Page 18 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Cillian

I would almost call today’s practice productive… Almost.

It’s not as if my teammates have rolled out a welcome mat and are throwing a party down at the pub, but the air doesn’t feel quite as thick with tension as it normally does.

I don’t know if that had anything to do with Rory, but it does seem like after the game night at her place things are a little less heavy with my teammates.

They’re working with me as a team instead of shutting me out every chance they get.

I’ve said I wasn’t going to worry about making friends or anything other than rugby in America since my stay here is temporary.

Complete tunnel vision. That was always the plan.

Not let anyone get too close, not after all the shit I’ve been through.

After my trust had been broken by the people I had back home.

The ones who dropped me like it was nothing when I was going through the hardest, most brutal time of my life.

But lately… I feel like that might be starting to change. St. James… has a way of burrowing beneath your skin.

I guess if I had to call anyone a friend, it might be her.

“Come in!” her soft voice calls from inside. I turn the knob and push the front door open, stepping into her apartment. “In the living room!”

When I walk into her living room, the first thing I notice is the giant whiteboard on wheels that’s positioned in front of the TV mounted on her wall.

“You’re late.”

My gaze whips to Rory, who is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair piled high on her head.

She’s wearing a thick, oversized navy-blue jumper and a pair of tiny white shorts that have my eyes dropping to her exposed creamy thighs.

She’s all of five two, but her legs seem to go on for days.

Staring at them makes me feel like I’m staring at something indecent even though it’s just fucking legs .

Sexy, off-limits-as-fuck legs, arsehole. I feel like a bloke from the Renaissance peeping at bloody ankles.

I’m honestly not sure when I started to notice she was hot, but every single time I think of Rory in a way that isn’t my coach’s daughter, I force myself to shut it the fuck down.

Admittedly, lately, it’s more often than it should be, and that worries the fuck out of me.

Clearing my throat, I rub the back of my neck as I flop down beside her on the couch. “Yeah, sorry, my sister had me hang some photos on the wall at the flat. Said we needed to make it more ‘homely’ or some shit and I don’t exactly trust her with a power tool.”

“Why, because she’s a woman?” Her brow lifts.

“Christ, no. Because she’s got a track record for putting holes in anything that she touches, so I wasn’t going to let her anywhere near a seven-hundred-watt drill and old Sheetrock.”

Rory giggles, covering her mouth. “Okay, that’s fair. Coincidentally, I also suffer from the same problem. I usually just call one of the guys over to do it for me.”

“Hell, the last time she used a hammer, my mum…” I didn’t even think before saying that to Rory, and when my voice falters, her brow furrows in confusion.

“Cillian?” she murmurs, her eyes narrowed with concern. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow, trying to breathe, but my throat feels so fucking tight I might suffocate. “Uh… My mum… she was killed in an automobile accident. And it’s… I—”

Rory’s face softens, her expression a mixture of sadness, sympathy… pity.

I hate the pity most of all. When people find out about Mum, it’s like the puzzle pieces align, and they finally realize why I’m as fucked-up as I am, and I fucking hate it.

I hate that me being fucked-up is aligned with the best person I ever knew.

I hate that it still hurts as badly as it did the moment it happened.

“Sorry, I… I can’t talk about it,” I say, my voice rough as I drag my palm roughly over my mouth and pull my gaze away from her. To anywhere but the pools of pity shining back at me in her eyes.

Suddenly, I feel her soft, warm fingers curl around my forearm. She squeezes gently, and the touch helps to bring me out of my head and makes it a little easier to breathe. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. What about your sister? What’s she like?”

When my eyes meet hers, a small smile tugs at her lips.

I guess she’s trying to distract me from the panic attack I almost just had, but at any rate, I’m grateful because I needed the distraction more than she probably even realizes.

Anything to make my chest feel less constricted and my throat to not feel as if it’s closing and cutting off my ability to breathe.

“Aisling’s a freshman, two years younger, and she’s… fucking brilliant . The smartest person I’ve ever met. Loads smarter than I’ll ever be, without a doubt.” A quiet, wistful laugh rumbles from my chest, and I see Rory smiling. “She’s sensitive. Kind. I think she has all the best parts of Mum.”

“I can tell how much you love her,” she says, her rich brown eyes like melted chocolate, soft and full of warmth. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I understand, but if you ever do want to talk about it, Cillian, I’m here.”

A brief moment of silence passes between us until I finally lift my chin. This is a conversation I was wholly unprepared for when I came here tonight, and I’m not sure if I ever will be with Rory. Or anyone else.

“Thank you. For…” I trail off, and Rory nods, giving me an understanding smile. Jerking my head toward the giant whiteboard taking up most of her living room, I change the subject to something… anything other than this. “What’s up with the board?”

Rory’s eyes light up, and she bounces up from the couch and grabs a black marker from the top of her TV stand. “Okay, welllll, yesterday when we were talking about how stupidly charming you are… it gave me a brilliant idea.”

I eye her warily. After the whole bloody Twister “idea,” I’m not feeling very confident in any of her brilliant ideas right now. I never want to get that close to another man’s balls ever again outside of a rugby pitch.

Christ, I don’t even want to do it on the pitch, but it comes with the territory.

