Page 55

Chapter One

Cillian

“Welcome to Prescott University, asshole .” The bloke wearing a Prescott Rugby Football Club jumper snickers, checking my shoulder roughly as he walks past me. I recognize him from the team roster I memorized on the plane ride from London.

I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome from my new teammates.

I knew better. I’d learned early on in life to set the bar low and that way you’ll never be disappointed.

And judging from the interactions I’d had so far, these wankers clearly don’t want me here almost as much as I don’t want to be here.

Pretty fucking unfortunate for us all since we’re going to be playing together for the next two years whether any of us like it or not.

“Yeah? Thanks for that. There a problem you want to discuss, mate?” I say, turning to face him. “Wanna have a talk about it?”

The laughter from his friends standing beside him dies down before he whips around. “Yeah, mate , let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about how you’re the fucking charity case that walked on to this team while everyone else earned a spot because no one else would take your fucked-up ass.”

“Seems like you’re threatened or something. Worried I’ll take the spot your mummy bought for you?” I smirk tauntingly and step forward, now toe to toe with the arsehole who’s running his mouth.

Even though I know this is exactly what this wanker wants—to rile me up and make me react, to get me off the team before I even have a chance to prove what I’m capable of—hot tendrils of anger lash through my body, my temper rising by the second.

My hands fist at my sides as I try to tamp it down.

Lock it away. Stay in control of the situation so I can stay in control of my future .

Before he can respond, the door to the athletic building flies open and a tall, burly man with salt-and-pepper hair busts through.

“Cairney…my office. Now. You’re late,” he spits out before turning and disappearing back inside the building.

Goddamn it. Of course, my new coach would see this shit.

Less than twenty-four hours in this shithole, and I’m already regretting stepping foot on campus.

“Toss off,” I mutter, my shoulder hitting his roughly as I brush past him toward my new coach’s office.

I can’t afford to start off on the wrong foot with Brody St. James. I can’t afford any missteps, which means I can’t let this happen again.

Not when my old coach, Coach Thomas, pulled so many strings to make this happen.

Not when my shot in America is riding on me being a model player and staying the fuck out of trouble.

If I don’t, I’ll be on a one-way ticket back to London, and my last chance at playing rugby professionally is gone.

I can kiss my dream of playing professional rugby goodbye. Forever.

No more chances.

Simple as that. It’s the same thing I’ve been repeating to myself over and over since I stepped off the plane. I’ve run out of chances, and playing at Prescott is a last-ditch effort to hold on to my rugby career.

I can’t fuck this up. I won’t. If not for myself then for Aisling and her future. My sister’s all I have left, and I can’t let her down.

All of this is in my hands. My responsibility.

The doors of the athletic building are painted a deep, rich burgundy, and the heavy wood creaks when I swing it open to step inside.

It doesn’t take me long to find the coach’s office at the end of the trophy-lined hallway, with a bronze plaque outside the door inscribed with the name brODY ST. JAMES.

My knuckles rapt against the heavy wooden door twice before the voice on the other side calls me in. When I step inside, my new coach is sitting behind a large mahogany desk with a tight scowl on this face. I’ll admit, he’s pretty fucking intimidating.

Or maybe that’s simply because this is the man who holds the strings to my future in his hands. Either way, it’s a feeling I’m not accustomed to experiencing. I’m the player who the sports reports have deemed intimidating because of my aggression on and off the pitch.

And now…the tables have turned.

“Coach.” I walk to the front of his desk and extend my hand. He looks down at it for a moment, his eyes dragging over the dark ink on the top that trails up and disappears into the sleeve of my jumper, before shaking it. “I’m sorry about that out ther?—”

He drops my hand, cutting me off. “Sit. I’ve got ten minutes before practice starts.”

Without hesitating, I drop down into the worn leather armchair across from him.

Coach leans forward and rests his forearms on the desk.

“I’m not going to lie and say I’m particularly happy to have you here.

