by Shae Ross
Marcus reaches over Jace, opens the cupboard, and grabs a box of Corn Pops. He moves toward the refrigerator, trying to ignore her, but judging by the mischievous look on her face, she’s not going to let it go.
“It’s a goatee,” he says, smoothing a finger over his lip.
“You do realize your missing the tee, right?”
He rolls his eyes and tries to step around her, but she mirrors the move, blocking his path.
When Marcus called and told me he was accepting a last minute transfer to SEU and needed to find an apartment to stay in for a semester, I talked Jace into letting him have the spare bedroom she had planned for Rasputin. I think hassling Marcus every chance she gets is her way of punishing him.
“You have to get rid of that lip-brow,” she demands, swishing her index finger like a windshield wiper as he throws a handful of Corn Pops into his mouth.
“Mm hmm,” he responds.
“You can’t roll with a seventies look right now—people will think you’re a creeper!” Jace explains.
“Mm hmm,” Marcus hums again, ignoring her completely. I press my lips tight to stifle a blast of laughter.
It takes a lot to get a rise out of Marcus. He is the most laid-back guy—always moving at a slow, easy pace, always pausing to contemplate before he speaks. He extends a Corn Pops pebble to Rasputin, and Jace gasps, hiking the lizard high on her shoulder. “You can’t feed her that processed stuff.”
“It’s corn,” Marcus says, throwing the remaining handful into his mouth. “She loves it. We watch Fallon together, and she gets hungry. Keeps licking her lips.”
“She’s a lizard. That’s what they do.”
“Well, we didn’t have many lizards in the D. Now could you Texas two-step yourself aside. I need some milk.”
She pauses, trying to decide if she’s done, then lowers her head, pinning him with a warning look. “If she gets sick because of you, I will climb your skyscraper ass faster than King Kong on the Empire State Building and take you down.”
“Mm hmm,” he says, opening the door and pulling out a gallon of milk.
My cell buzzes, and I examine the unfamiliar number. “This is Priscilla,” I say. There’s silence for a moment, and then a deep voice comes through.
“Uh, I was looking for Cate. This is Armando. I met her in line at Jimmy Johns yesterday.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. You and a dozen other guys. “I’m Cate’s older sister, Priscilla. Sorry to break the bad news, but she’s not interested. Good luck to you.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he pleads as I’m about to press the end button, and something in the sound of his voice dents my big-sister shield. “Why did she give me your number?” he asks, as if it’s not obvious. But he sounds so innocent, and I pause. Cate does this. Between her Kewpie doll face, sweet disposition, and overly extroverted personality, she racks up fans faster than a Kardashian nipple slip on Instagram. I let out a breath.
“Look, I’m sorry, but Cate has a hard time saying no when guys ask her for her number. She’s too nice. It’s not you, it’s her,” I explain.
“Oh,” he says. “So she gave me your number so you could say it for her?”
Bingo.
“I’m sorry. I’ll give her your number in case she changes her mind.”
“Okay. Thanks for taking my call, Priscilla.”
“Good luck to you, Armando.” I hang up the phone and close my computer. “I’m heading to campus,” I say, spinning off the stool.
“I didn’t think you had class until five p.m.”
“I don’t, but I’m meeting Preston.”
“Preston Rush?” Jace asks.
“Yeah. He’s convinced there’s something he can do to help get my eligibility reinstated.”
“That sounds like code for he wants to get in your pants,” Jace points out.
Marcus looks up at her from the spoonful of cereal he’s about to shovel into his mouth.
“What?” she asks in a defensive tone. The corners of his mouth curl, then he shakes his head and closes a bite around the spoon.
“Weren’t you the one telling me I ought to let someone get in my pants—something about one man going where no man has gone before.”
“Yeah, but not him.”
I smile and grab an apple from the basket on the counter. “I can assure you there’s no chance of that. I’m out, homies. Try not to kill each other.”
Easing my Jetta into the last space in Huntington lot, I park and cut through the north end of campus, tucking my chin low in my barn jacket to ward off the bite of early November. Every step I take shakes the hive of fireflies swarming my stomach.
I should have bailed. Better yet, I never should have agreed to this. I’m usually the levelheaded rational one, a realist. Somehow I let myself get sucked into the vortex of hope, seduced by the glow of sincerity and commitment I saw in his eyes. What was I thinking? I’ll hear him out, politely thank him, and wish him luck. Yep. That’s what I’m going to do. I blow out a breath and open the door.
Bells chime above me as I enter the Bump and Grind coffee shop. I’ve come a few minutes early, so I don’t have to do the whole awkward search of the room for dream boy. The door clicks shut behind me and then immediately reopens.
I glance over my shoulder and there he is, smiling. “Hey, Peep,” he says, swiping a gray wool cap off his head, a cap which just happens to be the exact shade of his eyes. I swallow and remind myself not to stare at his face—his fricking gorgeous face.
“Hey,” I say.
He touches my lower back, moving us toward the counter. I try to focus on the chalkboard menu, but all I can think about is the imprint of his hand on my back, and the fingers he’s raking through his loose brown curls as he studies the board. His shoulder brushes mine and he bends close, continuing to read. “Do you know what you want?”
