by Shae Ross
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.
“What happened?”
I catch the hand she’s raising. “It’s…” I stop myself from saying “nothing.” From this day forward, I’m not going to hide anything from her. “It’s a long story that I’ll have to tell you later.” The sound of the doors opening again interrupts us, as our friends shuffle into the seats at the back of the lecture hall.
The director introduces himself, and I square my shoulders to face them. “Mr. Rush, we have read the statement you submitted, and the members have some questions for you. I want to make sure you understand, as an SEU athlete you’re obligated by the terms of your athletic contract to answer the questions truthfully and to fully disclose any information that will aid the board in making an informed decision in this matter.”
“I understand.”
“Very well. Let’s get started.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Priscilla
Preston pulls my chair out for me before taking his seat. My nerves are buzzing under my skin. He’s here, golden flesh and lovely bones, sitting right next to me. He’s shown up. Joyous relief soars through me.
I’ve been utterly miserable since our throw down Sunday night. Utterly. Miserable. Not just from the thought of losing my witness—it was the thought of losing Preston. His hand covers mine under the table, and I feel his reassuring squeeze in my heart.
But now Preston’s in the hot seat. The focus of this whole mess is shifting to him. I fold my tingling hands in my lap. I wish I felt a smidgeon of the calm confidence he’s radiating. He has the same look he had when he was on the big screen at the football game, only he’s not sweating, I am.
He nods to the board as they introduce themselves, then leans forward. “Before we begin with questions, I’d like to ask for the opportunity to speak. I submitted my statement over a month ago, and I have more information now.”
The panel members exchange glances and nod their agreement.
“Good,” Preston says. They’ve just snapped him the ball, and he looks every bit in control of the play—laser focused, unremorseful, all business.
He tells them the whole story. How Chewbacca met Little Bo Peep in the bathroom hallway, how I pulled the fire alarm and came to his defense. The board stares at me, raking my nerves with their inspecting looks, but I hold my head high as they weigh his words.
He rests a beat, turning an admiring look on me. The woman sitting next to the director angles her chin down and speaks with a stern expression. “Mr. Rush, I think it would be helpful if the board knew exactly what the relationship between you and Miss Winslow is.”
Preston turns a soft smile to me. I know he sees the uncertainty in my eyes, but I don’t see it in his.
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My heart is broken. If someone had told me a month ago I’d be sitting beside SEU’s star quarterback as he defended me at an eligibility hearing—after losing my virginity to him and falling in love, no less—I would have rolled on the ground laughing. Were it not for the painful ache in my chest, this would be a great set up for an episode of Punk’d.
“I think if Priscilla and I hadn’t ended up in these circumstances together, I’d be able to answer that question in a heartbeat,” he says. He turns to stare at me, and for a moment everyone in the room disappears, and it’s just Preston and me. “I’d be able to tell you, she’s my future,” he says, and I feel the truth of his words charging me with happiness and sadness at the same time. The pain in my chest that’s been there since Sunday swells. If the circumstances had been different. I feel the faintest tremble at the side of my jaw as I try to hold my face still and expressionless under the board’s invasive regard.
“Considering everything we’ve endured, I don’t quite know how to define our relationship.”
“You don’t know?” the woman asks. “Well, are you involved in an intimate relationship with each other?”
Oh my God. Seriously? Two of the board members turn to stare at her. Preston’s gaze takes on a hard edge, swirling into a smoky gray, but his answer is perfectly composed.
“That’s no one’s business but Priscilla’s. No matter what my contract says, I’d never betray her by discussing something like that, with you or anyone else.”
“Miss Winslow told us that she did not know the men involved in the fight. Did you?”
“I didn’t know who they were at the time, but I do now. The pirate that hit Priscilla is named Anthony Bennett. He’s a former SEU football player. I believe the other pirate is his cousin.”
“Was it a coincidence that Mr. Bennett also played football for SEU or was there some lingering dispute between the two of you?” I can tell by the tone of the student’s follow up question, he thinks Preston might have had a reason to start the fight.
“I had no dispute with Mr. Bennett. I did have a dispute with the gentleman that hired Mr. Bennett to do it.”
“And who would that be, Mr. Rush?” the director asks, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.
“Martin Todd,” he says, moving his gaze over each of the members. “That would be Martin Todd.”
A few of the board members lean back in their seats and exchange sideways glances.
“Are you speaking of Martin Todd, the Detroit philanthropist who supports a lot of our sporting events?”
“Yes,” he responds. “Martin Todd is listed as the number one contributor to both the basketball and football programs last year. Likely most of you have heard of him.”
The director clasps his hands together and leans his elbows on the table, surveying the rest of the board before turning back to Preston. “These are serious accusations Mr. Rush, do you have proof that Mr. Todd had something to do with that bar fight?”
“I have audio and video recordings—Anthony Bennett and two of the football players admit to their involvement in the bar fight, and with Martin Todd.”
The director lays an arm on the table and curls his fingers, motioning for him to approach. He stands and plays the muffled audio as the board members hunch around his shoulders. Silence hangs in the air when the audio ends. The board members return to their seats, murmuring.
I recognize the Lone Star cover of Jace’s phone as he hands it to me. Coach Howell leans in, and we watch the stream. I raise a hand to my mouth when I see Ben, and flinch when the fists start flying. “Jesus.”
