Page 7 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Cillian

F uck you,” Brooks Thorne spits as he steps forward, forcing me backward until I slam against the cold metal of the locker door. I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head in disbelief that this arsehole is truly this fucking dumb.

I’ve had about enough of his bloody bullshit, and he has no clue just how much I’ve been holding back. Biting my tongue and ignoring the amount of dumb shit that’s been spewing from his mouth since the moment I got here.

All because I can’t fuck this up and lose my spot here.

“There’s no amount of bullshit team building that’s going to make you a part of this team. How about you do yourself, and all of us, a favor and go back to whatever Podunk town you came from?” he says.

“I’m not going anywhere, Thorne, so how about you do yourself a favor and fuck off,” I say, my voice low and deadly, my temper on the verge of boiling over.

“Maybe if you spent half the time you do worrying about me, actually being a bloody captain and leading this team like you’re supposed to, then we wouldn’t have to be running till we puke. ”

This time he laughs, and the sound pisses me off even more. He can hate me all goddamn day, but it’s his job to lead this team, and from where I’m standing, he’s doing a piss-poor job of it and everybody’s suffering.

I don’t expect them to invite me to parties or include me in their plans, and I don’t even want any of that shit. I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to play rugby.

That’s it.

They seem to think I’m the problem, but the issue is them. They won’t even give me a damn chance to prove that I’m not here to fuck things up.

One word from the captain, and this grudge they’re holding would be gone, but instead he’s fanning the flame. He’s pouring petrol on it, and watching it burn brighter.

That’s his first mistake.

His second is thinking I have a never-ending amount of patience.

“You’re the fucking problem, asshole.”

“Yeah, well it seems to me that you’re the problem, mate. You’re making it goddamn impossible for us to find a rhythm on the pitch because the lot of you are too busy crying about the fact that I walked on to the team. Yeah? That’s the problem, right?”

“You wanna know what my problem is? I don’t like your fucking attitude. I don’t like that you think just because you’re good that you’re above everybody else, that you’re God’s gift to this team,” Brooks spits out, each syllable laced with a venomous disdain.

When the fuck have I ever said that shit? When have I ever acted like that?

I shake my head, a ragged scoff trailing from my lips.

“Yeah, that’s all in your head. You’re fucking delusional.

All I’m here to do is play rugby. I don’t think I’m better than anyone, and I never acted like I was.

All I know is that I am so goddamn tired of this shit already, so how about we solve it right here, right now?

Put an end to it.” I step forward until we’re pressed chest to chest, nose to nose, waiting for him to decide where this is going from here.

His brow furrows, his eyes darkening as the corner of his lip curls up in a sneer. “Oh? You threatening me, Cairney?”

“You feeling threatened? Cause you should be. Now, what the fuck are you going to do about it, Captain ?” The word is thrown his way as an insult just the way I intended it to sound.

He might be a lot of things, but he’s a right shit captain.

I could lead this team better than he could and half these wankers hate me.

All I know is that I’m done with this back-and-forth bullshit. He’s either going to do something about it or move the fuck on.

And finally, he grows a pair of bloody balls and flattens his palms on my chest, pushing me back roughly until I’m colliding with the locker behind me again. His chest heaves as he sucks in a breath. “You think you’re going to come in my fucking house, my goddamn school, and threaten me? Fuck no.”

I stay silent, arching a brow as if to say then what the fuck are you waiting for , and he might be the worst captain on the goddamn planet, but he can read that expression.

“Okay, chill the fuck out,” Wren says, trying to step between us. He places his thick, meaty hand on Brooks’s chest, but Brooks swats it away, pushing his mate back.

“Nah, if this fucker wants to talk shit, then let’s go. The only way to solve this shit is to get rid of him, and I can’t think of a better way to put him on a one-way flight back.”

That’s rich, coming from him. He hasn’t shut the fuck up since I got here. Only difference is that I’m calling him on it and forcing the move instead of sitting back and yapping.

“Sorry, Michaels. Your captain seems to be too much of a pussy to do anything other than run his mouth,” I say with a cocky grin, and a lift of my shoulder.

Brooks shoves me again, the sound of my back hitting the locker echoing around the empty locker room. I don’t have a chance to say anything else before his fist is flying, colliding with my cheek, sending my head jerking to the side.