Why does he seem sexier and hotter? “Um, yeah,” I say, staring at the hard line of his jaw. I know what I want. I want exactly what I told Jace would never happen. I blink hard, burying the thought, and drop a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Latte with skim milk, please. I’ll go find a table.”
Winding my way through what used to be an old estate home, I find an open couch in the room at the end of the hallway. I drop my book bag on the coffee table, and nod to the lone occupant, who stares through me, oblivious to the world beyond the bubble headphones he’s rocking.
Minutes later Preston appears in the doorway with two paper cups. “So, how’s your day been so far?” he asks, setting our drinks and my five dollar bill on the table.
“All right,” I say, watching him shrug off his coat. It seems a little odd to talk to him this way—as if we’re friends—but he’s completely relaxed, and the warm look in his eyes takes the edge off my anxiousness.
“How was yours?” I ask, returning the inquiry.
“Good.” He sits on the couch and pats the spot next to him. I sink back, watching his hands grip the white plastic lid of his coffee. They’re big, with long agile fingers, more square than round at the tips. Man hands, for sure.
“Where are you from?” he asks, raising his cup.
“Grosse Pointe.” Usually when I tell people where I’m from, they respond like one of Pavlov’s dogs with some rich-bitch quip, but he just nods. “You?” I ask.
“Hamtramck,” he smiles. “We’re practically neighbors. What are you studying?”
“Kinesiology.”
“Do you know what you want to do when you graduate?” he asks.
“I want to work in athletics. I just…” My words trail off and I pick up my coffee and drink.
“What?” he asks. “You just what?”
“Last week I got an informal job offer from the school where I’ve been coaching girls track. There’s a position opening up in their athletic department, and they want me to apply in January. Eventually, I’d like to develop athletic programs that reach out to inner-city kids.”
“That’s awesome,” he says
. “Sounds like it’s exactly what you want to do.”
I purse my lips together and try to sound enthusiastic. “Yeah,” I nod, but I know from his searching look I haven’t convinced him. I wonder if he has any idea how badly our little night in jail has jacked up my life. Principal Stephens is going to forward the application paperwork for that job after the first of the year. I’d be willing to bet it’s going to ask me if I’ve ever been arrested. Even if I cared to lie, which I don’t, eventually my track girls or one of the head coaches at the high school is going to find out I got kicked off the soccer team, and why. I end every track practice by telling my girls, “Stay clean, stay in sports.” Along with a criminal, I’m a hypocrite.
“What’s wrong?” His tender voice startles me out of my dismal thoughts, and I shake my head.
“Nothing, I just forgot…to do something.” I point randomly over my shoulder.
“Oh yeah? He asks, moving his elbows to his thighs and leaning closer. “What’s that?” I think he’s calling my bluff.
I pick up my coffee and lean back on the couch. “I forgot to make a note in my journal that the quarterback of SEU’s football team is really nosy,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“You could make a note that he’s really concerned about your lying.” He sips his coffee then shrugs. “Also, he’s really hot, and an amazing kisser…”
“Moving on,” I interrupt him. “What’s your major?” I’m totally expecting him to say some liberal arts catch-all degree that athletes use to coast by when they know they’re good enough for the pros, but he surprises me.
“Pre-Med Biology.”
“What about football?”
“What about football?”
“Well, I’ve heard you’re NFL bound.”
He laughs. “Have you been studying up on me, Peep?”
“Studying up on you? You can’t open the SEU news without seeing your dimples.” My tone is laced with annoyance, but I’m smiling at him.
“Well, I’ve heard that I’m NFL bound, too, but the thing I know about football is you can never count on anything. It’s a survival of the fittest kind of game and if you make one wrong step, on or off the field, it could end your career.” He stops talking and refocuses on me, taking another drink of his coffee. He’s just described what’s happened to me, and we both know it.
He shifts beside me, and his tone softens. “When do your playoffs start?”
“First rounds are this weekend, second and third rounds are the next. If we keep winning, the semi-finals and championship rounds are December fourth through sixth in North Carolina.”
He nods firmly. “I looked into the appeal process. If we can present new information—something the athletic board didn’t have available to consider when you had your hearing—they can reverse the decision.”
I don’t say anything. He’s smart enough to know there’s a huge problem here. I’m staring at Mr. Everything on the outside, hesitating to ask him the question that will affirmatively reveal whether he’s Mr. Nothing on the inside.
“What new information are we going to present?”
His brows shoot high, and he considers my question.
If he serves as my witness, he’ll likely find himself in the same position I’m in. Done for the season. There’s no way he’d ever do that for me. I want to appeal, but I don’t want to be in a position where the success of my appeal rides on him. I made that mistake once.
“You must realize, if you showed up at my hearing, they’d likely call you in front of the board for your own. I find it hard to believe you’d be willing to…”
“Do the right thing?” He repeats the words I said to him when he asked me why I jumped into that bar fight to help him.
Does he really expect me to buy this? I think Jace was right. He has got to have an ulterior motive here. I let out a low breath, not bothering to hide my “that’s bullshit” expression.
