Rush Me

by Allison Parr

  Keith polished off his third sandwich and decided to pull me into the conversation. “So are you coming to our game on Sunday?”

  Across from me, Ryan snorted softly. “What?” I lifted my chin at him. “Why is that funny?”

  “She doesn’t like the game,” he told the others. “There’s no way she’d go.”

  The others regarded me with a mixture of puzzlement and disbelief. “What do you have against football?” Dylan asked.

  “Nothing.” I wanted to glare at Ryan for throwing me under the bus, but instead I focused on the slightly hurt expressions turned my way. “At all. In fact,” I decided rashly, “I will be there Sunday.”

  Ryan put his fork down sharply. “Impossible. We’re sold out.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I told him. “My date already has tickets.”

  All the guys perked up at this. And they say girls are gossipy. “You’re going with a date?” Keith crowed. He grinned over at Ryan, who I refused to look at, covertly or otherwise. “Who’s the lucky dude?”

  Uh-huh. Because I wanted to talk about my love life with a table full of guys. Time to turn the table. “This guy I’ve been seeing from the ad agency I temp at. What about all of you?” I asked, arching a brow. I’d worked for three years before I could do that, with the single-mindedness I had applied to memorizing cards. “I’m sure the Leopards have very discriminating taste.”

  They immediately started needling each other. Mike shoved Keith’s shoulder. “Keith only dates models with very low IQs.”

  Keith pushed him back. “Says the guy who won’t even date someone for more than one month.”

  “Dylan’s entire extended family is involved in his dating life.”

  Dylan shook his head. “You think being an interfaith kid is hard? Try being biracial.”

  “Hey.” Keith looked at me. “So do you have to marry a Jew? I met Abe’s mom once, and she was on him about that.”

  I laughed as Abe winced. “Nope. Judaism’s a matriarchal line. My theoretical kids are automatically in.”

  “Malcolm,” Mike continued, “is disgustingly well-adjusted, and even bought Bri—that’s Briana—a ring.”

  I turned toward him, delighted. “Really? Do you have it on you?”

  Keith snorted. “Why would he have it on him?”

  Because Hollywood told me guys nervously carried rings around for weeks before proposing.

  Malcolm’s long lashes swept down. “Er—here.” He handed me a box from his pocket.

  The boys roared with surprise and happiness. Dylan grabbed Malcolm’s shoulders and shook him. This appeared to be some form of congratulations. I opened the discreet silver box.

  A huge diamond glared up at me from the center of the ring, smaller ones sparkling on either side of it. The rocks were giant, blinding, and if I’d seen them in passing on some other girl’s hand, I would have considered it gaudy. But seeing Malcolm’s shy smile, and knowing this ring would be presented to a girl, and that she would say yes (one assumed) and that they were in love... “It’s beautiful.” I handed it back to Malcolm. “Do you know when you’re proposing?”

  He shook his head, looking pleased at my cooing and embarrassed by his teammates. “Haven’t really planned that out yet.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  He started to launch into the story, but his teammates’ snickers and friendly elbowing changed his mind. “We haven’t gone over Ryan’s standards yet.”

  That wiped the grin off Ryan’s face and neatly transferred everyone’s attention to the quarterback. They laughed as Ryan kept his expression aloof and took a long sip of wine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Keith smiled, and not very kindly. “You should see the way girls cluster around Ryan. Mr. Angelface. The rest of us have to wait for him to pick one before they’ll give us the time of day.”

  I arched a brow at Ryan.

  “Ryan will sleep with anything with a—ahem,” Abe coughed, catching himself. “Especially after a game.”

  Mike laughed. “But he’ll only date society girls. Gossip column girls.”

  “And then he’ll dump them a couple months in. Like clockwork,” Dylan added.

  Mike clicked his tongue sadly. “Commitment problems.”

  “Shut up.” Ryan’s face turned stony.

  “Yeah,” Malcolm said. “We have a lady present.”

