air. An elbow connects with my cheekbone, but it’s not Tyler’s—he’s as slippery as an oiled rat, twisting, turning, and flailing as blood seeps from his lip and I wrestle him to the ground.

The shrieking blare of a car alarm layers over our chaotic brawl and I hear a girl’s voice. Holy fuck! Jace and the soccer girls are back. She’s pulled her Jeep inches from our scuffle and detonated the alarm. The motion around me slows as the fighters focus on the strawberry-blonde barking out orders.

My foot is on Tyler’s chest, and I press harder, holding him down and glancing at the others. Ben’s pirate is knocked out cold, his arm twisted at an angle that’s impossible to achieve unless it’s broken. Moses has the other pirate on his knees, and Marcus and Carson are holding the collars of Darren and Todd, who are both bloody.

“Jace!” Marcus yells. “Get the fuck out of here!”

“Don’t you fuckin’ tell me to get the fuck out of here, fucker.” She raises her cell phone into the air and sneers. “I’ve got all of you
West Side Story
wannabes on video—every single word—and unless you want me to turn this in to the NCAA, you’re all going to step back,” she says, panning the camera.

Ben holds his hands up and moves forward. Shoving Tyler hard with my foot, I join him, and the others follow. “You and you,” she says, pointing to me and Marcus. “Get in the car. I’m making it my personal mission to get you to the church on time.”

“Jesus Christ, Jace,” Marcus says, shaking his head.

“You can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take Texas out of the girl,” I mumble, following Marcus to the Jeep. We duck in as two of the soccer girls vacate to the back.

I smile over the headrests to them. “Thanks for the lift, ladies.”

Marcus looks me over. “You make out okay?”

“Yep. You?”

“I suppose so. Everything’s still working. Felt kinda good, actually,” he says, rubbing his knuckles over his jeans and grinning.

“Were you ladies sitting in the car watching the show the whole time?” I ask.

One of the girls answers. “No, we were lying under a Suburban beside you so Jace could record it.”

Marcus runs a big hand over his buzz cut and mumbles something, drawing a glare from Jace.

She points a finger at him. “You said you were on your way to a project.”

“This was my project,” he responds. “I suppose this was your ‘thing.’”

“Clearly, we’ll talk about this later.”

“Clearly we will, ’cause I’m pretty sure Preston was telling you to beat it when you were talking to him before the fight started.”

“Hey, can I see that?” I ask, motioning to her phone jutting up from the cup holder. She twists her wrist, handing it back. I watch the replay, listening to my voice moving the bars on the audio. I can hear every word, yet the baritone sounds unfamiliar.

Something adjusts in my mind, as if I’m an outsider looking in. Instead of standing among the players on the field, I’m gaining the perspective of a stadium seat, and the more distant my view becomes, the easier it is to separate myself from Tyler and Martin Todd.

I know in my heart I have nothing to be ashamed of, and what my teammates did or didn’t do with any booster is not my responsibility—nor is covering it up. For the last three years I’ve struggled with whether or not I should turn these guys in. Something always stopped me—until Priscilla got caught in the web.

Jace whips the car into a spot, shoves it into park, and throws the door open. “We’re late,” she says, but I’m already running, sprinting up the steps ten paces in front of my entourage. My boots slide past the double doors. I catch one of the handles, jerk to a stop, and pull the door open.

Relief floods through me at the sight of the board, still assembled. I think I made it. I spot Priscilla. Honey-blond hair streams down her rigid back, and another beat of relief surges. The man speaking in the center of the long table notices me and pauses. The room turns, but all I see is her.

She and her coach stand as I approach. Her face is pale and still, hiding all emotion behind a mask of formality. I slide in and stand beside her. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say, loud enough so that they can all hear me, but I’m still facing Peep. Our eyes hold, softening into the reality of being in this moment together.

Her mouth curves faintly, cracking the strain, and the first signs of relief lighten her features.

Meeting Priscilla has led me to this path—to do the right thing—for her, of course, but for me, too, and for my team and the athletes that come behind us. Life is about to change, and for the first time in three years my heart and head feel aligned.

Her coach is speaking. “Preston Rush was present at the Rathskeller bar when the fight broke out. He was involved, and has prepared a statement…” He digs through the paperwork on the table and walks it toward the board.

“You okay?” I ask Priscilla.

She lets out a ragged breath and nods. “Better now,” she says, and her gaze stalls on my cheek. I can feel the exact spot I caught that elbow. Small wrinkles form over the bridge of her nose as she inspects me.