Rush (Gods #2)(5)

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 players 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.