  Every head turned my way. I could see the word “lady” turning over in their minds. I smirked back at them. I had a brother. I knew they’d already been censoring themselves.

  Mike nodded after a moment. “True. She’s wearing pearl earrings. Definitely a lady.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just think she should know what she’s getting into,” Keith muttered into his food, and Ryan whacked him upside his head.

  I pretended I hadn’t heard. “So,” I said, and then floundered as they stared at me. “How about your game on Sunday?”

  Then I almost burst into convulsive giggles, since I’d never used a how ’bout them Red Sox? gambit before. My conversation changers were usually how goes that musical? or read any good books lately?

  Also, I wasn’t in New England anymore. I should probably avoid mentioning the Red Sox or the Patriots altogether.

  The guys were still silent, looking down at their food and avoiding my gaze, which hadn’t been my intention at all. I frowned and tilted my head at Ryan.

  He put down his sandwich and answered flatly. “Four of our starting offensive-players were injured last week.”

  “We lost Monday’s game.” Mike picked at his napkin. “Should’ve been a sure thing.”

  “Basically, we’re fucked,” Keith said, and then looked at me. “Sorry.”

  “No, we’re not,” Ryan said, and everyone looked at him. He jerked his head at Malcolm. “We have the best wide-out in the division. Rookie’s a genius. Dylan can outrun anyone.”

  Keith sat back in his chair. “Couch is gonna treat me like Danvers.”

  Ryan and Malcolm exchanged a glance. “Couch is freaked out,” Ryan said. “But don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him.”

  I looked around at their serious faces. “Are there a lot of injuries?”

  They laughed, the sound incongruous with the injuries they then listed off. Not just sprains and breaks, but head injury after head injury, concussions that led to brain damage. They talked about new studies on Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, which led to memory loss and depression and even dementia. I listened in appalled fascination as the list grew. “I don’t get it. This is common?”

  They all shrugged and looked at Ryan. “Most guys leave the league with permanent injuries.” His eyes were flat and far away, like he could see the future of all these young, strong men. Then he shook his head and changed the subject.

  In another hour or so, the guys dragged themselves to their feet. They all thanked me, rather like you’d thank your friend’s mom when she cooked dinner for you, and filed out, laughing and joking. I made as though to follow, when Ryan caught my elbow. He cocked a brow at me. “Help me clean up.”

  I would have crossed my arms had he not been in possession of one. “Seriously? I organized dinner and set everything up.”

  He curved his lips just the tiniest bit.

  “Fine.” I sent a wave and smile at Abe as he shut the door. “I’ll help, you lazy jock.”

  The door clicked shut. We were alone.

  Chapter Seven

  “So,” Ryan said as we cleared the table. “Why did that make you so uncomfortable?”

  “What?” I brought a stack of plates into the kitchen. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged, snagging our glasses and emptying the last of the wine into them. He handed mine back to me as I sat on one of the counter stools. “Not the actual dinner. I mean when you were doing your prayers. Your shoulders were clenched, and your eyes kept flickering. What were you so freaked out about?”

  I took a large swallow of wine
before answering, startled into honesty. “I’m not that used to talking about Judaism. I’m not actually that religious—I’m cultural. Everyone seemed very relaxed but...I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to people paying so much attention and...” I drifted off, shrugging. “It made me self-conscious. A little uncomfortable.”

  “Why?”

  Even that question made me uncomfortable, and I squirmed on my stool. “Oh, I don’t know. Because we were speaking in Hebrew, maybe. Because I was afraid of messing up in front of Abe.”

  He tilted his head. “What’s that mean? How could you mess up?”

  I waved my hand, feeling silly. “Well, Abe’s a real Jew. I’m only a real Jew when I’m surrounded by”—goyim—“non-Jews. Otherwise, I’m just a mutt.” I’d never really tried to express this before, and I fumbled for the words. “I guess I was worried I’d screw up pronunciation or the prayers around Abe, and that you guys would be—oh, I don’t know. It’s just strange to have someone from outside your culture watching your ceremonies. Like you’re performing or something.” I winced, wishing I had just changed the topic.

