Rush

by Samantha Towle

  I knew he couldn’t handle Mom’s mood swings. He would spend as much time out of the house as possible. So, it was mostly just me and her.

  When she had a high mood, she was great, fun. But, when she was low…it was bad. Sometimes, she couldn’t get out of bed for days.

  Mom was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was seven.

  Her problems started after I was born, and I wonder if I was the catalyst for everything that went wrong for her. I know she’d had a bad childhood, which was where most of her problems stemmed from. But it seems that it got worse for her after I was born. I sometimes think that she blamed me for her depression…her illness, and that was why she let me be the one to find her in the closet on that day.

  I was angry with her for a long time. Angry with my dad for not being there. I guess I still am.

  But he was there when I screwed up. It was him who cleaned up my mess. Hired the lawyer. Put me in rehab. Gave me this job.

  I owe him for that.

  And I don’t want to fight with my dad over the past. He’s the only family I have left.

  He might not be perfect, but who is? Well, aside from Ares “Mr. Perfect” Kincaid.

  “Did Mary show you around?” Dad asks, cutting into my thoughts.

  Dad introduced me to all the players and assistant coaches, which didn’t go as bad as I had expected. Well, except for Ares, who acted like we hadn’t met, which I guess was good because I would’ve had to explain to my dad how we’d met, and I definitely didn’t want to do that. So, I guess, in a way, he was only doing what I had asked—keeping our encounter from my dad.

  It was just the way he was looking at me when Dad was introducing me to him…clear disgust in his eyes. A hardness to his voice that my dad didn’t seem to notice.

  But I did, and it made me feel like shit.

  Dad disappeared once I met everyone, and I was palmed off to Mary, his PA. She is well into her sixties but doesn’t look a day over fifty. She’s one of those really classy, glamorous women, who I aspire to look like when I’m her age. She was really nice to me, too. Never once brought up my problems. She spent most of the time telling me all about her new granddaughter, Rosie.

  “Yeah, she did,” I answer him. “She gave me a tour of the building and pitches and gave me a rundown of my duties.”

  “Did she give you your work cell and iPad?”

  “Yes. They’re in my bag.”

  “Good. Well, the players all have your work cell number now—I had Mary send it to them—but only take calls during work hours. Don’t let them take advantage, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  There’s a beat of silence. The awkwardness that’s always existed between us, which has only worsened since the crash. I wonder if it’ll ever go, if we’ll ever just have an easy, flowing relationship.

  “Right, well, I’ll let you get to it,” he says.

  “Okay, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  We hang up, and I push up to my feet.

  I search through my cupboards, trying to decide on what to eat, and I end up with a bowl of Cap’n Crunch, like usual.

  I take my cell, bag, and cereal bowl into the living room with me. I put my bag down on the floor. I sit down on the sofa, legs tucked underneath me, cereal down resting on them, and put my cell down beside me. I glance at it.

  The cell that only rings with my daily call from my dad and my sponsor, Luke.

  The friends I used to have, I had to leave behind. They like to party, and I don’t do that anymore. My old colleagues from the gallery, who were friends, too, haven’t made contact since the crash, and I have a feeling they don’t want to hang out with me.

  So, I’m friendless.

  I’m lonely. It’s pathetic but true. I’ve gone from a life of constantly having somewhere to be—a gallery event with hors d’oeuvres and champagne or dinner with friends and endless glasses of wine or parties with my cheating scumbag ex-boyfriend—to now staying in every night with Netflix for company. Well, except for the one night a week when I go to my AA meeting where I spend an hour listening to people who are just like me.

  I was hoping maybe I might be able to make friends at my new job, but so far, the two people I have gotten along with are the middle-aged security guard and my dad’s sixty-year-old PA.

  Leaning down, I reach into my bag and pull out the iPad that Mary gave me. I eat some cereal while it loads.

  It’s already been set up, and there’s a link to the Giants website. I click on it, and when it loads, I go to the photos tab.

  I click through a few of the pictures, seeing my dad on the goal line and some of the players I met today in action on the field.

  I click on the video tab and scroll down until I come across an interview titled “Giants Insider: Quarterback Ares Kincaid.”

  I spoon more cereal into my mouth and press play.

  It’s only two minutes long, and it’s basically him being charming as he talks football.

  I saw some of that charm today before he found out who I was, and then that changed.

  If I’m being honest, knowing he doesn’t like me is bothering me, considering how highly my dad thinks of him.

  My dad didn’t notice today that Ares was off with me, but he will soon enough, if Ares keeps on with his cold attitude toward me.

  Ares Kincaid has formed an opinion of me because of what he heard or read in the press.

  But he knows jack shit.

  He doesn’t know a single thing about me. He doesn’t know that I dislike myself way more than he ever could.

  He might not like who I used to be or what I did, but I haven’t personally done anything to him, so I don’t get why he dislikes me so much.

  I resolve to clear the air with him tomorrow. Start fresh and all that. I don’t want to be at odds with a guy I have to work with—or for or whatever.

  And who knows? Maybe, if it goes well, I might even make a friend out of him, a friend my own age—and a responsible one at that. God, my dad would be ecstatic.

