Rush (Gods #2)(2)

No, I'm not going there today.

Today is going to be a good day despite the fact that it's started off crappily.

I'm going to fix up my hair, and then I'm going to find a shirt to wear.                       
       
           



       

Dumping my damp bag on the counter, I pull out my hairbrush and a hair tie.

I brush it through as best I can and then tie it up into a makeshift  bun. I drop my hairbrush back in my bag, and clutching it to my chest,  covering my peekaboo bra, I head out of the restroom and go in search of  a storeroom or somewhere they might keep spare shirts. But I need to be  quick before people start arriving.

I wander for a few minutes and stumble across the locker room.

There's got to be a shirt in here somewhere.

I open the door, letting myself in, and-holy shit, this room is huge.  It's bigger than my apartment. Well, most places are bigger than my  apartment. But, still, it's massive.

I let the door close behind me.

There are team shirts hanging on hangers at each player's station. Multiple shirts.

I could borrow one from one of the players, then find where they keep the spares, and replace it; no one would be any the wiser.

I walk into the locker room, scanning the names on the placards above each station as I pass them.

Kelly … Maxwell … Thompson … Kincaid.

Ah, Ares Kincaid. The star quarterback. The one they call the Missile  because he throws the football with the effect of a heatseeking missile.  He never misses his target.

I might not know much about football, but I do know who he is.

The golden boy. Mr. Perfect.

The guy who paid for his younger siblings' college education. I know this because my dad told me once.

"He's responsible, that one. Got his head screwed on." This was all said with a pointed look at me.

I wasn't responsible. I didn't have my head screwed on. I could barely  look after myself, let alone be responsible for anyone else.

I still can't.

My dad thinks the sun shines out of Kincaid's butt.

I know my dad loves all his players like they're family-probably loves  them more than his own family … well, me because I'm all he has left-but  I'm pretty sure my dad thinks of Ares Kincaid as the son he never had  but always wanted.

And who could blame him? Kincaid would never get in a car drunk and drive it into a wall.

Nope, that's all me. The screwup.

I reach out, fingering one of Kincaid's shirts.

I have this sudden urge to know what it feels like to be like him. To not be a screwup. To be someone people admire. Look up to.

Maybe, if I put on one of his shirts, some of his goodness might rub off on me.

Okay, that just sounded really dirty.

But it can't hurt to try, right? Wearing his shirt to try to soak up some of his good sense … and that just sounded gross.

I'm going to quit while I'm ahead. Or not.

I kick off my damp heels, drop my bag to the floor, and begin  unbuttoning my wet shirt. I peel it off my skin, letting it fall to the  floor with a wet thud, and it feels like heaven. The air is cool, drying  my damp skin.

I really, really want to take my bra off as well, but I can't have the  girls coming out to play. My chest isn't huge, so jiggling boobs  wouldn't be an issue, but my nipples do have a tendency to play peekaboo  at the most inopportune moments. Not that my bra is exactly concealing  much in its dampened state.

God, what a day, and it's still early.

I really need to not screw up today.

Please let today go well.

Needing to find my calm, I place my hands on my hips and lean my body  forward, slowly letting my hands slide down the sides of my legs until  they're resting on the floor, and my chest is pressed to my thighs.

I hold the pose and breathe in. Then, I exhale.

I've been practicing yoga since I got sober. My therapist suggested it, and it really helps me.

I know it might seem strange to pull a yoga move here, in the locker  room, but I need a moment to relax and find my focus, and this is how I  do it nowadays. The old me would have just done a shot.

"Ahem." The sound of a deep, timbral voice clearing behind me has me shooting upright and spinning around.

And, oh dear God, no.

Ares Kincaid.

He's standing right there, across the room from me.

And I have no shirt on.

Crap.





"Oh Jesus, shit, fuck!" I wheeze out in complete horror, my arms clamping over my chest.

"That's a lot of expletives for one sentence." Ares's head tilts to the side, a look of amusement on his face.

