Page 11 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Cillian

C airney. I need to see you in my office. Now ,” Coach St. James barks from the doorway of the weight room, his expression a mask of tight irritation.

Nodding, I place the fifty-pound weights back into the rack and grab my water bottle from the floor, squirting a hurried stream into my mouth. Then I reach for the hem of my shirt and drag it down my face, wiping the sweat clean.

My stomach feels like it’s full of lead as I make my way out of the weight room toward Coach’s office. There’s a huge possibility he found out what happened in the locker room the other day with Brooks, and this could end up a bloody fucking mess.

Nearly everyone on the team was there and saw what went down, but that was days ago, and unless shit changed, I was under the impression no one said anything.

Coach pulled me aside before film review and asked me where I got the black eye from, and I lied. Told him I tripped. Face-first into the locker. That I’m clumsy like that sometimes.

We both knew I was full of shit, but if no one else was talking neither was I.

I’m not giving them another reason to ice me out by snitching.

Wouldn’t change anything even if I did say something to Coach. Thorne’s still going to be a motherfucker who thinks he runs this team and this school.

And when Coach addressed everyone at the conference table, no one spoke up. That only seemed to piss him off more, the fact that he knew something had happened, but none of his players were talking.

I walk through the athletic building and down the hallway toward his office, pausing when I get to the open door. When he sees me standing there, he lifts a hand, waving me in.

“Shut the door behind you.”

Fuck.

I nod as I grasp the handle and pull the door shut before turning back to face him. I take a seat in the chair opposite him, my teeth clenched together, my knee bouncing with nervous energy.

He leans over his desk, placing his elbows on the tabletop as he stares at me, letting out a long, deep sigh.

“You know I don’t beat around the bush. I’m honest with my players, Cairney. It’s the only way I know how to be, how to run my team. I know this has been a big change for you, and I also know how talented you are. I just don’t know if it’s enough.”

My knuckles turn white as my fingers tighten around the arms of the chair. What the fuck is going on?

“I knew that it would take time for everyone to find a rhythm, to figure out how to mesh together, but it’s just not happening, Cairney.

There’s still too big of a disconnect between you and the guys, and quite frankly I don’t know if I can fix it.

I can preach it all day long, schedule team-building exercises, work on establishing trust and a bond, but if everyone’s not giving it all they’ve got, then what do we do next?

” he says, chewing the inside of his lip when he pauses.

I can tell he’s on edge about it judging by the tightness in his jaw and the tired look in his eyes.

We’ve all been wound tight about it, and he’s not telling me anything that I don’t already know.

I came here not giving a shit about letting anyone in, or get too close, but I guess…

Coach is right. It’s not working on the pitch.

I guess I have to work to build a relationship with them.

To form some type of… trust with them. I’ve just been keeping to myself and showing up because that’s what’s been expected, but now I realize that’s not enough.

I can’t give the bare minimum and expect them to give me anything but that in return.

He sighs again, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “I can’t force them, Cillian. If we can’t get you guys working together, communicating, being a team, then I have no choice but to remove you from the team.”

“Coach…” I start, and trail off when he lifts a hand, his expression softening slightly.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, son. Trust me, I do.

But you know that me taking you on to my team midseason was a liability.

One that I was willing to take because you’re one of the most talented players I’ve ever seen.

I think you made some mistakes in London, and while I hope that you’ve left everything that was holding you back behind, I don’t know the future.

But what I do know is that while I want this to work, and I want you to be a part of my team, it’s not fair to those guys either.

They’ve been working their entire college career for a shot at the championship.

At playing professionally. There’s a lot at stake, and jeopardizing the program while some of these guys have a year left is something I can’t let happen. Do you understand?”

After a beat, I nod, my white-knuckled grip on the armchair the only thing keeping me grounded.

I want to tell him fuck fair, and that I don’t give a shit about these knobs who haven’t made a single bloody effort to make this shit work because they don’t want to, but I don’t.

I stay quiet because it’s not going to do any good.

And I know that this is a give and take. I’ve gotta give as much as they do.

