Page 3 of Rush

I glance around for a sign of a restroom, but nothing. So, I start walking, going straight ahead through the lobby.

My heels click on the tiled floor, echoing loudly. I have the urge to take off my wet shoes, but I really don’t want to walk around barefoot.

I walk past the staircase and down the hallway. I see a sign that shows the restrooms are on the left.

Bingo.

Although I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do because there’s no way a hand dryer is going to dry my clothes, but it’s better than nothing.

I locate the restroom, which is empty, and—shit! Effing crap! No hand dryer. Only paper towels.

As I turn, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Christ almighty.

I look a mess. My makeup has practically washed off. Thank God for waterproof mascara because it’s the only thing on my face that’s stayed intact.

My brown hair is a wet, stringy mess.

My white shirt is clinging to my body, and you can totally see my lace bra through it.

My cheeks flame with embarrassment as I realize that Patrick could see my bra through my shirt.

I can’t start my first day, meeting the guys on the team, looking like this.

I need clothes. Even if it’s just a different shirt. I can live in damp jeans and panties if I have to but not a wet shirt, showing off my chest.

They must have team shirts here. Anything is better than my soaking wet top that I’m currently wearing. I look like I’m entering in the world’s first solo wet shirt competition, and I really don’t want to embarrass myself—or my dad—any more than I have already.

And, wearing a team shirt, at least I’ll look committed to the team.

I almost laugh out loud at that thought.

I don’t like football. At all.

Since I’m the coach’s daughter, people assume I love the sport. But it’s because of football that I had to move around a lot while growing up. That my dad wasn’t around much. That my mom—

I cut off that thought.

It wasn’t my dad’s fault. My mom was sick. And the choices she’d made were hers and hers alone.

But it was his fault that he wasn’t there for you when you needed him most, the voice in the back of my mind whispers.

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.