"I-I … " I'm floundering. I have no clue what to say. I'm all like, Jesus, take the wheel.

I'm half-naked in front of Ares Kincaid.

My dad is going to be so pissed when he finds out.

Please don't let him find out.

"I didn't think anyone was here," I finally manage to get out.

"Clearly."

His eyes drop from my face and start to trail down my body. I see a  spark of interest in his eyes, and I'm surprised by the flash of heat I  feel between my legs.                       
       
           



       

Did I mention that Ares Kincaid is good-looking?

I've seen him on TV and in pictures, but this is the first time I've  seen him in the flesh. He's all rippling muscles, hard edges, and golden  skin. Dark scruff covering his strong jaw, like he hasn't bothered to  shave in days. Striking blue eyes, which are still working their way  over my body, and dark hair, which is shorter than it used to be. I  remember him having longer hair.

Anyway, he's hot. If you like that kind of thing-jocks-which I don't.

What do I like?

Honestly, I have no clue anymore.

Before I was sober, I used to go for guys who liked to party. Dirty,  rough guys. Guys I could get drunk with. The quintessential bad boys.

Sporty, serious, and stable were never in my repertoire.

Maybe they should be.

Not with him, of course.

And not anytime soon. Relationships are not something I'm interested in. Staying sober is.

"So … " His eyes finally land back on mine, and I give him an irritated  look due to him blatantly checking me out. The bastard doesn't even have  the courtesy to look embarrassed. He just smiles and shrugs his big  shoulders. "This might be a crazy question"-his lips are now twitching  with amusement-"but who are you? And why were you bent over and  shirtless in here?"

"I, um … look, do you mind if I put my shirt back on?" I take a step back,  angling down to look at my shirt, which is still on the floor in a damp  heap.

"No. Go ahead." He gestures a hand in my direction but makes no move to  give me any privacy. He just stands there, watching me with his blazing  eyes burning right through me. The color reminds me of a flame when it's  reached its hottest temperature.

"Could you turn around?" I give him a pointed look, tightening my arms over my chest.

Shaking his head, he rumbles out a chuckle, which makes the muscles in  my stomach clench. "Sure," he says. "I've already seen everything … "

His eyes drop to my chest before slowly lifting back to mine. The heat  in them is undeniable. And so is the sudden throbbing occurring between  my thighs. It's been a while since I've had sex. That's why I'm  responding like this. It's all it can be.

"But I can be a gentleman."

"Wow. Lucky me," I mutter sarcastically as he turns away.

I hear him laugh again.

And I experience another stomach clench.

I bend to retrieve my shirt and quickly pull it on, wincing at the feel  of the wet fabric against my now-dry skin. I fasten the buttons,  starting at the top and working my way down.

"You can turn around," I tell him as I fasten the last button.

"So … " he says, turning to face me. A smile lifts his lips. It's a smug look.

His thick arms fold over his massive chest. I can see the veins running beneath his golden skin.

I have a thing about men's arms and veins. I find them incredibly hot. On the right man, of course.

Weird, I know.

"So … " I echo.

The smile widens. "I hate to tell you this. But I can still see as much  as I could before you put the shirt on. Well, more now since your arms  aren't in the way, blocking the view."

My eyes drop. "Shit!" I bark out, arms covering my chest again.

I forgot it was totally see-through.

"Wet shirt," he says. "Rain outside. I'm guessing you got caught in the downpour."

"You're right," I grind out.

He's starting to annoy me a little.

His arms unfurl, and those bright eyes of his darken. I'm not sure what with.

Then, he starts toward me, those long legs eating up the space between us. My heart starts to beat in staccato.

He stops a few feet away.

Sweet Jesus, he's huge.

And I'm small.

Ridiculously small. Five feet one to be exact. And I don't currently  have my heels on for the added height. I stupidly took them off.

Ares is well over six feet tall. Probably closer to six and a half.

I am a dwarf, standing in front of him.