Rush (Gods #2)(6)

In most cases, it's true that alcoholics only care about where their  next drink is coming from. When I was going through detox, I realized  that had been true of me, too. There were moments back then when I would  have literally done anything for a drink.

But that's not who I am now.

Are you sure? the voice in the back of my mind whispers.

"That's not me," I say, and I don't know if I'm talking to him or myself  in this moment. "I'm sober, and I intend to stay that way."

His shoulders lift. "I hope that works out for you. Statistically, it  doesn't look good. But I hope you do stay sober, for your dad's sake.  He's a good man, and he doesn't need you putting him through the kind of  shit you put him through earlier this year."

Has my dad said something to him?

"And there's no reason for you and me to get along. We both know that  Coach made up this job for you because he wants to make sure you don't  relapse. I get that, and so does the rest of the team. But you must know  that we don't actually need anything from you. Everything is covered by  the staff already here. And some of the guys have their assistants.  You're only getting jobs from some of the guys because we respect Coach,  and he asked us to make you feel useful. And, as much as I like Coach,  I'm choosing not to do that, for my own reason. We don't need to  communicate. So, there's no reason for us to get along. There's no  reason for anything. I suggest we just stay out of each other's way for  the foreseeable future. Okay."                       
       
           



       

Shit.

My heart is racing. Mouth dry. My face is burning. My eyes stinging.

I can't speak because, if I do, I'll burst into tears.

The door opens, and a barrage of voices comes into the room as it starts to fill with players.

I turn away, moving back to the laptop.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

I hit select on the video my dad wanted, and then, using my hair as a curtain to shield my face, I quietly slip out the door.

I walk quickly to the restroom. Into a stall.

And burst into tears.





I leave my yoga class, waving good-bye to the instructor, Martin, and  step outside into the warm air. The sidewalk is bustling with people.  The day has such a positive vibe about it. I'm calm and relaxed after my  class, and I don't want to lose this feeling.

There's a farmers market a block over. I think I'll take a walk over  there before heading home and buy some cheese and fresh bread. Then, I  can spend the rest of the day gorging myself silly on it.

Sounds perfect.

Well, okay, not perfect. It sounds lonely. But it's not like I have many other options.

I hitch my bag up my shoulder and start walking.

As I approach the market, the aromas of fresh food invade my senses, and my stomach rumbles.

When I used to drink, my appetite wasn't very big. The alcohol  suppressed my desire for food. Now that I'm sober, I've been discovering  a big love for food. It took a while to get to this point. When I first  detoxed, the thought of eating made me want to throw up. But, now that  I'm over the worst of it, I'm able to enjoy food.

The market is bustling. People browsing and making purchases.

There are couples, moms and dads with kids, and solo people like me all milling around.

In a way, being here, surrounded by these strangers all going about their day, makes me feel less lonely.

I inhale through my nose, my eyes briefly closing as I absorb the smells and sounds around me, and-ouch!

My shoulder just connected with a wall.

My eyes flash open, and it's not a wall. It's a body. A very hard male body.

I step back, a, Sorry, on the tip of my tongue, but the word dies in my  mouth as my eyes connect with flaming blue eyes glowering down at me.

Ares.

Jesus Christ.

Seriously, you couldn't write this shit.

The one person guaranteed to kill my mood, and I somehow manage to bump  into him in this city of eight and a half million people.

Just my luck. Maybe this is Karma's way of finally getting me back.

And I would be wearing my yoga pants and oversize off-the-shoulder  Namast'ay In Bed & Watch Netflix sweatshirt over my sports bra. No  makeup and my hair tied back into a ponytail.

Why is it that you're always looking your worst when you bump into the one person you really don't want to see?

He's wearing a NY Giants ball cap, khaki cargo shorts, and a white linen  shirt. The top few buttons are undone, the sleeves rolled up, dark  hairs and veins covering his forearms.

God, he's attractive. I hate that he's so gorgeous to look at.

