Page 62 of Red Card
I don’t need to think about my answer.
“Hell yeah, mate. Let’s do it.”
One step at a time is starting to feel like leaps toward where I want to be.
CHAPTER 21
Rory
Since I was a kid, I’ve always spent most of my free time at the rugby pitch. Mostly because my dad was there, but also because it’s one of my favorite places to be. Dad brought me along to practices, and as I got older, I tagged along so I could hang out with the guys and observe as they practiced.
Since becoming a student at Prescott, instead of using the library to study or do homework, I just pop my headphones in and sit in the stands. On the days I’m not participating with the coaching staff that is.
But today, therealreason I’m at the pitch pretending to focus on studying for anatomy is so I can watch Cillian practice.
I’m officiallythatgirl.
The one who shows up to rugby practice just to see the hottest guy on the team and has read the same exact paragraph at least three times but can’t remember a single word of what she read.
I’m irrationally, stupidly turned on watching him run down the pitch in his black sleeveless practice shirt, the one that’s cutdown to the waist on his sides and shows the toned, chiseled muscles of his obliques as he moves.
It’s nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before, but it’s different watching Cillian on the pitch. He’s captivating, and I can’t take my eyes off him, my heart pounding in my chest nearly in sync with the dull throb in my core.
His movements are instinctual and quick as he catches the ball and runs toward the sidelines, drawing out the defenders.
He has two options: he can offload to Fitz or he can break the line and go for the try.
My thighs clench together on their own accord as I watch him blow past Wren, successfully breaking through the line.
My brain can’t even comprehend how someone who’s so solidly muscled can have such speed and agility. His footwork is almostgracefulas he moves down the pitch toward the try line.
God, it’s hot.
He’shot.
So. Fucking. Hot.
Seeing him in action is inherently better than watching tape or hearing about how good he is.
“Rory?” a voice calls from beside me, and I practically jump out of my skin. The textbook in my lap falls to the ground at my feet and my pen goes flying.
Whipping my head to the side I see Dad standing there, his brow furrowed in worry. I was so lost in my Cillian daydream that I didn’t even hear him walk up.
“S-sorry. Yes?” I say a little too loudly, pasting on a smile as searing heat floods my cheeks. “You scared me.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he drops down onto the seatnext to me. He places his clipboard beside him and reaches for my fallen textbook, then hands it back to me. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately. Everything good?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” I swallow, willing myself not to glance back at Cillian on the pitch.
His brow lifts as his gaze bounces over my face, searching for something. “You seem… distracted the last few times I’ve seen you. I just wanted to check on you, sweetheart.”
Of course he’d noticed that I’ve been…preoccupiedlately; he knows me better than anyone.
But it isn’t as if I could tell him that I’ve been with Cillian, so I just shrug, leaning into his shoulder with a grin.
“All good. I’ve just been busy with class and stuff.”
“Okay, well, if you need anything you know I’m here. I was thinking we have a team dinner at the house in a couple weeks? It’s been a while,” he says as he drags his attention back toward the pitch, where the guys are currently breaking and talking with Coach Matthews. “Seems like we’re finally moving in the right direction.”
