Rush Read Online Free PDF Page B

that jail cell, I was convinced Preston Rush was Mr. Everything—sweet, caring, kind, and hot as hell. More importantly, I was convinced he’d show up for me. His words echo through my head. I won’t let anything happen to you—if it causes you trouble, I’ll fix it. I had actually let myself believe that. He was right—I am a dumb ass.
    Just before we were separately escorted out of the jail cell, he asked for my number and I yelled it to him. I failed to get his in the commotion, but he yelled back that he’d call me next week to check on things. I didn’t expect my hearing to be held within days of my arrest.
    When Coach Howell told me it was scheduled for Friday, I went to the football practice arena on Wednesday and waited for him—and waited, and waited. I wrote him a letter, asking for his help in the kindest way. One of the assistant coaches noticed me outside the locker room and told me he’d take my envelope right in and hand it to Preston. I’m an idiot to have trusted someone else with something that important, but I had committed to do a Girls on the Run 5k with the track girls I coach. If I had waited any longer, I would have missed it. In hindsight, I should have just barged into that locker room and called him out.
    His statement would have helped me claim self-defense on the disorderly conduct charge. That would have taken me from two strikes to one. I let out an exhausted breath. Our University has a two-strike rule, and with two counts against me, it’s likely I won’t play the rest of the season. My senior year will be done. No warning. No probation. No playoff games. No chance at the championship. Oh, God.
    Coach Howell is sitting next to me, a bead of sweat running into his beard. I cast a pleading look over my shoulder at the double doors again, willing them to open. My vision refocuses on the solemn faces of my teammates sitting in the last two rows of the large room. They’ve come to support me, but in some ways it makes me feel worse. I’ve let them all down. I want to throw up. I’m their captain. I’m also the lead scorer on the team, and we’re two games away from winning our conference and advancing to the NCAA finals.
    I look at Jace. She raises a Hook ’em Horns sign and gives me a “fight ’em” look. I can hear her voice in my head. Screw them, Priscilla—I got your back, girl, and we’ll get through this. She’s sitting beside our roommate Marcus. The gentle, laid-back expression he usually carries has disappeared. His features look drawn, worried. He knows, too. I’m done.
    “Priscilla,” my coach whispers, laying his hand on my arm. I snap my head back to the stares of the athletic board.
    “I’m sorry. What was the question?”
    “The police report stated that you pulled the fire alarm. Is that true?”
    I hesitate. “Yes.”
    Coach Howell drops his head and smooths a bushy eyebrow. He has the same look I’ve seen on his face when another team scores on us with minutes left in the game. Frustration. Disgust. Utter defeat. The lead examiner clears his throat.
    “Miss Winslow, you have a solid two strikes against you and no witness to support your version of the events.” He stares over the rectangular spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “The police report speaks for itself. South Eastern’s athletic guidelines provide for an immediate suspension—thirty days for each charge.” He hesitates at the eruption of moans from my teammates and then keeps reading. “Suspended athletes may still attend athletic events and participate in team practices…all athletes are offered an opportunity to file an appeal…” His words fade out and his face blurs. I’m hearing every other word, trying to recover from the kick to the gut.
    Game over. What am I going to tell my mom? And what about my scholarship? I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it sticks, and I choke out a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. My coach raises his arm to my back and