Rush

by Shae Ross

  A faint whistle, a mellow, fluting pitch with three long peeps at the end penetrates my senses. It sounds like Preston’s starling call—the one he whistled to me at Marcus’s game, but I know it’s my imagination. The football team played the Big Ten Championship game last night in Indianapolis, which is nine hours from where we are today. He wasn’t able to play due to his suspension, but he still attended the game to support the team. There’s no way he could be here, but I know he’s watching the telecast. I’m determined to play well today so his sacrifices will have been worth it.

  Jace smacks my ass, bringing me back to reality. “Kick butt, Slow!”

  “Play big, Texas.”

  Seconds later, I’m laser focused on the black and white. My palms are sweaty. It always happens to me when I’m on the field, staring down a soccer ball, waiting for the signal. The whistle blows. I spring toward the painted line, hitting my mark in two steps. Whap. God I love that sound.

  Game on.

  I’m speed and air, moving in a rush with my teammates. Sam lands my pass. She dribbles past one oncoming opponent and tangles with another before the ball spits out at the sideline. Feet planted, elbows back, she throws it in. I slide, picking it up, moving it down field.

  My pass hits Syd—she’s got plenty of space on the right sideline, and she’s moving it down. Two defenders come at her hard, and she kicks high. It’s picked up by Allie, and I’m charging to goal while she angles in. She shoots. The keeper dives, deflecting it with the fingertips of her black gloves. I lunge for the rebound, supporting foot down, swinging hard with a locked ankle, and the ball pockets, shaking the net.

  Score!

  I turn and run with my arms spread, smiling into the sun. Wind rushes over my damp fingertips like ribbons trailing from my outstretched hands. I hug Allie, wrap an arm around Sam, and high-five Syd and Sophie.

  “Priscilla Winslow, number eleven,” rings around us, distorted by the loud speaker over the roar of the crowd. I glance at the scoreboard. I’ve scored at fifty-seven seconds in. Fuck. Yes. I raise a “Hook ’Em Horns” sign to Jace and move back into position.

  The game plays fast, and when the half approaches, we’re still in the lead, thanks in large part to Jace’s dives, rolls, and twists in front of the net. I’m charging hard, pushing my arms and stretching my legs inches past the defender running at my side. Gaining a shoulder, I block her out and break free. I wind up and kick a thirty-yard bomb with three seconds left in the half. It arcs fast, hits the rim, and bounces back, but Sam’s there. She catches the rebound with a sliding kick, blasting the net. In! I clench my fists and roar, diving at her.

  The volume of the crowd’s cheering settles as we approach Coach Howell, and I hear the whistle again. I raise my head and scan. I hadn’t wanted to let myself believe it earlier, but I hear it again, clearer now—a fluting mellow pitch, peeping three times at the end and repeating. Either I’m seriously hallucinating, or he’s here. I raise two index fingers high in the air and spin once. This is the sign our student section used to hail Preston at his game—number eleven. The peep sound echoes again, and I smile.

  Halftime ends. We’re midway into the second half, and Clemson just scored their second goal of the game on a penalty shot to tie it up. Sam recovered the ball centerfield. She launches a hard kick and I jump, angling my body for a head shot into the goal. I’m on it, brow raised in anticipation of the connect, and then, BAM!

  Pain bursts into my head, and I pinball off the other player. My shoulder hits the ground with leg bouncing force. Shiiiit! I swallow and blink, feeling instantly nauseous.

  The grass is cool under my cheek, and I’m slightly dizzy, but I think I’m okay. I’m still conscious, so I must be okay. Right? Warm liquid drools over the side of my face, seeping down from my temple. I raise a hand and feel around. What the…? Ohhhh, no, it’s blood. Whistles erupt, pausing the play.

  Sam’s beside me with a hand on my back. “Medic’s coming,” Syd shouts. I watch feet gather in front of me, and blink away the remnants of dizziness. One medic drops on his knee, prodding at my head while the other asks me questions.

  “Ready to sit up?” They’ve cleaned the wound and the bleeding has stopped. He grips my hand and holds my back, checking my vision.

  “I’m okay,” I say, trying not to look at the bloodstained grass. The medics help me up, and I walk slowly to the sidelines. I am not done with this game.

  “How ya doing, striker?” Coach Howell leans in, peering at me.

