Rush Me (New York Leopards 1)

Ryan and Malcolm exchanged a glance. “Couch is freaked out,” Ryan said. “But don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to him.”

I looked around at their serious faces. “Are there a lot of injuries?”

They laughed, the sound incongruous with the injuries they then listed off. Not just sprains and breaks, but head injury after head injury, concussions that led to brain damage. They talked about new studies on Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, which led to memory loss and depression and even dementia. I listened in appalled fascination as the list grew. “I don’t get it. This is common?”

They all shrugged and looked at Ryan. “Most guys leave the league with permanent injuries.” His eyes were flat and far away, like he could see the future of all these young, strong men. Then he shook his head and changed the subject.

In another hour or so, the guys dragged themselves to their feet. They all thanked me, rather like you’d thank your friend’s mom when she cooked dinner for you, and filed out, laughing and joking. I made as though to follow, when Ryan caught my elbow. He cocked a brow at me. “Help me clean up.”

I would have crossed my arms had he not been in possession of one. “Seriously? I organized dinner and set everything up.”

He curved his lips just the tiniest bit.

“Fine.” I sent a wave and smile at Abe as he shut the door. “I’ll help, you lazy jock.”

The door clicked shut. We were alone.

Chapter Seven

“So,” Ryan said as we cleared the table. “Why did that make you so uncomfortable?”

“What?” I brought a stack of plates into the kitchen. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, snagging our glasses and emptying the last of the wine into them. He handed mine back to me as I sat on one of the counter stools. “Not the actual dinner. I mean when you were doing your prayers. Your shoulders were clenched, and your eyes kept flickering. What were you so freaked out about?”

I took a large swallow of wine

before answering, startled into honesty. “I’m not that used to talking about Judaism. I’m not actually that religious—I’m cultural. Everyone seemed very relaxed but...I don’t know. I guess I’m not used to people paying so much attention and...” I drifted off, shrugging. “It made me self-conscious. A little uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

Even that question made me uncomfortable, and I squirmed on my stool. “Oh, I don’t know. Because we were speaking in Hebrew, maybe. Because I was afraid of messing up in front of Abe.”

He tilted his head. “What’s that mean? How could you mess up?”

I waved my hand, feeling silly. “Well, Abe’s a real Jew. I’m only a real Jew when I’m surrounded by”—goyim—“non-Jews. Otherwise, I’m just a mutt.” I’d never really tried to express this before, and I fumbled for the words. “I guess I was worried I’d screw up pronunciation or the prayers around Abe, and that you guys would be—oh, I don’t know. It’s just strange to have someone from outside your culture watching your ceremonies. Like you’re performing or something.” I winced, wishing I had just changed the topic.

He blinked. “Wow. Do you feel that much pressure about most things?”

I hid behind my wine glass, trying to figure out if he was mocking me. When his face remained open, I responded. “No. Maybe. Why, is that bad?”

His lips curved up, sympathetic humor lighting up his face. “You might spontaneously combust.”

I took another sip. “It’s a possibility.”

He shook his head and tossed the last of the silverware into the dishwasher. “I thought it was interesting. And everyone wanted to be there, Rach. Church is a big part of a lot of the guys’ lives. We were curious about what Abe does.” He shrugged. “I’ve never heard Hebrew spoken before.”

My shoulders relaxed, and for the first time since we’d started this conversation, I sucked in a big breath of air. “I don’t really know it. It’s all memorization.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I did some of that for my grandparents. They’re Irish, so I learned the basics.”

I took a stab. “Irish...Catholic?”

He laughed. “Good thing you got that right.”

Oh. Yeah. The Irish Catholics and Irish Protestants had quite a lot of rough history. Time to stop saying terms simply because I’d heard them a lot. “So you speak some Gaelic?”

“No, they actually call it Irish.”