Page 26 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Rory

I t was just a kiss.

A heat-of-the-moment kiss.

Just another lesson.

Absentmindedly, I trace my fingers along my lips, recalling the way Cillian’s tongue followed the same route, and desire begins to pool in my lower stomach.

It’s been days since the movie night, and I’m still thinking about it.

Cillian’s all I can think about.

And I’ve discovered two things since that night.

Number one, and probably most important, is that kissing Cillian made me realize that I’m not sure if I even want to… date anyone or even meet anyone anymore.

Second is that I am, without a doubt, into him, and not just as friends.

Tonight will be the first time we’ve really seen each other outside of the pitch since that kiss happened, and honestly, I’m nervous.

But mostly I’m thinking about how badly I want to do it again .

And again.… And again.

My God, kissing Cillian was an out-of-body experience. The way he kissed, slow and explorative, is exactly the way I imagine he… fucks.

I know we probably shouldn’t do it again. Because of the team, and my dad, and that it will undoubtedly complicate things, but I also think I don’t really care.

Because I loved the way I felt when his hands glided down the curve of my waist and the sounds he made deep in the back of his throat when my teeth raked along his bottom lip.

I want more.

More than just the hottest kiss of my life.

I want him .

The familiar rumble of his bike as he pulls into my complex parking lot has me jumping up from the couch and sprinting to the entryway.

I grab my jacket off the hook and slip my arms into it.

It’s a soft black leather and makes me feel like a total bad bitch.

I saw an ad for it online and thought it would be perfect the next time I rode on the back of Cillian’s bike.

When I swing my front door open, he’s standing on the doorstep, fist lifted mid-knock, and the sight of him makes me nearly breathless.

He looks stupidly hot in a navy long-sleeved henley and dark-wash jeans, the fabric molded to all the sharp planes of his muscled thighs.

The dark strands of his hair are still damp from a shower, the ends curling at his nape.

Jesus.

Is he always this attractive, or is it just because now I know how talented his mouth is?

“Hi,” I murmur, a shy smile flitting to my lips.

His dark hazel eyes drop to my outfit and his brow lifts as the corner of his lips tugs up in a slight smirk. “That new?”

“It is. What do you think?” I do a little spin, giving him a full view. I’m wearing a new pair of jeans that are so tight they’re practically a second skin, with a deep burgundy sweater and a pair of short combat boots.

Not at all something I’m used to wearing, but I’m pushing myself to step out of my comfort zone. Try new things and see what I like.

And this outfit makes me feel hot .

“You look good,” he says as I shut the front door and lock it before turning back to him. “Ready for your next lesson?”

Is he asking if I want to kiss him again, because the answer to that is yes.

“I thought since that dickhead that gave you his number the other day ghosted you, we’d go to the bar and keep practicing on putting yourself out there, even if it doesn’t work out,” he adds with a serious expression.

What?

So… he’s just going to not acknowledge that… we kissed?

Oh my God.

Have I really spent the last few days obsessing over this stupid kiss when he’s not even interested in it happening again?

My stomach plummets and a sharp pang of disappointment shoots down my spine.

Embarrassment washes over me in a torrential wave.

Of course I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I thought after the last couple of weeks and finally that kiss, that he was interested in me.

But why would he when I’m me ? It’s the same torturous history repeating itself, and I was foolish to think Cillian would ever want me the way I want him.

The girl who’s only ever had a handful of sloppy kisses who has absolutely no clue what she’s doing.

Why would he want that when he could have any of his fan club with a single effortless smile? I’ve already seen that much.

“Uh… sure, yeah. Sounds great,” I respond, pasting on a bright unaffected smile when I feel anything but. We make it to his bike, and I take the helmet from him, sliding it over my head without his help.

Fine. If that’s the way he feels then okay. Perfect.

I tamp down the sinking feeling and the hurt. He’s not even going to acknowledge what happened between us. He still wants me to go and find another guy.

If he wants me to go find someone else, then so be it.

My hurt has morphed into something much bigger as we walk into the packed bar on the outskirts of town and slide into an empty booth.

The air between Cillian and me is unbearably tense, and I hate that it’s the result of a kiss I enjoyed more than I should have. A deep exhale rushes past my lips as I sit back in the booth.

I spent the entire ride here with the hurt and disappointment colliding together in my head and leaving me frustrated but determined to show Cillian just how capable I am.

I’m not at all interested in finding another guy. Not when the one I want is sitting right across from me in this stupid, run-down bar.

But I’m going to do exactly as he wants: find someone else.

Even if it’s just to show him that I can and that I’m not hurt by his rejection. Even if it makes my stomach and heart ache just the same. I’m going to put on a fake, saccharine smile and pretend that I’m not affected at all.

Cillian glances around the bar, his eyes raking over the patrons as he settles back into the booth and places his large, ink-stained hands on the top of the table.