“I think the next natural question, Mr. Rush, is why would Mr. Todd or any of these football players want to harm you?”
Preston nods slowly. “Greed,” he says. “Martin Todd preys on athletes by offering them cash. He lends players money, and they sign repayment agreements that anticipate a fat NFL contract and a ten-fold payback. But until you do that—he owns you.”
“So Martin Todd waited all this time to retaliate for your pulling out of his sponsorship? That doesn’t make sense.”
“No. Mr. Todd is retaliating because I’ve interfered with his attempts to sponsor players. For the last three years my roommate Carson Dean and I have identified players at high risk for his methods. We warn them about Todd and ask them to come to us if they need help. The only teammates we haven’t been able to help have been those who couldn’t resist the lure of the good life that Martin dangled in front of them. You’ll notice in that video, Tyler Dixon is wearing a one thousand dollar Shinola, and his new Suburban is parked in the background.”
The director clears his throat. “Are you aware, Mr. Rush, that your athletic contract obligates you to report NCAA violations when you become aware of them.”
“I am painfully aware of that,” he says, glancing at me. “I just spent the last month trying to reassure Priscilla Winslow that I would undo the damage that bar fight did to her athletic career. I promised her I would show up for this hearing, yet I wasn’t able to tell her the real issues involved in that bar fight. If I had told her, she would have been obligated to come forward, and this board would have had another factor to consider when determining her appeal.
“I have my own reasons for not disclosing sooner what I knew. I’ll address those if the board schedules a hearing for me. Today, I speak for Priscilla, and I’m confident you have all the proof you need to restore her eligibility.”
The director pauses to look left and right. “I’m confident of that as well, Mr. Rush, and unless I hear any objections, I’m not even going to bother with a private vote.” My breath catches. This is it. The rest of the board members nod their agreement. “Miss Winslow, congratulations. You’re the first athlete in the history of SEU to have their suspension overturned on appeal. Your eligibility is immediately reinstated, and you’re free to play.” A raucous cheer erupts from the back of the room. I drop my head, shielding my eyes with my hands and staring into my lap as I absorb the words.
He did it. Today, Preston Rush has shown up for me in a way no one ever has. I feel his hand on my back, and his body leaning over me. “Congratulations, Peep. I’ll be expecting big things from you at the tournament games.”
I raise my head and clench my hand around his forearm. “Thank you.” Tears well in my eyes as I shake my head. I open my mouth, but the director’s voice interrupts us.
“We’d like to ask you all to clear the room, with the exception of Mr. Rush. The board has a few questions to ask you to determine whether a hearing is necessary.” My face tightens with apprehension. They’re going to give him his hearing date now. Preston stands with my hand still clenched around his forearm…and I don’t want to let him go.
“Preston…” I say in a pleading voice, rising slowly.
He leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Go celebrate with your team. You’ve earned it, and I have no regrets.”
He steps aside and I feel my coach’s hand on my back, ushering me to the door. Jace, Sam, Syd, and Allie are all waiting, their faces bursting with excitement. Their arms crush me, and the air grows thin in my lungs as we cheer. I turn back as the double doors are closing, desperate for one more look at Preston. He hasn’t moved. He’s standing beside the table, watching me with the sweetest expression. There’s a look of accomplishment on his face, and the tense lines of his jaw have loosened—the burden of the past revealed, the picture of him much clearer.
I know now why he couldn’t tell me, and I know what he’s sacrificed. My heart is soaring and tumbling at the same time. If I hadn’t been such a hot-head, I could have trusted his vow—trusted him when he told me he’d make it right, and that he’d show up, but my own insecurities spun around in my mind until they chipped away at my sanity.
And all I can think as the door closes on Preston’s tender smile is that I’m seeing him for the first time—and the last.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Preston
Re
lief floods my senses. Priscilla is smiling, soaking up the love of her teammates in the center of their powwow. She’s where she should be and she’ll be back on the soccer field this weekend. No matter what the consequence to me, today has been a success.
Her beautiful face is lit up with a smile that wraps around my heart and it’s the last thing I see before the doors close.
It’s just me now. I face the huddle of board members discussing what to do with the star football player who just dumped a truckload of steaming shit at their feet.
Yep. That’s me. The director is nodding, fielding the whispered comments of the other board members with a pinched expression on his face.
They disassemble, and he turns to me. “Well, Mr. Rush, it’s obvious to all of us, the football program has some serious issues that this board needs to delve into—you may not be the only player in your program who’ll be called for a hearing. We’d ask you to make yourself available for a hearing next week…”
“Why not now,” I say. He considers me with a blank expression for a moment, then shifts.
“Well, typically we allow an athlete time to prepare…” Their gazes move to the back of the room. The door has opened, and Duffy McCray is standing in the center aisle. I shake my head, trying to think of one good reason he’d be here now.
He nods and raises a finger. “Sorry for the interruption. Could I just have a moment with Mr. Rush?” He doesn’t wait for them to answer, just comes forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Sorry, I couldn’t get here sooner,” he says. “I probably don’t need to tell you this, but my only words of advice for you here are to tell the absolute truth. The only sure thing that will get you in trouble is lying.”
