Rush Me

by Allison Parr

  “Oh, please. I already told you. I’m not interested.”

  He raised a skeptical brow and left a long pause, where the giggles and glances from other girls in the hallway stood out against our silence. “That’s right. I’m not your type. What is your type, again?”

  “Definitely not self-centered, arrogant jocks.” I wanted to kill the satisfaction on his face but it didn’t work. Instead, he kept looking at me like my protestation was inconceivable enough to be laughable. But for God’s sake, just because he was beautiful didn’t mean he was attractive. “I like intellectual types. You know—people who went to college for academics, rather than coasting through on a football scholarship.”

  His brows slammed together, and understanding spread through me. That was his weak spot. “You think you’re a hell of lot smarter than me, don’t you?”

  “It’s not your fault—I’m sure getting knocked on the head all the time messes with your grey matter.”

  He shook his head, incredulous. “You’re kind of a bitch.”

  Having never been called a bitch in my entire life, I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. I swallowed the instant desire to apologize and experimented with a tiny, Gallic half-shrug. “At least I’m not a professional Neanderthal.” I raised my chin, and then I turned on my heel and left.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Eva gaped at me over our bagels and lox. We ate them curled up on either end of the couch, pillows propping up our plates. Eva’s brown eyes, slightly red, stretched wide. “You walked away from Ryan Carter?”

  Apparently telling my roommate about last night had not been the best idea. I’d managed to find her after I left the football party, but she’d been three sheets to the wind, and I’d been in a bad mood, so neither of us spoke much on the subway ride home. Now, at noon the next day, we were finally getting around to sharing our tales.

  “How do you even know who he is?” I asked. “He’s a jock!”

  She banged her head sideways onto the couch in symbolic frustration. “Rach. He is like one of the most famous quarterbacks ever. Don’t you ever look at tabloids when you’re grocery shopping? And the gossip blogs love him. He’s gorgeous. And, like, a millionaire.”

  My stomach dropped. “He was an ass.”

  Eva waved her hands with her usual flippancy. “So what? Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a single, straight, employed, and sane guy in this city? I get that John had questionable morals, but you can’t just keep tossing them back out. You should have at least slept with him! I bet he’s great in bed.”

  For a moment, the image of Ryan’s golden, powerful body flashed through my mind, and I shivered. Not my type. I liked them a little more slender and a little less aggressive. “It’s not my main goal in life to find a guy, you know.”

  Eva dealt me a deadpan look.

  I scowled at her. “It’s not! I mean, it would be nice. But not one like Ryan Carter.”

  “But just think how perfect he’d be to bring to your high school reunion!”

  “You spend too much time in theatre-land,” I reminded her, picking at the crumbs on my plate. “He wasn’t my type. Why are we even talking about this? Seriously, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.”

  * * *

  An hour later, I realized I’d left my cashmere scarf at the party.

  Right. So. I could either forget about an expensive present from my parents, or I could suck it up and go back to Malcolm’s.

  Which is why, at four o’clock on Saturday, I stood outside the Village brownstone, buzzing up to M. Lindsey.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. Malcolm? It’s Rachael—I was at the party yesterday.” I couldn’t remember if he’d ever learned my name. “I left my scarf there.” I winced. Why did I feel awkward? This wasn’t awkward. People forgot things all the time.

  “All right.” Despite his disbelieving tone, he buzzed me up. I considered that as I climbed the stairs. Did girls ever pull the “silly-me-I-forgot-my-bag” thing to see him again? Maybe this was awkward.

  Comical surprise crossed Malcolm’s features when he answered my knock. “You’re Rachael?”

  I squared my shoulders. “Last time I checked. Have you seen my scarf?”

  “We haven’t cleaned yet.” He held the door wider. Without bodies crammed from wall-to-wall, I noticed the high ceilings, the polished floors and bright sunlight. Eva’d said the apartment her party took place in was a bare two rooms, while this one took up two floors.