I’m not going to bullshit for the sake of feelings.

It’s not how I run my program. Stay long enough and you’ll see that.

You messed up in London, and you’re here because I owed a favor. You are now that favor, Cairney.”

I grit my teeth together so hard that a deep ache forms in the muscle of my jaw.

The old Cillian, the one who fucked up and landed us here in the first place, would’ve told him to fuck off and walked out of his office without a backward glance.

Maybe thrown out a few more choice words.

But I can’t be that guy anymore. Or at least I’m trying not to be.

The guy who acts before he thinks. Who lets his temper, and grief, control him.

I’ve just got to keep it together, put my head down, and focus until I graduate and get the hell out of here. Until I can get back to London and play rugby. Really start my life.

Coach doesn’t give me the chance to respond before he continues.

“First and foremost, understand that whatever the hell just happened out there with Banes, it’s not happening again.

I don’t give second chances. Being here is your second chance.

The only chance you get. I don’t baby my players, I’m not hand-holding, and I run a tight program.

I know you’ve had a problem with aggression off the pitch. Fighting.”

My shoulder dips. “Here and there.”

Not exactly the full truth, but he’s got the file in front of him, and I know he’s read it.

We both know exactly what put me here. And it wasn’t just my aggression.

“If you want to stay on this team, you walk the straight and narrow. No fighting. No drugs. No illegal activities. No fucking your way through the cheerleading team. No creating tension with your teammates. You’re not the only one with something at stake here.

This program operates on private funding.

Boosters who expect a championship win this year, which means that we can’t afford a fuckup. Of any nature.”

“Understood,” I retort, my jaw hardening again as we stare off over the desk.

He nods. “Good. We’re on the same page then. Look, I’ve reviewed your tapes, Cairney…You’re a damn good player. Naturally talented in ways that some guys work their entire life to be and never achieve. Don’t waste it.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard this. From my coach back in London, from scouts, from my teammates, my sister. From the voice in my head telling me not to end up like my father, who’s never been anything but an alcoholic fuckup with a temper that puts mine to shame.

Truthfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like myself.

The guy I used to be before Mum died. I’ve spent the last two years fighting to make it back to that person, and I’ve got the scars to show it.

On every inch of me, inside and out. I spiraled so far down that sometimes I feel like I’ll never make it out alive.

What I want more than anything is to leave the mess I made in London behind and start over.

To take the opportunity I’ve been given even if it means moving to a new country and playing for a team of blokes who don’t want me here.

I can deal with it if it means that I’ll have a chance at playing professionally and making sure that Aisling is taken care of.

“I have no plans to,” I respond in a clipped tone. “I’m here to play rugby. That’s it. I’m not going to cause any trouble. I know that doesn’t mean much right now, and I get it—I haven’t exactly shown anyone that my word means much, but I want to change that. Starting here. Starting now.”

“All right then.” Lifting his wrist, Coach glances down at his watch before looking back at me.

“I’ve got to head to practice, but we can talk a bit more later.

There’s one thing I want to say before I go.

You’re walking on halfway through a season, Cairney.

There’s inevitably going to be some challenges.

These guys have been playing together for years.

There’s a dynamic in place, and I know that it’s going to take some time for everyone to adjust. And not only that…

these guys have a lot on the line, and they know it.

Doesn’t help that they’re feeling the pressure of expectation.

I just need your assurance that you’re going to give fitting in and becoming a member of this team everything you’ve got.

” His voice is low and solemn as he says exactly what I’ve been thinking since I got the transfer confirmation.

I already have a fairly good grasp on what it is I’m walking into, especially after the confrontation that happened a few minutes ago, but if anything, it’s only making me more determined.

To show not only Coach that I’m going to follow through, but also the arseholes who think they’ll get rid of me as easily as I came here.

I nod, raking a hand through my hair. “I understand. You’re not going to have any issues out of me. I’ll make an effort.”

