Page 21 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Cillian

O f all the places I thought I’d be tonight, in a run-down cowboy bar watching my teammates ride a bloody mechanical bull , pissed off their heads, doesn’t even come close.

Yet another thing St. James coerced us all into, but unlike the game night at her apartment, I’m not dreading being here. Which I’m sure is as much of a surprise to everyone else as it was to me.

“Let’s get another round of beers… What about you, Cairney, you in?” Hollis, the team’s right wing, asks as he leans over the table, a goofy, drunk grin tipping his lips. “This rounds on me.”

I shake my head, lifting my water bottle. “Nah, mate, don’t drink, but thanks.”

Out of the corner of my eye I can see St. James smiling on the barstool beside me, no doubt pleased with herself that he thought enough to ask me.

Most of the team is here tonight.

Wren, Fitz, Liam, and even Ezra and Brooks came.

The latter made me a bit uneasy about showing up, especially knowing there would be alcohol involved, but Rory promised she’d keep everything under control and reminded me that I’m supposed to be bonding with the team.

It’s another step in the right direction that they were all right with me coming out tonight.

That they’re including me in activities outside of what the coaching staff implements.

I never thought I’d be at a place with the team where I’m just thankful for the invitation, but I am.

Building a relationship with these guys is the key to keeping my spot on the team, and it makes it a helluva lot easier when we’re not at each other’s throats at every turn.

Wren’s the first one to respond. “Yeah, but none of that IPA bullshit. I swear that shit tastes like what I bet your jockstrap smells like.”

“Fuck off,” Hollis retorts. “They’re better than that girly sex on the beach shit you drink.”

“How about we just do shots?” St. James interrupts with her brow arched. “Everyone likes tequila.”

When she slides off the barstool to follow Hollis and Wren to the bar, some of my teammates head toward the dance floor.

Liam, Ezra, and Brooks walk over to a group of girls clad in short denim shorts and cowgirl boots in the back corner of the room.

I stay behind, sipping my water as I take in the bar.

One thing’s for absolutely bloody certain, I’ve never been to a bar like this back in London.

I’ve been to countless pubs and clubs, but this is something different entirely.

The entire room is rustic, with various types of wood scattered around the room.

Dark panels of unfinished planks line the walls, mismatched tables with peeling paint are paired with rusty barstools, and on a large dance floor in the middle of the room people line dance to old country songs.

I didn’t even know what bloody line dancing was until St. James explained it to me.

This is not exactly my scene, especially the new version of myself I’m trying to maintain, but it’s been entertaining seeing the guys interact outside of the pitch.

Maybe even slightly… fun.

Fitz appears on my left and flops down onto the empty barstool, bringing his beer to his lips and taking a long pull. “Now this is the kind of team bonding I can get behind.”

“Yeah, same. I’m okay with never getting that close to your balls again,” I retort with a laugh. “Any of your balls actually.”

“Cheers to that.”

He taps the beer bottle against my water and we both take a sip, sitting in comfortable silence before he says, “The team’s coming around, you know?

It feels like we’re making progress. I even heard Brooks commenting on the try you made the other day.

Said it was one of the most clean, quick tackles that he’s seen in a long time. He probably won’t admit it, but still.”

Damn. Now that’s a fucking surprise.

Sure, shit isn’t as tense as it was when I first got here, but I’ve had no expectation that the two of us would end up being friends, or anything close to that. I’ll take teammates who can work together though. That’s more than enough for me.

“I’m trying, mate. And I’m not going to give up. Not going to let you all down,” I respond, my voice low.

I feel the weight of his palm on my shoulder as he claps it. “I know, man. It shows. I see it. The guys see it. Coach sees it. We’ll make it happen. As a team, we’re stronger together.”

Before I can even respond, the rest of the guys come barreling back toward the table, St. James on their heels.

Wren shrugs out of his Prescott hoodie, tossing it onto the barstool. “I’m going to ride that fucking bull.” Fitz shakes his head, unable to get a word in before Wren adds, “Rory bet me a hundred bucks I couldn’t last eight seconds, and I told her I want two dozen cookies if I last thirty .”

These fucking cookies must have magical goddamn powers as much as I hear them talked about.

I turn my head and let my gaze roam over Rory.

Her cheeks are tinted pink from the alcohol, her long, dark silky hair is down, the ends curling near her waist. She’s wearing a plain white T-shirt and a pair of tight jeans that are molded to her curves, along with a pair of brown cowboy boots that she’s tucked the bottom into.

I allow myself only a few seconds of drinking her in.

She’s a luxury I can’t afford. Especially after the other night in her apartment and that goddamn contraption of a dress that I had to cut off her.

Every inch of her smooth, supple curves is branded into my memory like a hot fucking iron.

I haven’t stopped replaying that night in my head over and over. Even though I shouldn’t be picturing her wearing what was left of those tattered scraps of leather, I’ve been unable to focus on anything else.

And now it’s like since that’s happened, I’m hyperaware of everything about her.

Noticing all the things I never allowed myself to before that night.

The freckle on her collarbone that I want to press my lips to, or the swell of her breast that needs to be traced with my tongue.

