Rush by Shae Ross Page B

hold my self-satisfied air as I pass through the spotlight of his heavy stare, catching the amused voice of his friend. “Looks like she’s got your number.”
    The trainer finishes the announcements and explains the first drill. “We’re going to have teams pair up, and you’ll alternate to the events with your assigned team. In honor of the football team’s spectacular record—how about last week’s shut out against the Buckeyes?” he exclaims, pulling down a fist. “We’ll let the football players choose the team they want to partner with today.” A group of guys hoots, clapping and slapping each other’s backs, and my teammates exchange eye rolls at the obnoxious display—they all know about my run in with Preston and how his no-show status deep-sixed my hearing. It’s really hard to feel like celebrating anything about the football team right now.
    Preston steps up to the platform, dimples flashing next to a gleaming smile. He’s recovered his easy, composed look—as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Burrowed in my brain like a tick is this tiny little nagging feeling. I don’t think he got in any trouble. Is it possible that I end up booted from the soccer field and nothing happens to him?
    His confidant gaze zeroes in on me, lingering for a moment. His voice is deep and determined when he speaks. “We’ll take the women’s soccer team,” he says, and then winks at me. Super.
    Static cracks from the bullhorn as the trainer takes it from Preston. “Once you have your partner team you can head to your first event and get started. Have fun and remember—communication and teamwork. We’re building good sportsmanship today.”
    A trainer named Cho signals us to follow him. We arrive at the south goal post, form a receiving line, and introduce ourselves with polite handshakes. My heart thumps a wild rhythm as Preston’s profile moves closer.
    “Hey,” he says, his voice sounding resigned as he closes a big hand around mine. Despite my very public broadcast of his cell number, he’s regarding me with a concerned look. “We need some time to talk,” he says.
    “Did you get in any trouble?” I blurt out, pulling my hand away.
    His brow creases with three short lines, just in the middle of his forehead. “What?” he asks.
    “Did you get into any trouble after our lock up?”
    He pauses and cocks his head. “Look, I think we really need to talk…”
    “I’ll take that as a no,” I say, moving on.
    I circle back to my team and try to listen as Cho explains our first drill, but all I can concentrate on is that three-second interaction and his blank look. I think he just skated away from the whole fucked-up night. His coaches must have helped him, or turned a blind eye, and here I am, booted from the best women’s soccer team in SEU’s history. A team that I put my blood, sweat, and tears into creating. A team that could very well win the National Championship. My stomach boils with anger.
    If I were a better person, I’d congratulate him for pulling it off—I’m sure football means as much to him as soccer does to me—but I can’t clear the steam. How is this fair? And why do I have the feeling it’s because I’m a lowly female soccer player, and he’s Mr. Big Effing Deal. I exhale a long breath, trying to cool my overheated blood and focus on Cho, who is motioning to the roped area in front of us.
    “Here you’re going to be shooting for the goalpost, but rather than throwing a ball, you’ll be using this.” He picks up a gun shaped tube—it’s the blaster they use to launch hot dogs into the upper decks at games. “We’ll break into teams of five. Your team will need to catch a hot dog from the cannon. The trick is your arms will be linked together the entire time.”
    A few low chuckles pepper the crowd as Cho checks his watch and squints downfield. At the forty-yard line, a group of guys is wrestling with a giant inflatable obstacle course. “I think they need an