Completely unaffected.

“What about him?” He jerks his head toward a guy leaning against the bar watching the hockey game on the big screen. He’s around six feet tall, lanky, with black curly hair and really, really tan. The guy must live outside or in a tanning bed. Jeez.

He reminds me of one of the guys off Jersey Shore .

While this guy is cute, sure, there’s no doubt that Cillian is the hottest guy here. Which makes me more annoyed with him.

Part of me wants to throttle him as much as I still want to kiss him.

And now I’m even more annoyed.

“Yeah… I mean, are you sure about him?”

His dark brow arches. “What’s wrong with him?”

I narrow my gaze at him. “Nothing’s wrong with him. I’m just making sure that he’s the right one.”

Besides the fact that he’s the color of an orange from the amount of fake tan he’s wearing.

Whatever.

“The only way to find out is if you”—he gestures to the guy once more, pointing a long, thick finger in his direction—“go talk to that lad.”

Sighing, I shrug, then cross my arms over my chest. “Fine.”

“Let’s see it then.”

With one last dramatic, drawn-out sigh, I slide out of the booth and walk over to the guy by the bar.

He doesn’t seem to notice as I walk up, his gaze zeroed in on the hockey game as he sips a dark amber beer from a glass.

“Uh, hi!” I say a little too loudly, causing him to jump. He looks over at me, dragging his eyes down my body in a slow, pervy way that’s not at all gentlemanly. Completely unattractive behavior.

Great, add that to the list of things I’m already checking off about him.

“Hi,” he finally says when he’s done eyeballing me. “What’s up?”

I smile before pulling my lip between my teeth. “Not much, just you know, enjoying a night out.” I laugh, but it sounds a bit manic, so I clear my throat and spit out the first thing I can think of. “Are you a big hockey fan?”

He nods, smirking. “Yeah, what gave it away?” When he gestures down at the hockey jersey he’s wearing, I laugh again and shrug.

“Mmm, yeah, that was it. I’m not much of a hockey fan, but I really love Jean Béliveau.

He was such an incredible player. Did you know he won the most Stanley Cups in history?

Like, wow, what a fucking flex, you know?

Not many other players can say that an—” Abruptly, I shut up when I realize that I’m once again rambling about sports and the guy standing next to me is looking at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “Sorry, I uh… really love sports.”

“Yeah, I can see that. That’s pretty rare. Most women don’t understand sports even if I give them a play by play,” he says, bringing the beer to his lips and taking a sip. The white foam coats the top of his lip, and he reaches up and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

Okay, gross. Ick.

All-around no. Absolutely the hell not.

I steal a glance at the table where Cillian’s sitting and see him watching us. He lifts a brow when he sees me staring, so I give him an eye roll and then turn my attention back to the hockey bro.

Who is becoming increasingly more unattractive by the second.

There is literally nothing, and I mean nothing, I hate more than a man who thinks that women don’t have a place in sports. That our brains are just too small to comprehend what’s happening when in actuality, they’re the ones with small brains. And little dicks. So jokes on them.

“You know who I love? Matthew Everett. He’s been such an advocate for women’s sports, and I really admire how much he believes in women. You know, we rule the world.” I laugh, batting my eyelashes at hockey bro. He blinks, the sarcasm going right over his head.

“That dude’s the worst player in the NHL. Straight trash. You’re telling me that’s your favorite player?” God, this guy is a prick. And he has broccoli in his teeth, and you know what? I’m not saying shit.

I scoff. “False. He had one of the best assists of the entire season last year, or did you miss that?”

“Yeah, when he wasn’t suspended. Sure, he had a good play. One. Of the entire season an—” He keeps rambling, but I’ve tuned him out because I can’t do this.

Not even to prove a point. Gross.

I turn and walk away mid-conversation, making a beeline back to Cillian, who’s staring at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s a no,” I say as I slide back into the booth, trying to erase the fact that I just spent the last fifteen minutes arguing with a guy who has the mental capacity of a toddler.

“Were you… arguing?”

My smile is dripping with sweetness as I say, “Of course not. We were just having a creative discussion. That guy is going to make some woman very happy one day but she’s not me. He’s not my type.” When I’m done, he stays silent, his jaw working.

“Guess that means you’ve got to keep trying then,” he finally says with a shrug, eyes flaring with something. Something that I wish I could read in the dim light of this bar. “The St. James I know isn’t a quitter.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead give him another bright, blinding smile.

“Yeah, you’re right. But I think this time I should be the one to pick the guy.

Because you’re oh and one tonight, Cairney.

I think I’m starting to get a pretty good read on the kinda guy I’m interested in.

One who can really… you know… handle me. ”

His gaze narrows, and I smirk, crossing my arms over my chest.

If Cillian wants to play the game, then I’m going for the try.

And if there’s one thing I hate more than being wrong, it’s losing .