Those plump, pink lips, a pale and rosy color I imagine would be the same shade as her pretty little nipples.

“Cillian?”

My fingers tighten around the plastic bottle in my hand until it crumples under the pressure when her velvet voice breaks through my thoughts, catching me off guard.

She’s perched on top of the old rusty barstool on my other side, a tipsy tilt to her lips. “I’m having so much fun. Come dance with me, pleeeease.” When my brow curves upward, and I stay rooted in my seat, she groans. “C’mon. You can’t just… sit here all night by yourself.”

Before I can tell her that I absolutely am not going to bloody dance, that I don’t dance, she’s curving her small hand around mine, her soft skin pressed along my rough, calloused palm as she slides off the barstool and tugs me along with her.

The bar is packed, the music loud and thrumming steadily from the speakers while she drags me through the bar, pushing her way past the crowd toward the dance floor.

The line dancing music from earlier is gone, replaced with something slower, the base heavy as the raspy singer croons something about wanting his girl in the worst way.

Tell me about it, mate.

All the lights have been dimmed, leaving us painted in the glow of neon light.

“God, Cillian, I love this song. It’s so good,” she murmurs, her hips swaying to the sultry beat as her eyes flutter shut and her arms lift above her head. I watch her for longer than I should, but I can’t take my eyes off her. No matter how much I know that I should .

I’m fucking enraptured seeing her this way. Carefree and uninhibited.

Her teeth capture that plush bottom lip, pulling it into her mouth, and somehow she ends up in front of me, her back molded to my front.

Despite every bit of better judgment I possess, my hand finds the shallow dip of her waist, palm curving around it, holding her there, pulling her even tighter against me.

With every subtle shift of her hips, her ass moves against me and I can feel my dick starting to harden in my pants.

My fingers tighten on the soft flesh of her hips.

Rory St. James has me under some type of spell and she hasn’t a fucking clue. I don’t think I did either until recently.

My skin feels hot, my blood simmering into a slow, rolling boil in my veins at the feel of her against me. At the sweet smell of her bodywash. It makes me wonder if her skin would taste as sweet, and something tells me that it would be even better.

Thank fuck the song ends a beat later because it’s the excuse I needed to step back, putting space between us before we both do something we can’t come back from.

My gaze flits around the semidarkened room, making sure no one was watching us dancing. If someone on the team saw us like that… Shit, I don’t know what would happen. There’s got to be an unspoken rule about staying away from your coach’s daughter, especially when you’re in the position I’m in.

Rory whips to face me, her warm eyes glassy from the alcohol. “That was fun.”

I don’t entirely trust myself to speak, so I just nod, rolling my lips together as I force down a swallow.

Not that she’s in the least bit fazed at my inability to speak; she’s used to my selective conversation, so we walk side by side back to the table in silence. As I’m taking my seat, I watch her slip back onto the barstool, eyes pinned to the inflatable area where the mechanical bull is set up.

Cupping her hands around her mouth she yells, “Let’s go, Wrennnnnyyyy!”

She’s so bloody cute I want to kiss the fuck out of her.

And that thought is just as terrifying as losing my spot on the team is.

“Oh! Guess what? I forgot to tell you!” Her voice lifts a pitch in excitement.

“What?”

Lifting her hand between us, she turns her palm my way, wiggling her fingers. “Look.”

There’s a bit of black smudged ink scrawled messily across her palm.

“Did you get into a row with a permanent marker?”

Her head shakes as a laugh tumbles free from her lips. “Nope. This is a number. I got a number from a guy , Cillian!”

The weight of her words hits me unexpectedly, stirring up something foreign inside me.

“Bloody hell, way to go, St. James.” My response is short, so I tack on a small smile. “I knew that you could.” I’m not surprised it’s happened. This is exactly what we’ve been working toward.

Only I never gave much thought about what would happen outside the lessons. About what would happen once she no longer needed me. It means we won’t hang out anymore, eat dinner together, spend time in her apartment. Shit, I’m realizing how much I’d hate that.

If anything in the last several weeks, Rory’s become my only friend at Prescott. The only person I really spend time with outside of Aisling.

And I don’t want that to end.

I don’t want to no longer be needed by Rory because then that means I lose this.

Lose… her.

Holy fuck.

My head is a jumbled mess of shit, and the realization hits me with the same weight a tackle on the pitch would, nearly stealing my breath.

I think I like Rory St. James.

“Aren’t you proud of me?” She bounces in her seat. “He even asked me if I wanted to hang out. Like… together .”

The base of my throat feels tight as I nod, carving out a smile. “Of course I’m proud of you. You’re ready to date then.”

“Um, no, I don’t think so. Not yet. I mean after he asked that, I just kind of squeaked and ran away because I was freaking out. Maybe a trial run first.”

“All right then, let’s go on a fake date.

Put everything you’ve learned to the test.” I shrug, hiding the fact that I hate her being successful in getting another bloke’s number.

But this is what she’s wanted all along.

This is what she’s worked for. I should be happier for her.

“Then you’ll know if you’re ready. This is the final exam, St. James. ”