An asshole like him doesn't deserve to be this handsome.

It makes me want to dislike him even more.

Mr. Perfect.

I haven't spoken to him since our little chat in the viewing room.

And, apparently, we're not speaking now.

He's currently scowling at me like I'm the spawn of the devil. And I'm  staring back with a mixture of hurt and anger in my chest.

"What are you doing here?" he asks in that hard tone he always uses when he's forced to speak to me.

What?

"Um, the same thing you're doing here … shopping."

His eyes go down to my empty hands. "You haven't bought anything." His tone is accusing, and my back is instantly up.

"Because I literally just got here!" I'm exasperated. God, this guy is a dick.

He stares down at me, those intense eyes narrowing. "Are you following me, Jailbird?"

"What?" I sputter, my eyes going wide. "Why in the hell would I be  following you?" Honestly, I've been doing my best to avoid him. "God,  you're a jerk," I hiss. "For your information, I just finished my yoga  class, which is the next block over, if you'd like to check, and I came  here straight from there to pick up some cheese." Why am I telling him  this? I don't have to explain myself to this goober.

He smirks. "Oh, yeah. I forgot that you liked to do yoga." The tone in  his voice hints at amusement and actually stuns me into silence.

I part my lips to speak, but nothing comes out. I'm like a goldfish, just opening and closing my mouth, no sound coming.

"Hey," I hear a sweet female voice say.

It yanks my eyes from his to her, and standing beside him is a tall,  beautiful woman. Long, dark hair. Sunglasses covering her eyes. Looks to  be about my age.                       
       
           



       

I must look like a toddler, standing here with these two gorgeous skyscrapers.

She's wearing cutoff jean shorts, showing off her long, tan legs-I'm not  jealous at all-and a T-shirt that says, I'm Not Smart for A Girl. I'm  Just Smart.

I like her immediately. Any woman who wears a shirt saying that has my admiration.

She's looking between us.

She must be wondering who the hell I am and why he's looking at me like he would like to strangle me with his bare hands.

"A, are you going to introduce me?" she says with curiosity in her voice.

She called him A. She's clearly familiar with him.

I wonder if she's his girlfriend.

My stomach fills with battery acid.

I choose not to think about why.

But, if she is his girlfriend, then she deserves a medal for putting up with him. Although I imagine he's nice to her.

She pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head, revealing her eyes. Bright blue. Exactly like his.

Maybe she's not his girlfriend after all. Maybe they're related.

Ares lets out an aggravated-sounding sigh and folds his arms over his  mammoth chest. The fabric of his shirt stretches over his huge biceps.  "She's Coach Petrelli's daughter."

Coach Petrelli's daughter.

Wow, don't go overboard there with the introduction, Mr. Perfect.

Seems I don't even deem worthy enough to have a name. Actually, come to  think of it, I can't remember him ever calling me by my name. He's  called me Jailbird, but that's it.

I get that he has a strong aversion to alcoholics, but his hatred for me is something else altogether.

"Well, hey there, Coach Petrelli's daughter," she says in a teasing  voice, which is aimed at Ares and his lame introduction. "I'm Missy.  This grumpy ass's sister." She thumbs in his direction.

Ares frowns in her direction.

And I smile. My smile has nothing to do with the fact that she's his  sister and everything to do with her calling him a grumpy ass and the  fact that her expression hasn't dropped at the introduction of who I am.  I can't imagine he's talked about me to her. Either that, or she's not a  hater of ex-alcoholics.

And my stomach most definitely has not emptied of the battery acid it is filled with.

"I'm Arianna," I tell her.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Arianna," she says, sounding like she  actually means it. "Guess I don't need to ask how you know my brother.  Coach Petrelli being your dad and all."

"We actually only met recently," I tell her, avoiding his hard stare. And he hates my guts. "I just started working for my dad."

"Cool. And how's that going?"

Um …

You know, aside from my dad, she's the only other person who's asked me that question.