“I’m not saying that you’re off the team.

I’m saying that you need to put forth more of an effort to bond with these guys.

Whatever it takes, I need you to do it. You used to lead your team in London, Cillian, and you were damn good at it from what I hear.

You’re a leader. Not a follower. Make the effort, and make this work, or you’re going to force me to make a decision I really don’t want to have to make.

Hell, maybe Rory was right, and we need to do more team-building exercises, I don’t know. ”

More fucking obstacle courses? That’s what he thinks the answer to this is? We’re better off being locked in a room to—

Wait.

My thoughts drift back to the other night at the party. The one my sister insisted she go to and because I wasn’t about to let her go alone, I ended up there with her and… Rory.

What if Coach Matthews was actually right all along, and the only real way for me to get in with these guys is her ?

When he said that on the first day at the pitch, I had no clue what he meant, but now… I’m wondering if maybe he was right.

I don’t understand it, not by a long shot, but for whatever reason these guys trust her. They respect her. They go to her for advice. She’s clearly important to them. I’ve seen it with my own eyes these last few weeks.

Bloody hell, Rory St. James might just be the answer.

For the next few days, I’m so swamped with homework and training that I’m barely keeping my head above water. All while still thinking about the conversation in Coach’s office, and the fact that I might not have a spot on the team for much longer.

Just thinking about it makes my stomach turn. I didn’t come this far to lose my shot at a professional career because I couldn’t play nice with these guys. I’m not the same guy I used to be. I’m better than this shit.

I’m losing my fucking head, and that’s got to be why I find myself crossing the indoor training pitch when I see Rory sitting on the lush green turf of the try lines, the tip of her pen caught between her plump lips as she stares down at the playbook that’s sprawled open in her lap.

She’s got her long dark hair pulled up in a high slicked-back ponytail and is wearing a tight pair of lavender leggings and a baggy T-shirt that swallows her small frame.

When I come to a stop in front of her, hauling my bag higher on my shoulder, she lifts her gaze from the book and peers up at me. Her cheeks are flushed red, like she’s just gotten out of a shower.

And my mind immediately imagines hot pelts of water turning her creamy, pale skin a feverish shade of red.

Maybe she showers in the locker rooms like we do.

Shit, now I’m thinking about her naked in the locker room while she’s nearly eye level with my dick.

Fuck off, Cillian. Christ.

“Can I talk to you?” I ask gruffly.

I glance around the pitch to see who’s watching, but thank fuck, most of the guys have already left for the day, and there’s only a few left working on drills on the far side.

Not that I need to hide talking to her, but it might look… suspicious when I don’t really talk to anyone, much less the coach’s daughter.

“Um, sure?” She glances behind her then back at me. “Sorry, I thought you might have been talking to someone else.”

Her plump lips curve into a shit-eating smirk, and I roll my eyes. “It’s important.”

She pauses for a second, her dark brows arching as her gaze travels over my arms, trailing over the ink before coming back to meet my eyes. “Oooookay.”

She shuts the book, then stands, holding it to her chest. “So… talk?”

I shuffle from one foot to the other. “Somewhere… private .” I’m on edge today after the conversation with Coach, and I sure as fuck don’t want to give him any reason to question my spot here any further.

“Okay. Come with me,” she says as she turns on her heel and takes off in the direction of the administrative offices.

I follow behind her, and I try not to watch as her hips sway in the leggings she’s wearing, but I’m also still a man. So I do, and then I immediately regret it because I didn’t realize how she filled out the tight fabric.

What the fuck is wrong with me today?

Rory leads me down the empty hallway before opening one of the last doors we come to. I slip inside behind her and shut the door.

There’s a desk and a few chairs inside along with a mostly empty bookshelf, so I assume it’s used as an office or something. She walks over to the desk and hops onto the edge, staring at me with a curious expression.

“So…” She trails off, lifting a brow and swinging her feet back and forth. She’s wearing a pair of bright yellow trainers that match her personality perfectly. “What’s going on?”