Page 43 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Cillian

T here’s a heavy feeling in my gut as I walk through the double doors of the athletic building toward Coach St. James’s office. I can’t tell if it’s because the last forty-eight hours of my life have been an absolute shit show or if it’s a sense of foreboding.

Not sure why else Coach would call me to his office unless something was wrong.

It’s not like we’ve got much to talk about outside of the obvious issues we’ve already discussed, but things have felt better in the past few weeks.

Yeah, I mean, we’re not all going to sit around and braid each other’s hair and make friendship bracelets, but things have definitely improved since the first day I got here.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself as I walk to his office.

I find his door open when I finally get to the end of the hallway, and Coach lifts his gaze from the paper on the desk in front of him, waving me in without a word.

When I walk inside, I see Coach Matthews seated in one of the leather chairs to the side of the room, and fuck, that only makes me more suspicious.

He hasn’t been in any meeting I’ve had yet with Coach St. James.

“Please shut the door and have a seat, Cillian,” Coach says, and I nod, closing the heavy wooden door behind me, then lowering myself into the chair across from his desk.

I can’t read his expression, but I notice Matthews shifting uncomfortably from one side of his chair to the other, and the vibe I’m getting says that something’s definitely fucking wrong.

The first thing that comes to my head is Rory. How could it not? I’ve spent the last month with her. Knowing the risks and that if we were caught there would be consequences.

Maybe we weren’t careful enough or someone saw us and that’s what this is about.

And maybe I’m going to have to face those consequences today.

But I highly doubt he’d have Matthews in here for an audience over a conversation that has something to do with his daughter.

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice.” Coach sighs, his gaze darting to Matthews.

Something unreadable passes between them before he forces his eyes back to me.

“Cillian, there’s been a very serious allegation made against you.

And while I know that there has been some tension since the beginning, and it very well could be a baseless allegation, but as a coach, I cannot ignore it without verifying the validity. ”

What the fuck?

My throat tightens. An allegation? “I’m sorry, I’m confused. What type of allegation?” I say, my voice low.

Coach St. James hesitates for a moment before sitting back in his office chair and crossing his arms over his broad chest, his jaw steeling.

I never really noticed how much he and Rory look alike until now, and it makes my stomach sink with the weight of lead.

“There was an anonymous tip submitted through the student hotline that stated you’ve been witnessed doing drugs, and that you may be dealing those to other students.

And due to the… your past history at your university in London and the fact that your position here on the team is currently probationary, I have no choice but to take these claims seriously. ”

A low chuckle slips past my lips as I shake my head.

“Drug test me then, yeah?” I retort sharply. My fists are balled so tightly by my sides that I can practically hear my knuckles cracking as I try to keep my shit together. “Solves the problem quick. I’m not on drugs, and I’m not bloody dealing shit to anyone. I’ll take the test right now.”

“I’m sorry, Cillian. I hope that there’s nothing to this allegation, and I wish that I could simply take your word for it,” he says, and I’ll give it to him, he does truthfully look like he’s sorry.

But I’m fucking pissed and unwilling to see an ounce of reason right now.

Not only because he’s accusing me of doing drugs when I’ve been busting my arse to earn my spot on the team, but also because why would anyone submit an allegation that’s a blatant lie?

Fuck.

“If what you’re saying is the truth, then we can administer the drug test and immediately lay the allegations to rest. And trust me, Cillian, there is nothing that I or Coach Matthews want more.

We’ve seen the strides you and the rest of the team have made in the last few weeks, and we’re both immensely proud that you’ve come together to make that happen. I truly hope this isn’t the case.”

I nod, tightening my grip on the chair.

I’m not worried about failing a piss test. I know I haven’t done shit, and the test will prove it, but fuck, it just feels like a slap in the face that as far as I’ve come, this is where I’m back at.

In this very fucking chair that I sat in when I got to America, determined to turn it all around.

“I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ll gladly take the test. No questions.”

Coach St. James reaches for the piece of paper on this desk, turning it to face me.

“Okay. Coach Matthews will administer the test with me as a witness, and we should have the results immediately. I’ll need you to sign a release form stating that you understand Prescott’s drug policy and the substances that are prohibited.

Also, giving your consent to perform the test and share the results with us. ”

I take the paper from him, my eyes barely scanning what’s on it as I pick the pen up that he’s slid across the desk and messily scrawl my signature at the bottom of the page.

I’ve got nothing to hide. I hope like fuck when I do this, then he’ll realize that I’m not the problem on this team. As much as I hated being here in the beginning, since meeting Rory, I’ve given this shit everything I’ve got.

It’s not just Ais I have to worry about disappointing now. It’s Rory too.

And I’m not going to let either one of them down.

He nods when I set it back down on the desk. “Let’s get this over with so we can get back to doing what we’re all here to do. Play some rugby.”

Both he and Matthews follow me into the bathroom at the end of the hallway, where they watch me piss in a cup, then administer the test.

I lean back against the stall, arms crossed over my chest while we wait. No one bothers with small talk to fill the painfully tense silence that seems to drag on slower than I ever thought possible.

There’s nothing to say. He’s sorry he’s having to do this, and I’m… feeling a lot of shit.

Most of that I don’t need to say out loud to him.

When the timer on Matthews’s phone goes off, he picks the test up and peers down at it, comparing it to the legend.

Wordlessly, he passes it to Coach St. James, who just fucking stares for so long that I’m beginning to worry.

Finally, he lifts his gaze to mine.

“It’s positive for amphetamines, Cillian.”