  Still, it was a disaster. Empty beer bottles teetered on the edges of tables and lay sideways on the floor. Couches and tables lined the walls, pushed out of their usual places. I could smell stale alcohol, even though the windows had been shoved open. Hats and sweaters sprawled across couches and peeked out from under chairs.

  I didn’t see the deep red of my scarf anywhere among the uniform blackness.

  “Hey,” a different male voice said, and I realized we weren’t alone. Oh, no. Was Ryan here? What should I say? “Are you the girl who walked in on Ryan getting some?”

  I blinked. Well.

  I turned to find four guys built like brick walls staring at me, and I felt like I’d walked into a boys-only clubhouse. They gathered around a low table, poker hands held before them. Great. Football people. They wore baggy shorts and sweatshirts, and muscles lined their tree-trunk legs and rocklike arms. I had never seen a group of men so across-the-board big.

  They all looked under thirty, though one open-faced boy with springy dishwater hair looked even younger than me. He guarded his cards more carefully than the ginger he sat next to, who was studying me with naked curiosity. Across from him, a player with a trimmed goatee propped his arms on the table. Tattoos sleeved his biceps, so dark they almost blended into his skin. The last had closely shorn his head and studded his ears with diamonds. All of them regarded me with amusement.

  “Uh, yes.” I cleared my throat. “That kind of happened.”

  They all laughed. I tensed, and then forced my body to relax. The laughter didn’t sound mean, and even I would have found the situation funny if mortification hadn’t reached me first.

  I turned to Malcolm. “So...I’ll just go check the closet. And your room.”

  The guy with the goatee and tattoos leered. “His room? What were you up to Friday?”

  And just like that, the little taunting monster reared its head again, and I smiled slowly. “You know, people keep trying to convince me you jocks aren’t dumb, but really. What do you think I was doing?”

  They all hooted as I walked away, and I smiled to myself, even as my heart pounded. These guys didn’t know I was quiet and almost tediously good, and it was kind of fun that they might think I was gutsy and ribald.

  Well. As long as I didn’t slip up and actually say things like “ribald”. It might out the English major in me.

  I found my scarf puddled in a corner of the bedroom. I slung it around my neck before stepping back into the living room. “Well, thanks.” No one heard me, busy as they were on their game. Unable to suppress my curiosity, I stepped up and eyed Malcolm’s hand. Standard five-card-draw, and his cards weren’t good. After a few minutes he discarded a six, making it clear he was aiming for a straight I doubted he’d gain.

  I must have made a noise, because the buzz-cut guy spoke up. “What? You think you could do better?”

  I shrugged. I’d grown up playing poker on family nights, but my real skill lay in my memory. When I was ten, I spent hours sitting in my room, flipping cards in random orders and practicing my memorization skills. I didn’t have any problems holding 52 cards in my mind, and Malcolm’s crucial card was buried. “Maybe.”

  “We’re almost finished. You want us to deal you in the next game?” The redhead grinned at me. He had a scattering of freckles across his nose, and when he smiled like that he looked like a mischievous imp. Puck on steroids.

  “All right,” I said, surprising all of them. They shifted over so I could squeeze
in. Goatee dealt me a hand and a patronizing smile.

  Three rounds later, I had half the table’s money.

  “That’s it.” Dylan, the diamond-studded guy folded yet again. “That is no beginner’s luck.”

  I suppressed a smile. “Never said it was.” Keith of the goatee and ginger Mike O’Connor had also folded, while Malcolm and opened-face Abe were still in, the latter doing a pretty good job at holding his own.

  “Where’d you learn to play?” Abe discarded the eight of spades. I glanced over at it, as though I wasn’t desperate for it to complete my straight flush. Malcolm, who seemed to be collecting twos, ignored it in favor of a card from the deck. Well, at least he wouldn’t be hoarding it.

  “Oh, just playing with my family.”

  “Did they teach you to count cards, too? ’Cause if they did, you’re totally invited next time I go to Vegas.”

  I laughed. This one acted a little goofier than others, more like a college kid than a football star.

  “Abe’s a California boy,” Mike said. “Being so far from Vegas makes him twitchy.”