  He blinked. “Wow. Do you feel that much pressure about most things?”

  I hid behind my wine glass, trying to figure out if he was mocking me. When his face remained open, I responded. “No. Maybe. Why, is that bad?”

  His lips curved up, sympathetic humor lighting up his face. “You might spontaneously combust.”

  I took another sip. “It’s a possibility.”

  He shook his head and tossed the last of the silverware into the dishwasher. “I thought it was interesting. And everyone wanted to be there, Rach. Church is a big part of a lot of the guys’ lives. We were curious about what Abe does.” He shrugged. “I’ve never heard Hebrew spoken before.”

  My shoulders relaxed, and for the first time since we’d started this conversation, I sucked in a big breath of air. “I don’t really know it. It’s all memorization.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I did some of that for my grandparents. They’re Irish, so I learned the basics.”

  I took a stab. “Irish...Catholic?”

  He laughed. “Good thing you got that right.”

  Oh. Yeah. The Irish Catholics and Irish Protestants had quite a lot of rough history. Time to stop saying terms simply because I’d heard them a lot. “So you speak some Gaelic?”

  “No, they actually call it Irish.”

  Terminology: 2; Rachael: 0. “Say something.”

  He looked a little uncertain, and opened his mouth twice before anything came out. “Bhí dinnéar blasta.”

  “Dinner was a blast?”

  He grinned at me. “Dinner was delicious.”

  I laughed. “Thanks. Though I just ordered a fixed menu from a deli.”

  He tilted his head. “Did you end up paying for it yourself?”

  This time, it was my mouth that opened and closed. “Uh—”

  He shook his head. “Thought so. I swear, Abe has a mind like a sieve. How much was it?”

  I considered. I had initially been furious at dropping two hundred dollars I didn’t have on a meal I hadn’t planned, but taking Ryan’s money felt like charity. “You know, it’s not a big deal.”

  He dealt me a dry look. “Save it. We both know you’re going to tell me, and I’m going to pay you back, so there’s no use playing like we won’t.”

  And there went two hundred dollars and our fragile peace. “I’m not playing. And I don’t need your money.”

  He snorted and headed for the folded brown bags that the food had come in. From one, he withdrew a crumpled receipt that I probably should have claimed earlier. After glancing at it, he took a handful of twenties from his wallet and held them out to me. “Are you going to be gracious and take it, or are we going to fight about this, too?”

  Poverty fought with pride, and won. “Thanks,” I muttered, and then sighed, and then tried for an apology as I folded the bills into my purse. “I was born without the gracious gene.”

  His mouth quirked up. “Yeah. I kind of noticed.”

  I tried to scowl at him, but his grin was too infectious and I laughed instead. “Yeah, well. I’m graceful in other ways. Theoretically.” I thought about it, and realized he’d been right earlier, when he told me he didn’t remember hearing any apologies. “I’m sorry about what I said when we first met. About damaging your grey matter. I didn’t realize that was such a serious problem. Have you ever been hurt?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He sounded so nonchalant. “But I’ve always finished the season.”

  “I don’t get it. If it’s so dangerous, why do you play?”

  He smiled at the dishes as he finished them. “You sound like my mother.”

  “I’m sorry, I know most people probably get it straight off the bat. I just don’t. Your mother doesn’t like you playing?”

  He took a sip of wine, and then a larger one. “Didn’t.”

  I opened my mouth to say something snarky, to ask if she’d changed her mind once he’d hit the big leagues, and then I closed it. “What happened?”

  He smiled at me, the first soft smile I’d seen out of him. “She was like you. Book smart. A smart-ass. Didn’t like sports.” He paused. “I was seventeen.”

  I swallowed. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “Breast cancer.” He was silent a moment. “You ever get really hurt?”