  I laugh out loud at the absurdness of my thoughts.

  Honestly, if I can just get Ares to stop being so frosty toward me, I’ll call that a win.

  I grab the remote and turn on my buddy Netflix, settling back into the couch to watch the latest episode of Riverdale, spooning some more cereal into my mouth, looking forward to a better day tomorrow.

  I’ve been working here for a week now, and I still haven’t managed to get a chance to speak to Ares. The guy avoids me. Like, seriously. He saw me a few days ago in the hallway. He’d just come out of the locker room, and I was walking that way.

  I was heading to the gym to take Hector, the veteran center, a special protein shake that he has every day, which is made up by the Giants resident chef, Pierre. Bonus about working here: the food is amazing. Pierre is awesome. Early thirties, very handsome, and from France. His accent is divine. He moved here ten years ago to be with his husband, Eric. They’d met when Eric was in France on business.

  Pierre has been wrapping me up food to take home every day, so I’ve been well fed this past week.

  Anyway, Ares saw me, and he did an about-face. I shit you not. He saw me, his expression darkened like thunder, and then he just turned around and went straight back into the locker room.

  I’ll admit, it stung.

  No one wants to be disliked. Especially when I haven’t done anything to him. Well, except for flash him my bra. But I wouldn’t say that’s a hate-worthy crime.

  I really do need to sort this out with him because it’s getting silly now.

  I don’t want him to have a problem with me, and I don’t want one with him. But the way he’s acting toward me is making me dislike him.

  So, I endeavor not to let this drag on for much longer, and I’m going to corner him the second I get a chance.

  And it must be my lucky day because Ares has just walked into the screening room where I’m currently setting up the laptop with the game my dad wants the p
layers to watch on the cinema-sized projection screen.

  “Uh”—he halts in his tracks when he sees me and looks around the empty room—“where is everyone?”

  “Still on the field. Practice ran over. Weren’t you there?”

  “No.” He doesn’t elaborate more, and I don’t ask.

  “When will they be here?”

  “Another ten minutes, I think.”

  “Right. Well, I’ll”—another step toward the door—“go and do, um…yeah.” He turns for the door.

  “Wait,” I say, my voice coming out a little too squeaky, too desperate-sounding.

  He stops and glances back at me over his shoulder. He doesn’t turn around or let go of the door handle though.

  I move around the laptop table and walk a little closer to him. “Look, I was, um…hoping we could…clear the air.”

  He lets go of the door handle and turns to face me, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Okay”—I let out a breath—“so I know you don’t think very…highly of me. I’m guessing most of your opinion is based on what you’ve heard or read about me.”

  He cuts me off with a laugh, only it doesn’t sound funny, and it makes my eyes narrow.

  “What?” I bite.

  He folds his arms across his mammoth chest. “I just think it’s funny that you assume that’s how I formed my opinion of you.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  There’s a beat of silence. Both of us staring, neither speaking.

  Naturally, I’m the first to break it. “Are you going to elaborate on that?”

  “I’m not sure you want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Don’t spare my feelings. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

  He sighs out a breath, making me feel like an inconvenience. Like having to talk to me is taking up too many precious minutes of his time when he could be, I don’t know, looking in the mirror, telling himself how amazing he is.

  “Fine,” he says, looking me dead in the eye. “I don’t like people like you.”

  “People like me?”

  “Alcoholics.”

  Okay.

  “And is there a particular reason you don’t like alcoholics? Aside from the obvious.”

  His lips press together, body rigid with tension, and it’s abundantly clear that he’s not going to answer my question.

  “Okay. So, no answer on that. Well, can I ask…is it all alcoholics you don’t like, or could a person in recovery maybe get a reprieve? I’ve been sober for six months now.” Well, six months, two weeks, and three days, but who’s counting?

  He laughs, and it’s derisive. It makes me feel smaller than I already am.

  “And what do you want, a medal?” he says coldly.

  Wow. He really hates alcoholics.

  I’m smart enough to realize that he’s had someone in his life who had a problem with liquor, and I’m really trying not to take his attitude personally, but it’s hard not to. Especially when his venom is currently being directed right at me.

  “Usually, it’s a chip. They give them to you in AA. I just recently got my six-month chip. It’s dark blue. I’m now working toward my nine-month chip. That one is purple. But, if you want to get me a medal, I’m cool with that.” I give a loose shrug of my shoulders and a big smile even though, inside, I’m hurting, but I don’t want him to know that.

  I figure, if he knows he’s hurt me, he’ll win, and I won’t let him win.

  “Sure. I’ll get right on that,” he deadpans with a shake of his head.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, and it would be much easier if we could get along. I work for you—indirectly. And a bad atmosphere is just unnecessary. I haven’t done anything to you personally. And I understand that you don’t like people like me.” I point at myself. I don’t know why I do that. I might as well have gone full-on dork and air-quoted the words. “But I’m trying here, and it’s just really unfair of you to hate me based on a general idea of ‘my people.’” I do air-quote that time. Jesus Christ.

