Page 2 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Rory

T here is no one more petty and dramatic than a group of college guys.

Specifically, rugby players.

Trust me, I know, since I spend the majority of my time with them.

You’d think that it would be girls who like the tea, but there is nothing these guys love more than being dead center in the middle of anything and everything.

Generally, I ignore anything that has to do with drama, but this situation can’t be ignored.

And by situation, I mean Cillian Cairney .

Prescott University’s latest headline straight off the plane from London. Six foot four, 230 pounds of tattooed, British bad boy for everyone on campus to lose their minds over.

Which they absolutely are. Everyone’s obsessed with our new transfer.

Half the campus is falling over their feet to catch a glimpse of the guy who’s been dubbed “Kill” on the rugby pitch, and the other half are too busy trying to figure out why he’s been exiled here to begin with.

It’s not a secret that he got expelled and a permanent red card from his team in London, and since no one truly knows why … everyone’s desperate to find out.

Of course, the only person who knows the real reason is my dad, and that’s only because he’s Prescott’s head rugby coach.

Even being the coach’s daughter didn’t give me access to that piece of information. All I know is that Cillian’s apparently run out of chances, and a friend of my dad’s called in a favor, which is how he ended up here, walking on to the team midseason.

During what could be our most important season yet.

Yesterday, I spotted him on the touchlines with Coach Matthews observing practice, but aside from the couple of stolen glances I allowed myself, I did my best to pretend he wasn’t there at all.

I have no intention of feeding into the frenzy.

Cillian Cairney is a distraction.

One that I nor the team can afford.

The guys are having a hard time focusing with his arrival, and if we want any shot at the championship this year, they’ve got to bust their asses for it.

And now, that includes him .

I fidget in my chair, glancing down at my phone for the tenth time since we walked into the film room for this team meeting, chewing my lip. Better my lip than my nails since I’m attempting to grow them out long enough to keep them painted.

“Well, I heard that he got caught with like half a pound of cocaine. The guy’s basically a low-level drug dealer,” Ezra mutters from across the conference table. He’s leaned back in his chair, tossing a ball up in the air as he speaks, and I roll my eyes.

Of all the ridiculous, made-up gossip I’ve heard about Cillian, this one might just take the cake.

“Brother, shut up.” Brooks, the team’s captain, scoffs from beside Ezra, reaching over and swiping the ball from midair.

He starts tossing it back and forth in his hands.

“First of all, like Coach would let someone on the team who deals fucking drugs , Ezra. Be so for real. Second, half a pound of cocaine is definitely not low level on the drug dealer chain.”

Ezra’s brow pinches as his lips purse, like he’s only now realizing just how ridiculous his accusation sounded when his best friend laid it out for him.

“Regardless of what he did to end up here, I personally think this is a bad idea, letting this guy who’s clearly a liability walk on to the team. I don’t know what Coach was thinking,” Fitz chimes in. He shrugs and glances at me. “No offense, Ror.”

Sebastian Fitzgerald, better known as “Fitz,” is my best friend. We’ve been inseparable since we met at his first rugby practice our freshman year, and he knows me better than anyone. So he knows just how protective I am when it comes to my dad.

And this team.

Lifting a brow, I narrow my gaze, dragging it over each of them before landing back on Fitz.

“How about we not spread rumors? None of us knows the real reason why he’s here, and I trust my dad to make the best decision for the team.

Plus… say what you want, but he’s good .

Really fucking good. I’ve seen the tapes.

I don’t know him, but I do know that if he plays as well as he did in London, then he’ll be good for the team. ”

No one has anything to say after that, not that I expected them to, so I pick my phone up out of my lap and scroll through my socials while we wait.

There’s nothing else to say about any of it.

It’s already done. I know they don’t want him walking on to the team, they’ve been antsy since they found out, and they’re right to be distrustful when it’s clear he was expelled from his last school, but…

I trust my dad more than anyone. I know there’s a lot at stake for everyone involved, but they have to trust that my dad knows what he’s doing and is making the right choice.

He’s always been a damn good coach and put this team above everything, and I don’t think that’s changing.

A few minutes later, the door opens and my dad, Coach Matthews, and Cillian walk through. It’s the first time I’ve seen him up close, and I’m surprised how much more… intimidating he seems.

He’s taller than I thought, his thick shoulders even broader than they appeared from the try lines.

A burgundy T-shirt stretches across them.

Tattoos cover both his arms, the dark ink spilling down his skin onto the tops of his hands, painting a portrait that tells a story of some kind.

His sharp, chiseled jaw is set in a hard line as his dark, smoldering eyes scan the room of unhappy faces peering back at him.

“Afternoon,” my dad says, addressing his players.

He’s always been a pillar of strength, and it’s one of the many things I’ve always admired about him.

I know this can’t be easy for him, bringing in this guy and hoping like hell that it works out, but I do believe that he’s the best coach I’ve ever known, and he would never steer his guys wrong.

If this new guy is here, it’s because my dad believes that he’s worth it.

“I’m going to keep this short and sweet.

We’ve got a practice to get to and I know that you’ve all heard what’s going on.

Let’s just call this an official introduction.

This is Cillian Cairney. He’s transferring in from London and will be joining the team. ”

The entire time my dad’s speaking, Cillian’s quiet, his stormy gaze slowly moving around the room as my dad talks about the transition and how vital it is that they work as a team. Play as a team.

Honestly, Cillian looks completely uninterested in being here, and when we lock eyes from across the room, the scowl on his lips seems to deepen, a look of something I can’t read passing through his eyes.

I lift a brow, holding his stare until he finally looks away, placing his gaze back on my father.

All right then.

Dad tells the guys that Cillian will be jumping in immediately, participating in all team workouts and practices.

