by Shae Ross
“Do you really want to go out with him?” he asks, and when I look up at him, his expression is a mix of tender curiosity—and something else, too. I can almost see a shadow with resignation…I think. Then again, maybe that’s just what I want to see.
I sigh. “Not really.” Light sparks in his platinum gaze, and I continue. “Honestly, I’m not really a formal events kind of girl.” I drop my hands and smooth my palms over my jeans. “Most of my wardrobe either has a drawstring, or a swoosh embroidered on it somewhere.” I laugh. “I haven’t worn a dress in years…”
“You were rockin’ a dress when I met you,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, and look where that got me,” I snap, but the teasing in my voice is evident, and I let out a breath. “I’ve never been to one of the formal banquets, though, and neither has Jace. I promised her I’d go with her and Ian if I could find a date.” My words hang in the air, and a slow burn rises up my throat. Why do I feel like I just begged him for an invite? Another silent beat passes. Either he already has a date, or he’s not interested in asking me. My stomach drops. I just led myself down dead-end alley. I feel like face planting against the brick wall sealing it off. My mind pivots. “I’m just going to tell her I don’t…”
He interrupts before I finish the thought. “We really need to talk about what it means to be someone’s partner.” He stops walking and turns. “I don’t think we’re on the same page.” Confusion tightens my brow as I listen. “When you agree to be someone’s partner, you can’t just get another partner for other things. I was assuming that until your hearing is over and you’re back on the soccer field, we had an exclusive partnership, but here you are considering letting Hatch take you to the banquet.”
“Well, yeah, but he asked me to be his date…”
“But you don’t really like him. You just want to go to the banquet, right?”
“True.”
“That’s a partnership, not a date.”
I consider his argument, and for some reason, it makes sense.
He steps closer. “So we’re agreed then. I’ll take you to the banquet.” His decisive tone is more of a statement, but the glimmer of a question lingers behind his eyes. Why do I feel like I’ve just been swindled—in the best sort of way?
I return his smile and nod slowly. “Agreed.”
We resume the walk, and after a few silent paces I catch him smiling.
“What?” I prod.
He shakes his head, and his grin widens. “I was just wondering if you’re going to wear that Little Bo Peep dress again.”
“Hell no!” I gasp. “That was my sister Cate’s Halloween get-up. The only reason I had it on was she stole my costume. I’m kicking her ass when I get home for Thanksgiving.”
He laughs and a warm feeling spreads through me. Something seems to have settled between us—maybe it’s the “partnership” thing or the heightened level of trust that comes with it, but I can’t deny it. When I can see beyond the smoke of what happened that night, and it’s just the two of us, it feels good to stand next to him. That’s a lie. It feels so much better than good. He’s like a slow rush of warm water swirling around my entire body, drawing my head back until I’m weightless. The floating feeling dances around me as we step into the arena and work our way toward our seats.
Carson’s jet-black hair is visible above the crowd, and I spot Jace jumping beside him. We sidestep down our row and slide into our seats with three minutes left in the first half.
Marcus has just broken free and is on his way to the net. He’s on fire. Long legs pumping, he leaps and soars, fingers arching toward the rim. Whoosh. The net shudders. “Yes!”
Preston whistles, a shrill tweeting sound. His closed fist rests against his mouth, while the other hand opens and closes against it. He catches me watching him, and angles his body, piping out a series of low whistles, punctuated by three long peeping sounds at the end. I focus on him, returning his smile, and he repeats the peeping sound.
“You like that?” His voice mimics the teasing look in his eyes. “That can be my whistle for you.”
I laugh out loud. “You can whistle all you want, but I won’t come.”
“Aw, come on, it’s perfect for you. It’s the call of a starling. They’re awesome birds, smart and fast, and they like to be in cities, and they have strong feet. Perfect for you.”
“Are they monogamous?” I ask, staring at the basketball court and lifting a sarcastic brow.