“Good. Let’s head down to the pitch and you can observe for a bit and meet Matthews, our assistant coach.” Standing, he rounds the desk toward his door, and I rise, following behind him. “You’ll officially meet the team tomorrow, before practice.”

The pitch is a short walk from Coach’s office and when we arrive, the team has already started their training session.

He doesn’t attempt to bring me out there to introduce me to everyone, and honestly I’m thankful for it.

I’d rather observe from the touchlines and see how they operate as a team from the outside.

Coach St. James introduces me to a short, lean guy with red hair that’s so bright it looks unnatural, and I almost wonder if the bloke dyes it.

“Cairney, this is Assistant Coach Matthews. I need to get out there, but I’ll leave you two to it and I’ll see you tomorrow before practice.” He brushes past us onto the pitch, leaving us alone.

Coach Matthews turns to me and offers his hand. “Good to have you, Cairney. I’ve seen you on the pitch, and I’m impressed. I wanna see you adapt and do the same thing here,” he says as he drops my hand, then shoves his back into his pocket.

“I plan on it.”

“Got a good team this year,” he says, nodding toward the pitch as they run a phase of play. “Powerful. A solid defense, disciplined. And that makes it hard to break through the line. Some fast guys that focus on moving the ball and exploiting gaps in defense.”

I nod along but keep my eyes trained on the pitch, watching as they go for a try.

He’s not wrong; they’re bloody good. Their bond is evident in the way they work together and execute plays.

These guys are powerful and skilled playmakers.

That’s the best you could ask for in a team, and it’s not just about being talented.

It’s all about communication and how it plays out on the pitch.

“And I think you’ll be the perfect addition to the team if you can keep your head on straight.” He adds, “Conditioning at least once a week, two sessions on the pitch until spring games start. I expect you at all of them, putting in the work just like everyone else.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers and nod. “I’ll be there.”

A long, hard whistle blows down the touchlines, and we both turn to see a girl stomping out onto the pitch over to one of the blokes, her long espresso braid swishing behind her.

From our position, I can make out the delicate slope of her nose, the high cheekbones, plump pink lips, pale, creamy skin and a blazing fire in her eyes.

She’s pissed . And proper fit. But who the hell is she?

When she makes it to the pitch she stops in front of the tallest bloke on the team and shakes her head while sporting a fierce scowl. “Soccer tryouts are in two weeks. If you’re not gonna commit to a tackle maybe you should try out.”

“But I—” he sputters.

“But I? But I? Drive with your legs and make the damn tackle, Williams . Jesus, are we playing rugby or ballet out here?” She does a mock twirl, which would be rather comical if she didn’t actually look a little scary taking on a guy who’s at least a foot taller and outweighs her by at least a hundred pounds.

Holy shit.

Coach Matthews chuckles next to me. “And that…is Rory St. James.”

My gaze bounces to him, and then back to the tiny spitfire on the pitch who’s now giving someone else a verbal lashing. Most guys wouldn’t take a girl like this seriously, but these guys are looking at her with a mixture of fear and awe in their gazes.

“ That’s Coach’s… daughter ?” I mutter, my eyes still widened in shock.

“Yep. She’s our equipment manager, but that girl knows more about rugby than half these guys do.

You’ll meet her when you meet the rest of the team.

Look, all I’d worry about, Cairney, is putting in your time and making rugby your top priority.

We’re not asking for perfection. We’re asking you to show up, do your job, and stay out of trouble.

Earn your spot on this team. Earn their trust.”

I nod. “I know. And I know that I’m an asset. If you give me time, I’ll prove it not to just you and Coach St. James, but to them.”

Silence hangs between us for a beat, both of us still watching what’s unfolding on the pitch.

“You wanna know the real secret to getting in with those guys?” He jerks his head toward the feisty brunette on the pitch. “It’s her .”

Fall in love with rugby and Cillian’s thighs on August 12th when Red Card r eleases everywhere.