Even though they all nod, the air in the room is tense and so thick you could practically choke. Everyone’s aware the guys aren’t happy to have Cillian walking on to the team, and it’s clear that he’s not happy to be here either. Which seems like the perfect recipe for disaster.

Sighing, I sit back in the chair and cross my arms over my chest. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but it seems even more impossible after seeing him face-to-face. Seeing the guys’ reaction to him.

Dad finishes his speech, then asks Cillian to hang back before dismissing the rest of the guys to head to the pitch. They file out of the room in a sea of whispered murmurs and stares, not bothering to hide their disdain.

I’m on my way to follow them out when my dad grabs my forearm softly, stopping me. “Hey, Ror, could you stay back for a second?”

Turning back to face them, I plaster on a small smile, tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen from my ponytail behind my ear. “Yeah, of course.”

Cillian looks annoyed that he wasn’t dismissed with the rest of the team, shuffling from one sneaker-clad foot to the other before shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his dark gray joggers.

“Cillian, this is my daughter, Rory. She’s our equipment manager and my right-hand girl.

I just wanted to introduce you two since you’ll be seeing her around.

Going to head out to the pitch, I’ll see you shortly,” Dad says, jerking his head toward me with a smile before disappearing along with Coach Matthews through the door, leaving us alone.

In painfully awkward silence.

“Hi,” I say, offering him a small smile. “I’m Rory, unofficial assistant coach. Official equipment manager.”

Cillian’s brow raises, but he remains silent, so I stick my hand out and refuse to look away, not backing down. “Nice to meet you.”

He glances down at my hand before slowly dragging his eyes back up to meet mine.

For a second, I think he might actually leave my hand awkwardly hanging there, making this entire encounter that much more unbearable, but after the longest seconds in history, he slides my small hand in his, and shakes it.

It’s over before I can even register the feel of his hand in mine because he drops it like he’s been burned.

“Likewise.” The hoarse, growly, English accented syllables slip from his mouth, his tone flat and void of any emotion at all.

“If you need anything just let me know. I can help with whatever. I help a lot of our guys with nutrition plans, going over tape, anything really…” I trail off, tucking my hands into the pockets of my athletic shorts when he gives me a look that says he doesn’t give a shit.

“Noted. We done here? I need to be on the pitch,” he says sharply.

I shrug. “Yeah, sure. Have a good practice. Good luck.”

Without another glance, he walks out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.

Well… okay then.

Nice talking to you too.

I knew that the first practice as a team would be rough, but I may have underestimated just how rough it would actually be.

Still, I choose to remain hopeful even though a disaster is currently unfolding on the pitch.

It’s like watching a train wreck, in ultraslow motion, that you just can’t stop staring at no matter how bad it is.

The tension is palpable and there’s zero cohesion.

Zero teamwork. They’re practically ignoring him entirely.

It’s clear that the guys aren’t making an effort to pass the ball to Cillian, regardless of him being a major playmaker.

“There might as well be a line drawn in the grass between them,” Dad murmurs from beside me, clutching his clipboard so tightly his knuckles have turned white, a dramatic contrast to the shade of crimson his face currently is.

He’s the kind of man who doesn’t get angry or upset and yell.

No, he’s the quiet kind. A simmering pot that continues to bubble until it finally boils over, burning everyone within reach.

To me that’s even more intimidating than someone who’s constantly losing their shit.

I nod in agreement, my eyes trained on the obvious root of the problem. “They don’t trust him, Dad. And you know they’ll never be able to work together if they can’t trust each other.”

He sighs loudly as he pulls his hand down his face before turning to look at me. “I know. I just… The kid’s a damn good player and I know he has potential. I can see it in him.”

I look back to the pitch and watch as Cillian manages to get the ball, despite how badly his teammates are attempting to keep him from doing so.

It’s not exactly subtle. The way they’re passing the ball around and purposely making sure Cillian is on the outside of the play.

Hence Dad stressing about the situation even more than before he saw them together on the pitch.

I grew up on the touchlines of my dad’s pitch.

I fell in love with rugby when I was just a little girl and have spent all my life immersed in the sport by his side.

The perks of him being a single dad with a toddler.

I’ve seen hundreds of games, twice as many practices, and countless incredible players.

But the kind of talent that Cillian Cairney possesses isn’t something you see every day, and I know that’s exactly why my dad brought him here.

I can see it in his movements, fluid and graceful in a way that could only be natural talent. He’s powerful and quick as he runs down the pitch, acting on pure instinct.

That instinct is what has made some of the greatest rugby players of all time… great .

“What do you think? Do you think him being here is going to hurt the team?” Dad asks, breaking through my thoughts.

I keep my eyes trained on the guys, taking a second to mull over his question as if it’s not the same one I’ve been asking myself since I found out Cillian was joining the team.

And honestly? I still don’t know the answer.

He’s clearly a skilled player, but he’s unpredictable, and his temper is a liability, so I don’t know what’s going to happen from here.

“I think… that it’s only the first day and that’s a simple question with a really complicated answer,” I say, reaching out to place my hand on his arm.

“And I think that you’re the best rugby coach I’ve ever met.

Your intuition is always spot on. But one thing I do know for certain is that unless we can somehow get them to trust each other and communicate, then this is never going to work. ”

“Yeah, I know it’s the first day, Rory, but I didn’t expect this much tension. I’ve gotta figure out a way to get them working together. Fast.” He grimaces.

For a second, I’m quiet as I shuffle around the idea that’s popped into my head. It might be a complete waste of time, but then again, we have to try something, and there’s no time to waste. “Okay, I think I might have an idea. Do you trust me?”

He chuckles softly. “You know there’s no one I trust more than you, sweetheart.”

This could be fun. Or a disaster. Or maybe a fun… disaster?

But there’s only one way to find out.