  “And New York?” I lightly discarded the three I’d just drawn. “Does it live up to your expectations?”

  We all anted up.

  “Yeah, it’s all right.” Now that I knew, I could detect the Californian slouch, the slightly more languid movement. “Didn’t have huge expectations, you know. But sure, it’s nice. Crap weather.”

  Whatever. California didn’t have weather. “But we have real pizza,” I pointed out. “And bagels.” I looked at the others for agreement.

  Dylan of the shaved head and glittering earrings shook his head. “Don’t bother. They’re all outsiders. Irish is Boston. Malcolm’s from Kentucky, and Keith...Somewhere else. They won’t understand.”

  Keith scowled. “South Dakota.”

  Dylan gave me a speaking look about the elseness of South Dakota.

  “I miss California pizza,” Abe said a little sadly. “I guess the bagels here are all right. But it takes like five minutes to chew them.”

  Hmph. “They’re authentic.”

  Malcolm folded. I shuffled. Malcolm picked a card. Discarded it. Eight of spades.

  Win.

  I picked it up.

  Abe nodded. “So I hear. But I was at this place up by Columbia the other day and the bagel shop was run by a Thai family. Where are the Jews?”

  My lips twitched. “Everywhere else,” I muttered. “This is New York.” I discarded my extraneous Jack of Hearts. Then I placed my cards on the table. Abe groaned, and flung down his own cards as the other guys laughed.

  Then I noticed Abe studying me, like he’d picked up on the cue I’d dropped. I gave him another once over. Dirty blond hair, sure, and way too muscular, but the hair had a bit of a curl and his nose could pass. “You’re Jewish! What are you doing for Rosh Hashanah?”

  Yeah, okay. “Going home,” I told him. “My family’s only a couple of hours away.”

  “That’s great.” He switched from a young, peppy tone to forlorn in half a second. “My parents live in California. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  As though a football player couldn’t afford to fly cross-country for the holidays. Ha. Still, he was giving me that look. Forget a Leopard; this one was a puppy.

  And I’d been alone for the holidays in college, once or twice. It was awful. “You can come with me, if you want.” My poker-winning endorphins must have turned me easy-going. “We usually have a bunch of people.”

  “Yeah! That would be great!”

  I couldn’t quite smother my smile.

  Mike collected the cards and Malcolm the pizza orders as I swept my new coins into my purse. I didn’t look up until a brief lull, and Malcolm said, “Rachael?”

  All the boys regarded me expectantly, and I stared back, startled as a deer. Coming over here had been unavoidable; playing poker accidental; but an invitation to pizza meant we were hanging out on purpose. My walls slammed up and I opened my mouth to say no.

  Then I hesitated. Why shouldn’t I stay here? I didn’t feel threatened by these guys, who were so utterly out of my world that hanging out with them felt like spending time with aliens. “Uh, yeah.” I shot Malcolm a smile. “I’ll have the cheese. Thanks.”

  Malcolm phoned in the order to a place called The General, and then pulled two six packs of beer from the fridge. Keith charitably opened one and slid it over, and I took it, too dumbfounded to do anything else.

  Okay. This was officially weird.

  The guys coordinated enough to pull several of the couches forward, circling the wide screen TV. “Hey, Rach,” Abe called, sitting on the sofa directly in front of the television and patting the cushion next to him. “Saved you the good seat.”

  I smiled tentatively and sat. Usually I’d excuse myself at this point, if, you know, things like this actually happened to me. I was not a sit-down-and-watch-sports-with-the-guys sort of girl.

  But maybe I could experiment.

  The TV was on, but mostly the guys just joked around without paying too much attention. Apparently there were twenty minutes until the game started. “Who’s playing?” I asked Abe. I didn’t ask what sport. I was pretty sure that would be sacrilegious.

  Mike dropped down on my other side. “Michigan and Notre Dame.”

  So, a state and a badly mangled Parisian cathedral. “Oh. Cool.”

  Mike grinned at me. “You’re pretty clueless about us, aren’t you?”