“Look,” he says, “there’s more than one way to get the appeal board to reverse the decision. We’re going to try to find a witness who saw the fight. Well, I’m going to try to find one. Anyone who saw what happened can testify that you were just defending yourself, defending me.”
He unzips his backpack, pulls out a packet, and hands it to me. “This is the appeal paperwork. I’ve filled out what I could. There are a few things you need to add.”
He watches me scan the first page then asks, “What were you doing so far from campus?”
“My roommate has a crush on the owner’s nephew. His name is Ian. He was there that night with his friends.”
“Did any of them witness the fight?”
“No, they all went down into the basement when the fight broke out, Jace told me. She thought I was still in the bathroom.”
He holds a blue pen out, but I’m paused in the moment. He’s written my name on the form in neat block letters. The edges blur. He is heart-stopping-serious about helping me.
His cell vibrates from the pocket of his coat. “This is Rush,” he answers. I listen to his conversation, thinking about my next move. “No, you got it right. I’m helping her out. Did you have a donation?” I perk up at the word “donation,” and scoot an inch closer.
His tone hardens, and he shakes his head. “That’s not the way this works. You’ve got to cough up a donation before she’ll consider it.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“Who am I?” he asks, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I’m the guy who’s telling you how it’s going to be. Call back when you have a donation, and we’ll talk about whether I’m going to tell her you called.”
My mouth drops as he hangs up the phone and tosses it on the couch. “Guys are such pigs,” he mutters.
“Oh my God, did you actually just…I don’t even know what to call it…pimp screen my call?” I puff out a laugh.
“Uh, yes, I did, and you’re welcome. That’s the fifth call today,” he adds grumpily.
I clutch his arm. “Are you being serious right now? I just announced the program last week and I already have twenty-eight kids signed up. I’m starting to panic because I’ve only collected three hoodies and a pair of shoes that smell like a rat died in them.”
He nods his head. “Yeah. Two women from the golf team called earlier. They have a bag of stuff they’re dropping off tomorrow, and another girl who runs cross-country will have a box ready, but she needs a pick up from Townsend Hall, two p.m.”
“That’s fantastic.” I beam at him, then I remember. “I can’t do a two p.m. pick up. I have class until two forty. Did you get her number?”
“I was planning on snagging it on my way to practice.”
I pause, considering his statement. “Are you sure?” I ask, and it’s impossible to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“It’s on my way. Are you taking donations from other schools and professional teams, too?”
“Anything that has a sports logo on it. Thanks for your help,” I say, inspecting him a moment longer. He smiles over another sip of coffee.
“What about the fourth call?” I ask
“Oh,” he says, setting his cup down. “It was from Gus Hatch.”
“Really.” I sink back on the couch. “What’d he say?”
“He said he wanted to ask you out.”
“And what’d you say.”
“Well, I gave him some advice,” he says, looking cocky as hell.
“Ha, I hardly think you know me well enough to give guys advice on dating me,” I say smugly.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Peep.” His platinum stare bores into me with an intensity that almost makes me believe he knows what he’s talking about. I cross my arms over my chest, smirking at his arrogance.
“All right, let’s hear it, Rush. What was your advice?”
He cocks a brow and shoots me a knowing look. “Same thing I told the last guy—he’d have a lot better chance of getting a date if he coughed up some donations from the hockey team.”
I purse my lips. Damn. He’s right. “Maybe you know me a tiny little bit,” I say, holding up pinched fingers and squinting. “This much.” He brightens at my compliment, and a blast of laughter echoes up from both of us. The rich sound bursts the relaxed air between us.
I sit up, straightening my spine and reminding myself of the business at hand.
“I appreciate you offering to help with an appeal, but no. No, thanks.”
“No?” he says, cocking his head. “Are you joking?”
“I’ll file the appeal, but I don’t need a partner to track down witnesses. I can do that on my own. I can go back to the bar and talk to the workers…”
Alarm seizes his features. “Hell, yes, you need a partner. What if you run into some of the guys involved in the fight? You can’t go confronting those guys without me. They’re dangerous.” His tone is firm, and he’s staring at me as if I’m a lunatic. I raise a brow at him and tilt my head.
“Oh really. Last time I confronted them I don’t remember you being much help.”
“That will never happen again,” he responds, letting out a remorseful breath. “I know you don’t want to admit this, but you need me. Around here, people know who I am. The cops, the faculty, the coaches, the students—these are the people you’re going to be talking to. They’ll talk to me without even realizing I’m fishing for information. Has Robert Raider ever given you his personal cell phone number and told you to call him if you needed anything?”
Robert Raider is SEU’s athletic director, and I doubt he would know me if I kicked a soccer ball in his face. He’s right. Men’s sports are more important to the world, and the quarterback approaching an undefeated season, a bowl game, and an NFL contract is so much more important than me.
“Priscilla, let me help you. What do you have to lose?” When I don’t answer, his voice softens. “Look, unlike the guys that called today wanting a date under the pretense of being interested in your charity, I don’t want anything other than to undo the damage that’s been done. Then you can get back to the soccer field, and I can get back to concentrating on football. I’m the perfect partner for you,” he says, holding the pen out.