He smiles. “Of course. They mate for life. Well, except for the occasional rebel.”
At the half, I tell Jace I’m going to the bathroom. Preston stands and accompanies me without an invitation, escorting me through the crowd with a hand on my back.
“Great,” I say, grimacing as we approach the line to the women’s restroom, which is three times as long as the one to the men’s.
“It’s all right, I’ll wait by the popcorn,” he says, nodding to a red cart.
Five minutes later, I’m searching for him in the designated spot. There’s no way I beat him. It only takes a one-second glance to spot his profile a good six inches above the crowd. I angle toward him as he approaches a short, older man with light brown skin. The man flinches, which pricks my curiosity. That’s not the usual reaction people have to Preston. I can’t see his face, but I can hear the confrontational tone as I draw closer. My pulse jumps. What’s up with this?
“If I find out you’re involved, you’re going to have a big problem, and the least of it will be me outing you,” he says to the man.
“You’re not threatening me, now, are you?” the man replies.
“If you were involved, I’m threatening you.”
Involved in what?
The man’s gaze slides sideways, and his full mouth lifts, trying to mask the anger in his round brown eyes. He lowers his chin and reaches an introductory hand my way. Preston moves between us, knocking the thick hand aside and gripping my elbow.
“You all set?” he asks, guiding me toward the line moving back into the arena. He focuses straight ahead, ignoring my shocked expression.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” We move ten slow steps, and he still hasn’t said anything—in the five minutes it’s taken me to go to the bathroom, a shadow has moved over his features, transforming the lighthearted aura he usually exudes.
“So, who was that?” I ask, trying to ignore the awkward feeling in my stomach.
“Who?” he asks.
“That guy you didn’t want to introduce me to.”
“No one. He’s no one.” His tone is unequivocal.
“Oh,” I say, staring at his profile and blinking slowly. Seriously? Is he going to try to play this off? Obviously, there’s something he doesn’t want to share with me in that whole exchange, which squeezes my heart. I cross a forearm over my waist and hold an elbow, pretending the slow mass of bodies in front of us holds my interest.
He lets out an audible breath and motions with his head to the workers filling oversize Pepsi cups in the concession stand. “You want anything?”
“No.” I continue watching the line narrow as we approach the arena’s entry. He grips my waist, shifting me in front of him. His fingers remain, holding me while his arms settle against the outside of mine. The mass of bodies moves closer, but all I feel is him. His chin chafes my cheek.
“I’ll handle that better next time,” he whispers near my ear. My lids drop, and I breathe him in, welcoming the quick squeeze of his arms.
By the end of the game, Jace is standing on her seat, balancing her hands on Carson’s shoulders, jumping and cheering, and Preston has caught my tackle-like hugs at least a half-dozen times. The rush of watching Marcus score a whopping twenty-one points has us a little worked up—so much so that we invite the guys to come back to our apartment with us for the after-glow party we’ve planned to celebrate the game and Marcus’s birthday. We’ve invited some of our teammates, and Marcus said he had invited a few friends, too.
We filter out of
our row, and I lose sight of Jace and Carson in the congested crowd. I twist, searching the bobbing heads, but my focus trips on a man wearing a red shirt and a plaid lanyard around his neck. He’s walking with a bow-legged swagger, and something about him is familiar. I’m trying to place him when the memory busts through, seizing my breath. I stop, knocking into Preston’s chest.
“Easy,” he says, raising a steadying hand.
“That’s him,” I blurt. I’m pushing up onto my toes, trying to follow the guy as he cuts a diagonal path through the tight mass of people.
“What?” Preston asks, concern in his voice.
“That’s the coach that I gave my letter to when I came to see you.” My heart sprints in my chest as I yank him out of the flow without waiting for his response. I’m trying to stay focused on the dark hair moving through the crowd, but the landscape is a sea of brunettes swaying above red shirts. He’s with another man who’s taller, making them easier to track. They turn into a hallway as I’m sidestepping, grasping tight to Preston’s hand, and pulling him along.