  Emotionally, I thought, but didn’t say it, nodding instead. That’s why I had walls; to keep from getting in too deep, to keep from getting wounded. Better that way.

  “You only get hurt that badly when you’re doing something that matters. Something impossible. Taking a risk. Investing yourself. And ball’s worth it, the rush you get, the exhilaration... It’s worth a couple injuries.”

  “Really? It’s the game itself? I would’ve thought the fame and money drew you in. The adulation.”

  He made a noise between a scoff and a snort. “You forgot the drugs, the depression, the stress on families and relationships. It has to be the game.” He shook his head. “Sixty-five percent of players retire with injuries. Even more go broke. Almost everyone’s forgotten.”

  “I don’t understand.” I waved at the apartment. “How can you go from a place like this to—nothing?”

  “I told you, I’m one of the lucky ones. Most guys don’t have endorsements, but they do have medical bills and families to take care of and lifestyles to pay off.”

  “So why do you do it?” I asked again. “Why don’t you play somewhere quieter?”

  “How do you turn down the NFL?” he asked, not unkindly. “You don’t. And even with the lows, there’re all those highs.” His face softened, his gaze going inward. “And isn’t that better than a life of mediocrity?”

  “Couldn’t you find highs somewhere else?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t yet.”

  I thought about Malcolm’s would-be fiancée, the tall, beautiful woman from the pictures in his room. Did she worry about him every Sunday? “What about a relationship?” I asked. “Couldn’t that be just as worth it?”

  He dried his hands on a washcloth. “Why? Looking for a ring yourself?”

  “No, of course not.” I hopped up and busied myself wiping down the table. “I don’t even like rings.”

  He snorted, and when he spoke he sounded starkly skeptical. “Sure you don’t.”

  “I don’t. I think they’re ridiculous,” I shot back. His response rubbed me the wrong way, as though he thought every girl sat around dreaming of a chunk of rock. “I don’t even like the idea of engagement rings. They’re like peeing on a fire hydrant. Guys marking their property.”

  He laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I turned around to face him. “No, I’m not. Besides, they’re stupid. You know why diamond engagement rings are so important? Because of a stupid ad campaign to sell more diamonds in the thirties.”

  “So we can blame your ad agency boyfriend,” Ryan slotted in.

  “And becau
se they were a form of financial security. Because women were supposed to be virgins when they got married, but by the thirties, they were usually sleeping with their fiancés before the wedding. So if the guy broke it off, women were considered ‘damaged.’ How screwed up is that? So expensive rings were given so that women knew they weren’t just being lured into bed, and if they were, at least they could sell the ring for money after they were ruined. It was practically a trade for their virginity. It’s disgusting.”

  Astonishment rounded his sky-blue eyes as he shook his head. “How do you know all that?”

  “I read a lot. Especially feminist blogs.”

  “Shocker.”

  “Not to mention dirty gold.” I started to really get into my rant. “Most wedding bands produce twenty tons of environmental waste.”

  Ryan held up a hand. “Okay. So you’re saying that if Mr. Draper offered you a ring, you’d tell him it was disgusting and send him away?”

  The idea of John proposing derailed me. “It wouldn’t happen in the first place.” If he proposed to anyone, it would be his girlfriend.

  “Why are you even dating this guy? Wait. Don’t tell me.” He raised his brows and smirked, clearly trying to make me uncomfortable. “You’re in it for the sex.”

  I flushed and looked aside. I wasn’t, because I wasn’t in it. I’d gone out with John because I thought we were dating, and it was only after his girlfriend showed up that I realized he was simply using me as a convenient lay.

  But I hadn’t exactly been considering getting a drink with him for the pleasure of his company.

  “You’re kidding me.” Ryan gaped at me after I’d been silent too long. “I don’t believe it.”

  Oh, bad move, Ryan. “Why not?” I lifted my chin. “Your friends just finished telling me about all the girls you take home. Why’s it different for me?”

  “Because it’s you. There’s no way you’re comfortable screwing around with random guys.”