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’veeverseen 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 coursehe’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 theyhitme, 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 thechessclub, 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 frommy 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 abeercan 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, whichhasto 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.