  “I’m fine. I can play.”

  “Sit for five.”

  I’m tipping my head back, drinking water, when I hear the starling call again—and this time it’s close. I turn and see Preston. Holy Mother of God. He’s here. He has come down the aisle and is standing at the railing. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s smiling. His platinum eyes are just visible under the brim of the Sparks baseball cap he’s wearing. It feels like the earth just shifted under my feet—and I don’t think it’s from the head injury.

  I cross to him and stand on the bench. He kneels, covering my hands with his as I grip the railing.

  “You okay, babe?” he asks. “Let me see.” I tilt my head and feel his fingers moving in my hair, but all I can think about is the fact that he showed up.

  “Is your coach going to let you back on the field?”

  “He said five minutes.”

  His eyes are moving slowly over my face. “I’m so proud of you, Priscilla. My girlfriend is three minutes away from being a national soccer champion.”

  “Are you crushing on me, Rush?”

  “Yes, I am. You are a-fucking-mazing, Priscilla Winslow.” He flicks a quick gaze down my body and smiles. “In more ways than one.”

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, feeling the tears welling up. He raises the back of his fingers to the side of my face and skims a tender touch over my cheek as he speaks.

  “You should know by now, Peep, nothing stands in my way when it comes to showing up for you.”

  “You are my perfect man.”

  He laughs, a low, husky sound that fills me with bliss. “Says the girl who just got knocked in the head. But I’ll take it.”

  “I love you for being here.”

  “I love you, too, Priscilla.” He bends through the bars and kisses me. “I’ll see you after the game. And go easy on those head shots.”

  Hopping off the bench, I move to stand beside my coach. There are three minutes left, and the game is still tied. Another minute passes, and my palms are sweating in a high fever. The ball flies into our zone. Jace runs out, snaps it up and blasts it downfield.

  “All right, Slow, you ready?” my coach asks. “One more goal brings home the championship. You’re in.” I head to my position and tap Kia out.

  Sophie and Allie are working the ball out of our zone. Sophie’s tripped up, leaving two defenders on Allie. She loses one, and the ball springs to Kayla. She’s flying down the field. She slides and kicks. Syd jumps, advancing the ball off her knee, dancing around it, and then blasting it down field. I pick it up and burst past the defender and into the zone. The keeper steps out toward me. I touch around her and pass to Sam. She lunges, sliding into the kick. It hits the sidebar, bounces back, and I spring toward it, angling for a head shot—that’s going to hurt for sure. Blazing heat pierces my scalp, and I blink over the white light flashing in my eyes. The ball angles toward the net. Syd spins into a backward kick and scores. Yes!

  Eight seconds left on the clock. I drop onto my knee, wobble, and push back up to a stand.

  A feeling of euphoria surges inside of me. I’m running centerfield with Sam and Syd. Warm blood oozes over my temple, and I push it aside with my knuckle. Allie’s covering the ball as the clock ticks down, three…two…one.

  The crowd roars, and we charge centerfield. I see Jace coming as the huddle starts to collapse into a mash of victory, and then I hear her laughter on top of the pile. My rib cage squeezes under the weight of bodies
, but I’m smiling—staring at a patch of blue sky as the starling call echoes around me, and this is the best moment of my life.

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  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to the talented and dynamic team at Entangled Publishing who work so hard to help their authors succeed, including Liz Pelletier, Curtis Svehlak, and my wonderful editor, Candace Havens.

  Special thanks to my nieces, Samantha and Sydney for lending me their soccer expertise, to my daughters, Kirstin and Kailey for inspiring me with their sisterly love, pranks and paybacks and to my son, Jack for filling me with love and laughter every day. The five of you have brought an abundance of happiness to my life. Also, thanks to Lisa Grace and Tim Hurt for providing answers to police protocol and for years of friendship, and thanks to Ethel Danhof and Samantha Bartholomew for lending your editing talents. Lastly, to my family and friends, I am eternally grateful for all of the love and support you share with me.

  About the Author

  Shae Ross grew up in the suburbs of Detroit, Michigan. She discovered a passion for romance novels while on summer vacations, reading by the shores of Lake Huron. Shae attended Michigan State University and Detroit College of Law and spent the majority of her career practicing corporate law and running a title insurance business. She now writes romance full time and lives with her husband and three children in the greater Lansing area.

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