  I spread my hands apologetically. “I’m kind of more of a book person.”

  “She works in publishing,” Malcolm called from the other couch. I nodded, surprised he’d remembered that detail.

  “Really?” Mike said. “I have a cousin who does book covers. She’s really good. Does a lot of those simple, one or two color ones—what was the last? The Last First Daughter? Won an award.”

  “Really? I saw that! Pale blue, with the cookie cutter outlines?”

  He nodded, pleased. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  “I’ll have to look it up.” I glanced at the screen again. “So, are you guys playing tomorrow?”

  “We have a Monday game this week. It shouldn’t be that bad.” For half a second, his face fell into a doubtful grimace, and then he wiped it away. “You going to watch?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, since I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He smiled at me, and I smiled at him, and I wondered if I was going to have to know anything else about football to carry on the conversation, or if we could go back to books.

  The doorbell rang. “Pizza!” the delivery guy hollered, and Abe jumped up to grab the door.

  Ryan Carter walked in.

  Chapter Four

  For the first moments, before he saw me, Ryan’s face lit up with a smile as he greeted his teammates. I swallowed. In my memory, his sculpted body and perfect jaw had been overwhelmed by his aggravating personality, but now his golden aura hit me in the gut. I crossed my arms and legs and leaned back on the couch. I wished Abe hadn’t jumped up to take the pizza away, summoned when Keith shouted “Rookie!”

  When he spotted me, Ryan’s lips compressed into thin white lines and his body tensed as he strode over to me. “What are you doing here?”

  “She’s watching the game with us.” Mike stood and stretched before heading for the food. “She also plays a mean game of poker.”

  I appreciated the supportive words. I didn’t appreciate that he’d just abandoned me to a pissed off quarterback, who now glowered down at me. “Right. You’re watching the game.”

  I couldn’t stand without sliding up along him. “You’re in my space.”

  He cocked a brow, and then dropped into Mike’s seat. His body radiated heat like a furnace, and I was overly aware of his leg an inch from mine. “Sorry about that. You’re in my friend’s apartment. Why?”

  “I forgot my scarf.”

  He snorted. “Of course you did.”

  “You’re so full of yourself. Do you honestly think I wo
uld leave something just so I’d be lucky enough to see you again?” I stood up. “I’m going to get some pizza.”

  He caught one of my hands, wrapping his fingers around mine and applying enough pressure that my bones pinched. “We’re not done talking.” He dragged me back down to the couch with alarming ease.

  I sat straight backed against the arm of the couch, my hand still trapped in his large warm one, and glared fiercely. “Look, I don’t know if you’re, like, ‘king’ of your little crew, but you can’t talk to people like that.”

  He ignored me, leaning closer and using his size to intimidate. When he spoke, his rancor threw me. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, if you get off on mocking the guys. Maybe you think they’re all idiots, uneducated brainless jocks—”

  “No, I—”

  “But these are good men. And they don’t have to take any shit from some condescending bitch.”

  “Stop calling me a bitch,” I said stiffly. “I didn’t say anything of the sort about them. I like them.”

  Disbelief clouded his eyes, and he scoffed. “You don’t like me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole!”

  He hit me with a look heavy with mock-disappointment. “Language.”

  I bit my cheek. I would not get into a “You-started-it” fight. “I’m getting pizza.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about football.”

  “Then I’ll learn.” I jumped up before he could say anything else.

  When I came back, after eating my slices at the table safely ensconced between Dylan and Abe, Ryan had moved on to talk to Keith. I studiously ignored him, fixing all my attention on the game.

  Unfortunately, Ryan had been right, and while the guys occasionally explained pockets and safeties and drives, they usually broke off to cry out at the screen. Without much idea of how the game worked, my mind kept wandering. The rising and falling voice of the announcers lulled me into daydreams, while the football-tracking cameras worked as well as any hypnotist’s pendulum. I shook off sleep and slid my view from the screen, covertly studying the players here. They treated each other with an easy familiarity, even Abe, who they called Rookie. He fetched drinks and food without complaint.