Page 52 of Chasing the Rush
I rub my forehead.Damn.If they’re right about what I’m feeling, then I’m well and truly fucked, considering what Chelsea told me earlier tonight about her extreme lack of interest in having a boyfriend. “I’m not in love,” I insist. “I’m just feeling extreme lust while also liking her a lot.”
“Sure, Luca,” Levi says. “After all that pining you did, you could take her or leave her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Have you told this girl about how long and hard you’ve pined for her?” Marco asks.
I scoff. “I wouldn’t say I’vepined. I’ve had my fun, Marco. You know that. Lots of it. Over the years, I’ve just wondered now and again where she might be and what might have been, if I’d ever found her.”
“Now and again?” Roman and Levi boom at the same time, just as Marco’s saying, “That sounds like pining to me.”
“Luca, you pined so hard for this girl,” Roman says, “we could have hung Christmas ornaments on your arms, legs, and ears, year-round, and topped you off with a shining star.”
Cracking up, Levi adds, “You pined so hard for this girl, I could have used you as my car’s pine-scented odorizer.”
“Call it whatever you want,” I spit out. “But either way, now’s not the time for confessions and distractions. My football life is hanging in the balance, guys. I need to remain focused.”
Roman snickers. “Look how disciplined and mature our boy is, all of a sudden.”
“Translation,” Levi says. “He’s scared shitless she’ll reject him if he tells her the truth, so he’s waiting till he’s positive he won’t get shut down.”
Levi is exactly right. I’m scared shitless I’ve read Chelsea’ssignals wrong and she’s going to reject me. In fact, there’s no doubt in my mind that if I told her everything now, that’s exactly what she’d do. But since I’m not going to admit that to these three or anyone else, I decide to abruptly end the call instead.
“Nighty night, fellas,” I say. “Like I said, I’m wiped. Stay safe out there. Have fun.”
“Fun is fuel,” they all say in unison, and I have to admit, it’s a funny bit, even in my current state of agitation.
Finally, the call is done and I’m free to do the stupid thing I shouldn’t do. The thing wild horses couldn’t keep me from at this point. With my heart racing and my nerve endings tingling, I grab my keycard, barrel out of my hotel room, and stride straight to the stairwell to climb one story up to what I’m hoping and praying will turn out to be Chelsea Parker’s floor. If not, if my deductions and logic have been faulty somehow, I’m going to be royally fucked.
CHAPTER 18
Luca
BINGO.
The room directly across from the ice machine on the third floor of my hotel is the only one not assigned to a player on the app. In fact, it’s not listed at all, which means it’s got to be a staffer’s room or empty, because the Mastodons have this entire hotel. I’m assuming there’s one player liaison assigned to each floor, since there are five of each. If not, that’d be some pretty stupid planning on someone’s part. So all things considered, I’m feeling pretty confident that room right there is Chelsea’s.
If I’m somehow wrong about that—like, for instance, if Chelsea traveled to a different floor than her own to grab some ice the night Gerrity saw her in her Buckeye pajamas—and if another staffer therefore answers that door when I knock on it, then I’ll be fucked. It’s well after curfew at this point, first of all. Not sure where I’d say my honor ran off to at this hour. Also, whose room would I say I’m trying to find? Another player’s? At this hour? Nobody would believe that. But no risk, no reward, right? Especially when I’d give my left nut to kiss the irresistible lips of this particular reward.
I inhale deeply to calm my nerves and muster my courage—or blazing stupidity—and rap my knuckles softly againstthe door to room 302. Thank God, a few seconds later, I’m staring into the two bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Luca,” Chelsea breathes out, looking shocked. Murmuring expletives under her breath, she pokes her head into the empty hallway and looks both ways. “You can’t be here.”
“Rules are made to be broken.”
“You have to go.”
“I came to tell you something really important. I’ll be quick.”
“Goddammit, Luca.” With an exhale of frustration, she grabs the fabric of my Mastodon T-shirt and drags me into her drab, cookie-cutter hotel room. And when the door is shut behind us, she keeps her distance and stares me down with pink in her cheeks.
She’s dressed in Buckeye boxers and a thin white tank top with no bra. Much to my delight, her shirt’s fabric is thin enough to reveal the glorious shape of what lies beneath. She didn’t dress for company, obviously, only for her own solitary comfort in the summer heat; she’s nonetheless the hottest I’ve ever seen her. In fact, I’m momentarily tongue-tied by the rush of arousal I’m feeling between my legs.
“How’d you figure out my room number?”
I tell her about my clever detective work and she looks equal parts annoyed and impressed. But quickly, she moves on from that, looks at her watch, and barks out, “You have exactly one minute to say whatever ‘important’ thing you came here to say, and then you really have to go.”
One minute?That’s not nearly enough time. During my short walk here, I came up with a little speech about why my dating life hasn’t been romantic or successful. Something I could say as an opening salvo to gauge her reaction and possibly inch myself closer to saying the rest to her. But now that I’m standing here, I’m so out of my head with physical yearning for her, and so damned afraid of screwing things up, I’mcertain I wouldn’t be able to get the right words out in ten minutes, let alone one.