“Don’t give me that look, Cillian Cairney.” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest, lifting a brow, and giving me a look. “You’re supposed to be trusting me, remember?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I snort.

“True,” she says with a sigh. She places the marker cap between her teeth and pulls it off before turning to face the board. She writes OPERATION FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT across it in big, block letters, then turns back to me wearing a cheeky smile.

“Okay so… it’s your turn for a lesson. I was thinking about the best ways to really get you in with the guys, and then it dawned on me.

What better way to get them to trust you than to learn everything you can about them?

You’ll get the inside scoop, and I think that we can use this to our advantage.

You can use what you learn to connect with them, to bond.

So, we’re going to devise a plan and start at the top.

Pluck them off, one by one. Take them down like enemy spies. ”

I’m not at all following, and she must read the expression on my face because she rolls her eyes. Then she turns back to the board and starts writing.

This gives me a full view of her arse in those tiny white, virtually see-through nightie shorts. I realize that I should be looking anywhere but there, but also I can’t help it.

It’s a bloody fantastic arse.

Lush and perfectly round, the soft swell of her cheeks practically hanging out from the bottom of the shorts.

I’m so engrossed with the view that I don’t even realize she’s turned to face me, catching me blatantly staring at her arse. “Cillian Cairney!”

Fuck.

“Were you just… checking out my ass?” Her palm flies to her hip as she cocks her head, glaring at me.

“Of course not.” I smirk.

I can see the pink tinting her cheeks even from my spot on the couch, and my smirk widens into a shit-eating grin.

“Good. Because we’ve got work to do. Okay, Pay attention.

Focus, Kill. This is important,” she says before whipping toward the board and pointing animatedly at the name she’s written at the top.

“We’re starting with the easy one. Fitz.

He’s Switzerland. The white flag you’ll need.

And he’s our first target. You’ve already seen him starting to melt, like a scoop of soft serve. ”

I want to interrupt and ask her if she’s lost her mind, but she’s got a look of sheer determination on her face, so I keep it to myself.

“This is probably cheating a little, but I’m already going to talk to Fitz and have him help with the other guys.

Besides the point. The point is that even though Fitz isn’t captain, the guys still hold him in high regard.

He’s the guy they go to for advice, or for help with something.

He’s steadfast and loyal. He’s the kind of guy we need on your team. Figuratively speaking of course.”

I nod. “Of course.”

I watch Rory turn back to the board and write WREN next to FITZ , then draw an arrow from his name to Wren.

“Next up: Wren. The prop equivalent of a big, squishy, fluffy teddy bear. Intimidating at first glance, but then you find out that he brings his mamas flowers every Sunday and is deathly afraid of caterpillars and centipedes. He’s a sensitive little button.

But he is fiercely loyal to the team. To my dad.

He might be just a little harder to win over, but if you can get Fitz then I guarantee that you can get Wren.

They’re two peas in a pod. Good thing you have a secret weapon. Me.”

She wasn’t kidding about this being an actual lesson. I feel like I’ve learned more about the team in the past fifteen minutes than I have in the entire month that I’ve been here.

I learn that Liam is a reader who loves poetry and science fiction books.

A weird combination if you ask me, but apparently he could talk for days about his favorite books featuring aliens and winged creatures.

I would’ve never guessed that in a million years had Rory not told me.

Another thing I wouldn’t have known is that as much of an arsehole Brooks is he volunteers at the animal shelter every other Sunday since bringing home a three-legged cat when he got pissed after a night at the bar.

Go fucking figure. I thought the bloke was a psychopath, but I guess that’s just what I see on the surface.

I’m actually pretty fucking impressed.

I knew Rory was close with these guys, but she’s taken the time to actually get to know them beyond just rugby. It makes more sense knowing her dynamic with the team than when I saw her interacting with them at the start. They’re not just players to her, they’re her friends .

“So, your first step is going to be to extend an olive branch to Wren. Go out of your way to start a conversation with him, even if it’s about something stupid.

He’s your number one right now. Let’s call it your…

homework . Maybe try and talk to him about that trashy TV show you and your sister watch.

I’m like ninety percent positive he watches it too.

See… there is something outside of balls that you two have in common. ”

A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “No way you’re giving me homework when I’m the teacher, St. James. If I’m getting homework, then so are you.”

“Yeah? And what’s mine going to be?” Her brow arches as she stares at me with defiance flaring in her irises.

Hmm.

“Talk to one guy this week. At class or at the gym. Hell, even the food court if that’s where you want. But one guy who’s not on the team. And don’t mention rugby. Actually, don’t mention sports at all. Got it?”

I watch as a small, adorable wrinkle forms on the bridge of her nose. An exhale rushes past her lips. “Are you sure I’m ready for that? We’ve only had two les—”

“Won’t know until you try,” I say, cutting off the long-winded ramble I know she’s about to go on. The only way Rory is going to get the confidence she needs to date, or flirt, or fuck, or whatever it is she’s in search of is to get out of her head and allow herself to be in the moment.

Can’t do that if she’s so afraid to fuck it up that she doesn’t give herself the opportunity to try.

Sometimes the only thing holding you back is yourself.