We arrive in a hallway with the duo twenty feet ahead. The taller man is punching a code into a keypad next to a door marked Private. “The one on the right,” I say, rushing my words through the breathless feeling squeezing my lungs. They disappear through the door—I’m hoping we’re close enough for him to get a good look.
The door seals with a heavy clunk, and I turn to Preston. He has the strangest look on his face; his gaze has deepened from silvery blue to the color of gunmetal. Words burn at the back of my throat, wanting to burst out, but I pause, trying to read him. He’s in some kind of a zone that makes me feel non-existent—as if he just exited out the door with those guys and my anxiousness edges closer to hysteria.
“Do you know him?”
Chapter Twelve
Preston
I’m staring at the door, trying to focus on Priscilla’s question as my mind races. What reason would Randall Birch have to fuck with me? He’s the basketball equivalent of Martin Todd.
She touches my arm, and her pleading look spears me with a sharp pang of guilt. “Preston…”
“Yeah, I know him,” I say, blowing out a long breath. I have to tell her something, I can’t let her just twist in the wind. “His name is Randall Birch, but he’s not one of our coaches. He’s a booster.”
“Why would he have taken my letter and not delivered it?”
“I don’t know,” I say. She searches my face, hoping for more, needing more, and this is exactly my yank with Priscilla—she needs what I can’t give her, in so many ways. I have got to stay strong here, for her own good.
A ping sounds, followed by a buzz. Text alerts have come in on both of our cells, giving me the excuse I need to move away from this moment. “Carson and Jace are probably wondering where we are.” I take her elbow and turn us back toward the concession loop.
I know Priscilla knows what a booster is, but I doubt she knows the role they play in the football and basketball world. I’m fighting the battle of wanting to keep her close and safe until I’m able to unwind the damage I’ve done, but not so close that we end up attached to each other as more than friends. I put my social life on hold after my problems freshman year, engaging in the occasional hook-up only when I was sure the girl hooking me up didn’t want anything more. Now that Priscilla has been thrown into my life, I’m having a really, really hard time remembering that.
Our “partnership” has given me an excuse to venture into dangerous waters. I should stop touching her, because I know she’s not the kind of girl who’s looking for one and done. Even if I had the time, I’m likely moving out of state come spring. It’ll be a long time before I clean up the stench Martin Todd left behind.
I attempt to smile. I want so badly to ease the confusion and hurt I see in her expression, but my skin feels stitched to my face. I wish I wasn’t involved in this shit. I wish I could be what she needs, but I can’t. She lowers her head and looks away. “We’ll talk later, okay?” She purses her lips and nods, barely, but I’m not sure what there really is to talk about. I can’t tell her about Martin Todd or any of the problems with our football program. If I do, she’ll be obligated to report what she knows to the athletic board. It’d be one more thing that could complicate her appeal.
We find Carson and Jace and head back to the girls’ apartment. Within an hour of our arrival, there’s a solid twenty students hanging in the living room, and Marcus isn’t even home yet. Carson is sandwiched between two girls on the couch, laughing and eating pizza, half-watching a game, and Jace is spinning around the room with Rasputin in one hand and a beer in the other.
Priscilla and I are playing Euchre with one of her teammates, Sophie, and her boyfriend Max, and the party atmosphere seems to have drawn her out of the “I don’t trust you” vibe she was throwing at me earlier.
“What’s up with you, Rush? You’re supposed to be able to count on your partner for at least one trick,” she whines. She’s been carrying my ass in this game as I toss out a string of off-suited numbers.
“Maybe I’m saving my tricks for later,” I say, arching a brow her way.
“Good thing for SEU you throw a football better than you throw trump.” She bridges the deck, letting it cascade through her fingers, and tosses five cards my way. My vision sharpens on the fan of black spades.
