Page 17 of Red Card


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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 younever.

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 woodengazebo 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’sbroand 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 aboutballs,” 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.

I’m realizing it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in anything besides sweats or rugby shorts. The denim hugs his muscled thighs like a second skin, molded perfectly around his sculpted quads.

Jesus, thighs aresohot.

Something you become hyperaware of when you’re constantly around guys lifting other grown-ass men clean off their feet.

Cillian’s thighs are massive. Powerful. And he’s got this slutty little tattoo on his upper thigh that I couldn’t help but notice one day at practice. Not that I was looking… his shorts are just short an—

Never mind.

“And what exactly is that?”

He chuckles roughly, raising a brow. “Frat boy.”

“Sorry, can you repeat that? I’m a little in shock that you’re capable of having anactualconversation. What do you know, miraclesdohappen,” I retort with a smile of my own as I set my drink on the bench next to me and run my hands up and down my arms to warm myself up. “And for your information, that was… a disaster. No need to rub it in.”

“The bloke was wearing a yellow polo andboardshorts, so I don’t quite think you’re missing much. Alas, very questionable taste, I see.”

I open my mouth, then slam it shut because what a dick. And also… kind of true. Those board shorts were atrocious.

Cillian smirks.

“Yes, well, you’ve probably seen what the guys around here think of me. I’ve got to take what I can get,” I finally respond, annoyed that he even witnessed that entire exchange go down. What’s he doing out here anyway? The last time I saw him he was inside with his fans draped all over him. “What happened? You got bored with your fan club and decided you needed some fresh air?”

Another silent shrug, but the slight curve of his lips remains.