Page 14 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Rory

W ell, that was actually a complete, utter, disaster,” I huff as I slide back into the busted leather seat of the booth, dropping my head into my hands. “A category five disaster. Catastrophic, if you weren’t aware.”

When I finally lift my head from my hands, I find Cillian gaping at me like I’ve grown two heads.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He just shakes his head as he reaches up and drags his hand down his face, sighing. “Tell me why you think that was a disaster.”

My eyes widen. “Did you not just witness the same thing I did?”

“Yeah, I did. Now tell me why you think it was shit.”

“Because I scared him off in record time,” I mutter exasperatedly.

“And why do you think that was?” Cillian asks.

Because I’m broken? Because I can’t seem to stop being awkward and fumbling like I’ve never spoken to a guy in my life. Every single time is the same, except I think I might actually be getting worse.

“Um… because he’s not a rugby fan?” I say feigning innocently.

Cillian sighs raggedly. “St. James, you didn’t let the bloke get a bloody word in. Literally, not one. All you talked about was rugby. The entire time. ”

“That’s not true! He said he’s… never seen a rugby game.”

“Yeah, and then you proceeded to tell him the entire history of rugby starting in the 1800s. I thought the bloke was going to have to fake a medical emergency to get you to shut up.”

“Okay, well, that might be true, but I took the opportunity to educate someone who was clearly missing the best sport to have ever existed from his life. If anything, he should be thanking me.”

“He might’ve if you would’ve let him say a single word,” Cillian deadpans.

“Well, it feels a biiiit unfair for you to say he didn’t get a word in when clearly he said he’s never seen rugby, and you know he also said that he’s a hockey fan an—”

“St. James,” he says, cutting me off mid-word. “You’re doing nothing but proving my point. How do you expect to have anything in common with any of these blokes outside of sports if all you do is talk. About. Sports?”

Fine. He does have a point. Ugh.

I bury my face in my hands again with a long, drawn-out dramatic groan.

“I’m doomed. There’s no hope. I’m hopeless.

I told you I was horrible at this, and you didn’t listen to me, Cillian!

I. Told. You. I can’t flirt. I can’t talk to guys without word vomiting, and if I somehow manage to form words then it’s all about sports because if you haven’t guessed it, my entire life is sports.

Literally, I live and breathe rugby the same as you.

Why do you think I asked you to help me?

Now you’ve seen it firsthand for yourself. ”

Suddenly, I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging my hand away from my face until I lift my gaze to meet his.

His piercing eyes seem to burn right through me.

“You’re not hopeless. What I’m hearing you say to me is that you need to feel more comfortable.

More confident in yourself. That just means you need more practice.

When you’re not great at something you keep at it until you are. ”

While he’s speaking, the rough pad of his thumb sweeps across the inside of my wrist, and I’m hyperaware of it, the feel of his skin on mine but I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

“Okay,” I say quietly, nodding in agreement. “I’ll keep trying.”

Slowly, he glances down at where his fingers meet my wrist, and then he drops my hand, nodding too. “If you want a lad to flirt with you, then you have to give him the chance to.”

I push down a swallow with another nod. I know that; I just can’t seem to get it together long enough to make it happen.

“What do you do outside of rugby? I know there’s more to you than just rugby, St. James. What’s your favorite movie, music, things you do for fun?”

The question is simple, but it still takes me a minute to separate me from rugby . Who am I without rugby?

It’s deeper than intended, and the question makes me think.

“Um, I mean I really like to do puzzles, and color in these grown-up coloring books that Fitz and Wren got me a couple of Christmases ago.” I feel the blush heating my cheeks, and I drop my gaze, looking down at the straw paper on the table as I fold it into tiny little squares to avoid his stare.

I’m not embarrassed by the fact that I like to color; I’m more embarrassed that my list of interests outside of rugby is tragically short. “I like to bake cookies.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. “Keep going. What else?”

“I like horror movies and homework. I actually like homework and being somewhat of a nerd. Oh, and cleaning whenever I’m stressed. Vacuuming makes me feel better.”

“Of course it does.” His voice is low as he lets out a quiet laugh before his indifferent mask slips back in place just as quickly as it left.

“I think when you stop convincing yourself that all you’re made of is rugby, that’s when you’ll realize that there are plenty of things people want to know about you. ”

I hardly have a chance to process his oddly… sweet comment when my stomach gurgles obscenely loud.

“Sorry.” I wince. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and those vodka Red Bulls didn’t help.”

Cillian signals the waitress over and asks for an order of mozzarella sticks, pretzel bites, potato skins, and onion rings that makes my mouth water just thinking about them.

“I’m surprised you’re eating fried food. Most of the guys on the team stay away from stuff like that during the season.”

“It’s not for me.”

My jaw falls open. He ordered four appetizers… just for me?

“You need to eat,” he says simply—that tiny, nearly indecipherable curve of his lips returning for a fleeting moment.

I realize that the moments when he allows his mask to come down are rare, but they’re powerful. It makes me wonder just how much more Cillian is beneath what he shows everyone else now that I’m experiencing it firsthand.

Something tells me there’s more to his story than I ever thought.

I nod. “Okay. Cool. Um… what about you? What do you like to do outside of rugby?”

“Not much. Class. Workout. Sleep when I can.” He answered the question, yet it doesn’t feel like much of an answer at all.

Still, I press on. He’s not the only one who gets to ask the hard questions and expect an answer.

“There’s got to be more to you outside of rugby, Cillian.” I repeat his words back to him, and he rolls his eyes as he rakes his fingers through his hair.

At first, I think he might not answer at all, the beats of silence hanging between us stretching impossibly far, then he finally murmurs, “I watch stupid reality shows with my sister.”

Now this… is surprising.

“Cillian Cairney watches trashy TV ?” I gasp in mock surprise, unable to keep the teasing smile off my face. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that the tips of his cheeks turn slightly pink at his confession.

He shrugs. “My sister likes it. I do it because I know it makes her happy.”

So there it is. The big bad wolf does have a heart underneath all his rough exterior.