Page 9 of Red Card (Prescott University #1)

Rory

A fter my talk with Fitz the other night on my couch, I knew I had to take his advice and try again.

He’s right. I can’t give up when I fail on the first…

or third try. I owe it to myself to keep trying.

To keep putting myself out there and meet someone new.

Flirt with a cute guy—even if it all goes south, because practice does make perfect, and clearly I’m in need of lots and lots of practice.

Starting with tonight’s party at the Delta house.

I’ve never been to a frat party, and I have no clue if it’s even going to be my scene, but everyone knows that Delta throws the best parties on campus and anyone who is anyone goes. Which makes this the perfect place to be tonight.

Inside is packed with people, the bass from the speakers thrumming and making it pulse steadily in the pit of my stomach, adding to my already shot nerves.

The air around me smells like sweat and stale beer, the result of cramming so many people in such a small space.

I scrunch my nose as I make my way through the crowd to look for a drink.

I desperately need some liquid courage if I’m going to do this.

I find exactly what I’m searching for on a long folding table in the back of the kitchen in a large drink dispenser.

The bloodred liquid inside looks slightly questionable, but there aren’t any other options so…

we’re going with it. I fill the plastic cup I grabbed from the stack all the way to the rim and bring it to my lips, taking a heady sip that burns every inch of my throat as it goes down.

Holy shit, that’s stupid strong, and surprisingly… good ?

Great, I’ll take four.

I drink almost the entire cup in two quick swallows while walking back out into the crowded living room and then I spot none other than Cillian Cairney, sitting on a folding chair near the back door, his arms crossed over his chest. Surrounded by a group of girls who seem like they’re going to pitch themselves at his feet at any moment, he’s looking particularly bored.

Although he does flash a grin at one of the blond girls sitting beside him.

Wow. I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile.

And it’s a bit unexpected if I’m being honest. His smile is disarming; it somehow makes his callous demeanor… softer. More human if that makes any sense. The girl leans in, pressing her ginormous boobs against his arm, and his gaze drops down to her chest, lingering there.

Of course he’s got the hottest girl in this party drooling in his lap. I’ve heard all about his playboy reputation back in London. One of the guys did a social media deep dive and found a bunch of pictures with him and various girls partying.

Rolling my eyes, I push through the crowd toward the backyard so I can get some fresh air when someone brushes against my shoulder painfully, causing me to yelp.

“Shit, sorry,” the guy says, and I glance up, my fingers curling around the cup of alcohol in my hand. Okay, he’s… hot.

Immediately, my throat feels tight, and my heart begins to flutter wildly in my chest, battering against my rib cage.

“It’s okay,” I say nervously. “No big deal. I’ve been hit harder by guys on the team.” Followed by an awkward laugh that dies down in my throat when he stares back at me blankly. “I mean… uh, not that I like that they hit me, or like even hit on me. Because that would be weird if they did that.”

Why is it that I don’t think twice about talking to guys on the team, yet the second I say a single word to a guy who’s, I don’t know, in the chess club, I word vomit things like sports statistics as if my brain has short-circuited and forgotten anything other than the top ten rugby hookers of all time.

“Oh, you’re Coach St. James’s daughter, right? The… equipment manager?” Recognition coats the guy’s face. He’s wearing board shorts to a sorority party, and not at all someone I’d normally go for but… here we are.

Not that I think I have a type, but if I did, I’m not sure it would be him.

I nod, bringing my drink to my lips for a sip and somehow missing my mouth altogether, causing a splash of bright red liquid to splatter onto the front of the white baby tee I’m wearing beneath my cardigan. I lick the pad of my thumb and brush at the stain roughly with zero luck. Damnit.

“Shit, that sucks,” I mutter, blowing out an exasperated breath.

His gaze drops to the stain on my shirt, and the space between his brow furrows together tightly.

“Uh, yes, I am,” I say, trying to draw his attention away from my clumsiness. “Coach St. James’s daughter. Rory. That my name. What’s yours? Beach boy?”

The laugh that tumbles out of me is possibly the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done, and results in a snort that has me hiccuping. I probably shouldn’t have had so much of this damn drink.

He chuckles. “Ryan. How’s the team looking this year? I can’t wait to see us at the championship. Ezra is a fucking legend on the pitch.”