  He laughs that hollow laugh again, and it makes my skin prickle.

  “I don’t hate you. I don’t anything you. I just don’t trust alcoholics. And that includes sober ones.”

  “Why?” I can hear the plea to my tone, and I hate it and don’t understand it. Why can’t I just let this go? Why do I want him to like me?

  “Look, Jailbird—” His hands lower from his chest on a sigh.

  My eyes widen. “What did you just call me?”

  “You heard exactly what I called you, so why are you asking me to repeat it?”

  “Because I can’t believe you would call me…Jailbird. I haven’t been to jail!” I can feel myself starting to tremble from his barb.

  His expression narrows. “Yeah, well, you should’ve after what you did. Climbing into that car, drunk off your face.” He shakes his head with disgust. “You could’ve killed somebody.”

  Shame covers me like winter frost. I don’t say anything because…what can I say? He’s right.

  “I know drunks, and I know you can’t trust them. The only thing they’re loyal to is the bottle.”

  I want to argue with that. Tell him that he’s generalizing. But he’s not wrong either.

  In most cases, it’s true that alcoholics only care about where their next drink is coming from. When I was going through detox, I realized that had been true of me, too. There were moments back then when I would have literally done anything for a drink.

  But that’s not who I am now.

  Are you sure? the voice in the back of my mind whispers.

  “That’s not me,” I say, and I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself in this moment. “I’m sober, and I intend to stay that way.”

  His shoulders lift. “I hope that works out for you. Statistically, it doesn’t look good. But I hope you do stay sober, for your dad’s sake. He’s a good man, and he doesn’t need you putting him through the kind of shit you put him through earlier this year.”

  Has my dad said something to him?

  “And there’s no reason for you and me to get along. We both know that Coach made up this job for you because he wants to make sure you don’t relapse. I get that, and so does the rest of the team. But you must know that we don’t actually need anything from you. Everything is covered by the staff already here. And some of the guys have their assistants. You’re only getting jobs from some of the guys because we respect Coach, and he asked us to make you feel useful. And, as much as I like Coach, I’m choosing not to do that, for my own reason. We don’t need to communicate. So, there’s no reason for us to get along. There’s no reason for anything. I suggest we just stay out of each other’s way for the foreseeable future. Okay.”

  Shit.

  My heart is racing. Mouth dry. My face is burning. My eyes stinging.

  I can’t speak because, if I do, I’ll burst into tears.

  The door opens, and a barrage of voices comes into the room as it starts to fill with players.

  I turn away, moving back to the laptop.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  I hit select on the video my dad wanted, and then, using my hair as a curtain to shield my face, I quietly slip out the door.

  I walk quickly to the restroom. Into a stall.

  And burst into tears.

  I leave my yoga class, waving good-bye to the instructor, Martin, and step outside into the warm air. The sidewalk is bustling with people. The day has such a positive vibe about it. I’m calm and relaxed after my class, and I don’t want to lose this feeling.

  There’s a farmers market a block over. I think I’ll take a walk over there before heading home and buy some cheese and fresh bread. Then, I can spend the rest of the day gorging myself silly on it.

  Sounds perfect.

  Well, okay, not perfect. It sounds lonely. But it’s not like I have many other options.

  I hitch my bag up my shoulder and start walking.
r />   As I approach the market, the aromas of fresh food invade my senses, and my stomach rumbles.

  When I used to drink, my appetite wasn’t very big. The alcohol suppressed my desire for food. Now that I’m sober, I’ve been discovering a big love for food. It took a while to get to this point. When I first detoxed, the thought of eating made me want to throw up. But, now that I’m over the worst of it, I’m able to enjoy food.

  The market is bustling. People browsing and making purchases.

  There are couples, moms and dads with kids, and solo people like me all milling around.

  In a way, being here, surrounded by these strangers all going about their day, makes me feel less lonely.

  I inhale through my nose, my eyes briefly closing as I absorb the smells and sounds around me, and—ouch!

  My shoulder just connected with a wall.

  My eyes flash open, and it’s not a wall. It’s a body. A very hard male body.

  I step back, a, Sorry, on the tip of my tongue, but the word dies in my mouth as my eyes connect with flaming blue eyes glowering down at me.

  Ares.

  Jesus Christ.

  Seriously, you couldn’t write this shit.

  The one person guaranteed to kill my mood, and I somehow manage to bump into him in this city of eight and a half million people.

  Just my luck. Maybe this is Karma’s way of finally getting me back.

  And I would be wearing my yoga pants and oversize off-the-shoulder Namast’ay In Bed & Watch Netflix sweatshirt over my sports bra. No makeup and my hair tied back into a ponytail.

  Why is it that you’re always looking your worst when you bump into the one person you really don’t want to see?

  He’s wearing a NY Giants ball cap, khaki cargo shorts, and a white linen shirt. The top few buttons are undone, the sleeves rolled up, dark hairs and veins covering his forearms.

  God, he’s attractive. I hate that he’s so gorgeous to look at.

  An asshole like him doesn’t deserve to be this handsome.

  It makes me want to dislike him even more.

  Mr. Perfect.