For a second I’m completely still, the only movement that of my chest as I heave in a breath.

I think back to what the team therapist I was ordered to see after Mum died said to me: That the only person with control of my actions is me.

No one could ever force my hand if I never give them the power to.

Somehow, I hold on to that shit like I’m clinging to it for dear life.

Right now all I want to do is beat the living fuck out of the motherfucker standing in front of me, but I don’t touch him.

I won’t hit him back because I made a promise to my sister. That I wouldn’t fuck this up, and I’m not ever letting her down again.

Summoning willpower that I truly didn’t even know I possessed, I slowly turn to look at him, pain blooming around the split skin near my eye. “You done?”

He smirks. “Oh? You’re not going to hit me back? Who’s the pussy now, Cairney?”

“The difference between you and me is that I’ll have to fight like bloody hell to keep my position on this team, Thorne. My daddy can’t pay for my spot because he sits on the board of directors.”

His pale blue eyes darken, and I know I’ve hit a sore spot. Funny the shit you can find out on the internet. He might be talented, but it sure as fuck doesn’t hurt that his daddy bought a whole bloody wing for Prescott.

Money speaks louder, regardless of how talented you are.

“Go fuck yourself.” He surges forward, crowding me against the locker again, but this time Ezra steps in between us, roughly shoving Brooks backward until he stumbles into the other guys standing behind him.

Ezra stares down at him, his jaw set in a hard line, eyes almost black. “Enough, Brooks. What do you think is going to happen when Coach hears about this, huh? We’re going to get our asses handed to us.”

Brooks shakes his head as he peers around the locker room at the rest of the team, who’re watching the exchange between us. “Coach’s not going to find out about this because no one is going to say a goddamn word. That right? This shit stays between us. No one talks, no one says shit. Got it?”

A few of the guys nod, while the others murmur in agreement.

As shitty of a captain as I’ve seen him be, he has influence with these guys because they trust him. In their eyes, they’ve been a solid team, that is, until I arrived and fucked it right up.

Part of me doesn’t blame him for hating me. But the other part wishes he’d grow the fuck up and act like a captain should. Which means you do whatever it takes for your team. You sacrifice and show up no matter what the cost is. A good captain recognizes a valuable player when he sees one.

Not be threatened by it. A real captain wants what’s best for your team, even if someone threatens your ego.

I’d know because I used to be one until my entire life went to shit.

And now I’m stuck here in this fucking hell.

“Would you hold still for the love of Christ?” Aisling mutters, softly placing the plastic bag of frozen peas over my eye. “Bloody hell, you look like shit, Kill.”

Her eyes, the color of pale jade, are wide with concern as she peeks beneath the bag and winces.

“Thanks, Ais, appreciate that,” I retort as I sink back into the couch cushions and close my eyes. “You don’t need to take care of me, I’m good.”

My eye is not nearly as bad as it looks and nothing in the grand scheme of injuries I’ve gotten over the years.

I play one of the most brutal sports in the world, so getting hurt is second nature, and Ais has been there for most of them.

But I think she just wants to fuss over me for a change because I’m generally the one taking care of her.

She was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes last year, and it’s been something she’s struggled with since.

It’s a little better now that she’s got an insulin pump, but she still has to watch it constantly.

Checking her sugar level, making sure she’s eating properly.

It’s part of the reason I’m so protective of her.

“Shut up. I’m just saying it looks painful.”

I nod. The movement makes the pea bag slide down, so I reach up to put it back, but she slaps my hand away, beating me to it, holding it firmly against my bruised skin. “Plus, someone has to worry about you, you know. You can’t be the only one that worries, Cillian.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my job as your big brother to worry about you,” I murmur. And trust me, all I do is worry about her.

Now that… that Mum’s gone, it’s just us.

And I feel so goddamn much guilt for uprooting her entire life and dragging her across the world all because I couldn’t get my shit together. Because I was too broken to care about anything other than numbing the pain that was eating me alive.

The pain that still remains. A dull, constant throb in the back of my chest, reminding me that it’ll never fully go away. I’ll live with it for eternity. The guilt. The grief. The heartache. All of it.