“Ezra? The guy that I made cry on his first day of college rugby practice? Yeah, that’s a legend. Sure. ” I snort, then drain the last sip of this magical juice and squish the cup in my hand, resulting in a god-awful sound that makes us both cringe.

Jesus Christ, why did I just smoosh that cup like it was a beer can at a NASCAR race?

Ryan’s eyes widen. “What? Really?”

I nod. “Mm-hmm. If you ask him he’ll say he got grass in his eye, but let’s be real, the guy’s softer than a flower.”

“Man, that’s fucking hilarious. And honestly? I can kind of see it. I feel like you’re a ballbuster, Rory.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. This is absolutely heading into bro territory. I’ve got to save it before it’s too late. This is the easiest conversation I’ve had with a guy. Ever.

“Um… actually, I’m pretty gentle with guys’ balls. Like… figuratively speaking.” I giggle, which has to be a side effect of the alcohol, because giggling? Really? “I would never bust your balls, Ryan, I mean unless you were… into that?” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively.

“Into… ballbusting?”

I shrug. “I mean, I don’t judge what anyone is into. You know, speaking of balls… we should totally go to a match. Together? I could get us tickets? One of the many perks of being the ballbuster. I have sideline tickets for all the games.”

Why am I talking about balls so much? God, this turned weird fast.

I need to stick a figurative foot in my mouth because I’m officially about to walk into traffic as an alternative.

“Rory, you’re fucking hilarious,” he muses, reaching out and punching me lightly on the shoulder.

“No wonder all the guys like you. Yeah, if you’re serious about the tickets I’d love to go.

My girlfriend, Miranda, is a huge fan too.

I gotta get this back to her.” He lifts the cup of the same drink I just downed in ten minutes flat.

“But let me know about the tickets? I’ll see you around. ”

See you never .

That’s what he means.

I give him a dramatic salute as he turns and walks away leaving me ready to sink into the floor at any given moment.

Perfect. That was absolutely perfect and not at all the most embarrassing conversation I’ve possibly ever had.

I walk toward the back door, stopping to grab another drink at the table nearby, and then slip outside.

Frigid winter air hits my cheeks the moment I cross the threshold, and I shiver as a chill racks my spine.

I pull the thick cardigan I’m wearing tightly closed around me, trying to block out the small flurries of snow cascading from the sky.

I didn’t grab my coat before making a run for it out here, but I have zero desire to go back inside so I suck it up and walk down the pathway to the side of the house.

There’s an old white wooden gazebo that sits just outside the living room window, and I make my way over to it, slowly sipping my new drink.

So tonight was a disaster, which is the opposite of what I hoped for, but then again, this is becoming a regular occurrence, so I’m not sure why I anticipated anything different. Actually, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

Which means not only am I the equivalent of a bro’s bro and painfully awkward around guys who I’m even remotely interested in, I’m also… definably insane.

“Perfect, Rory. You meet a hot guy and do nothing but talk about balls ,” I mutter as I stomp up the gazebo steps.

“That was an incredibly large amount of ball talk in such a short period of time.” A deep, raspy, familiar British accent seeps through the air, causing me to startle and lose my footing on the rickety wooden step.

I start to tumble backward but at the last second, a strong, tattooed arm shoots out, wrapping around my waist and stopping me from falling onto my ass on the sidewalk.

Somehow, this time, my drink manages to stay inside my cup. Mostly.

“Jesus Christ, what are you doing sitting out here in the dark! Fuck, you scared the hell out of me,” I cry, scrambling away from Cillian and leaning backward against the wooden rail for support.

He stares at me, remaining silent.

“Ah, I keep forgetting you’re the broody, quiet type,” I snark as I plop down on the bench across from him. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty sure his thoughts about my conversation were the most words I’ve ever heard him string together in a single sentence. Lucky me.

The chill from the wood seeps through my thin cotton joggers, causing another shiver to travel through me. It’s too damn cold.

“That was almost as painful as watching what happened in there,” he muses, placing his ink-covered arms along the fence behind him, doing the manspread thing that guys look entirely too hot doing. There’s a bottle of water sitting between his jean-clad thighs. So he’s at a party… not drinking.