“Finally. Going alone,” I say. I sweep the tricks, adding four points to our score and ending the game.
“Marcus!” Jace shouts. He’s entering the apartment followed by three of his teammates. He catches Jace in one arm. Priscilla joins them, and he lifts her off the floor, shaking them with a roar of victory. I watch her hair sway over her narrow waist, and the sweater she’s wearing hikes up, flashing the curve of her hip. I tip my beer, trying to cool the heat in my groin. My gaze lowers to her ass, and I’m stuck. But it’s not just her sweet ass. I’m stuck on the whole thing. She’s smart, funny, compassionate, and I like her—so much more than I should.
Applauding and standing on chairs, the crowd in the apartment breaks into a half-sober rendition of our fight song, honoring Marcus and the five basketball players who followed him in. He sets the girls down and runs a stroke over Rasputin’s scales. I make my way over and congratulate him as he’s introducing his friends. Carson joins us and we discuss some of the more impressive shots of the game.
Ten minutes later, I’m watching Priscilla laughing and talking with two of the soccer girls in the kitchen. She spots me, and I nod toward the back hallway.
I forgot to tell her about the conversation I had with my coaches—at least, that’s one of my excuses to get her alone. A minute passes, then she turns and walks unnoticed down the hall, casting a backward glance that harpoons my body with a surge of hormones. Right behind you, baby.
Chapter Thirteen
Priscilla
God, I hope my room is not an absolute disaster. I cross to my desk and click on the lamp as Preston closes the door. I return the gaze he’s panning over me—stopping on his legs. Between his shoes rests a pair of lacy teal underwear from yesterday, maybe even the day before. Damn! I dive for them, dropping onto my knees and scrunching the thong into my fist.
“What are you doing?” he asks, squeezing my sides with his calves. I raise my head, ready to spit out some excuse, but sirens screech in my ears and heat scorches my neck. I’m crouched between his legs, looking up at him with wide blow job eyes. He’s going to think I’m trying… I uncurl my fingers and let the lace drop. Better he see my underwear than think I’m a complete fiend.
“Nice,” he says, as I’m backing my ass out from between his legs. I brace my hands on his shins and stand.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t want you to see my underwear.” I shift an uncomfortable glance to the lacy thong, which is now hanging over his shoe. Well, that’s just perfect.
He bends, hooking it with a finger and dangling it between us. “What made you change your mind?” I’m shifting
between his devilish grin and my underwear, considering whether I’m brave enough to admit it.
“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to give you a blow job.” I snatch it from his finger and slingshot it into my hamper. He busts into laughter, wraps his arms around my waist, and falls back on the bed. I land on his body with his arms cradled around me.
“Is that what you think? Girls just drop at my feet?” he asks, capturing my legs with his and rocking us backward.
“Plenty of them would if you let them,” I reply. The long line of his abdominal muscles contracts against my arms as he laughs, and when his laughter settles we’re silent for a moment.
“I have to tell you about my conversation with my coaches,” he says, running a slow hand over my hair, down my back, touching my ass, paving the way for bad news. Oh boy. Here we go.
“I talked to my coaches. They don’t think they can help us.” A wave of sadness moves through me, drowning everything except the feeling of failure. I roll off of him and flop listlessly against the down comforter, staring at the ceiling. Last weekend I missed the first round game of the NCAA qualification matches—sitting on the sidelines as useless as a deflated ball. My biggest contribution to my team is now getting out of their way when they tap out of the game and head to the sidelines.
Thickness builds in my throat. I raise the back of my hand to my forehead, fighting the feeling. I don’t know why I’m getting upset. “I never really expected they would be willing to help,” I whisper, my voice sounding more broken than I intend.
His fingers drum his chest. “They’re worried that if I give my account of what happened that night…”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off, squeeze my eyes closed, and angle my face to the wall, trying to clear the disappointment. At least he tried.
