Wait…
The idea that pops into my slightly tipsy brain is ludicrous at best. But also… could actually work? It’s literally what I said to Fitz the other night, and I was just joking then. Sort of. But, I mean, what if? The best players have a coach. Maybe Cillian could… teach me. This is probably the alcohol talking but whatever.
He seriously just walked into that party and the girl nearly launched herself into his arms. He’s clearly good at this, even though it pains me to admit it.
Who better than him?
“So what if you… you know taughtmehow to flirt? Like that?” When he huffs, shaking his head and running a hand through his dark hair, I continue, “No seriously. You saw for yourself how it went tonight. Every time I even attempt to talk to a guy I either bro out and am immediately friend-zoned, or I attempt to flirt and end up making myself look like an awkward, fumbling idiot. I’m just permanently one of the guys. Nobody ever sees me asjustRory. They see me as Coach St. James’s daughter or the girl who knows more sports statistics than your average sportsplayer. You could help me, and I could… help you. In return.”
Yep, definitely the alcohol. I would never normally blurt out something so… vulnerable, so embarrassing. But after what happened inside and the fact that it was nearly a repeat of the other night, with the addition of the two extremely strong drinks I’ve had, my give a fuck is not present.
His brows shoot up. “Yeah? What couldyoupossibly help me with, St. James?”
My throat bobs. “I could… I could help you out with the guys. Get them to stop being so stupid and trying to ice you out. Help you really be a part of the team.”
“What, with more team bonding? Yeah, no thanks, I’m good.”
“I’m serious!” I groan, then continue before he can decline again. “This sounds stupid, I get it, but I’m just… so damn tired of feeling like this. And you know that Fitz is my best friend. I could talk to him and the rest of the guys. You also know they trust me andlisten to my opinion. I’ll put in a good word. Get them to give you a chance. In exchange, you teach me how to get out of the friend zone and how to flirt. How to be sexy. How to talk to guys.”
“Some things can’t be taught,” he mutters gruffly, leaning back against the bench, sculpted arms crossing over his broad chest.
“I’m a great student. Four-point-oh GPA. Come on, Cillian, what exactly do you have to lose?” I ask. This is possibly the most idiotic, insane thing I’ve ever done, but truthfully, what doeitherof us have to lose? If anything, we both have something to gain here, and I am a newfound woman of opportunity.
It’s not like I could ask one of my girlfriends to teach me how to flirt. Because, oh right, I havenone. Fitz and Wren are really my only friends and just having that conversation with Fitz the other night was enough to solidify that this is not something that he can help with, nor do I want him to. Obviously, I would never go to the guys on the team because I’d quite literally rather die than embarrass myself that way.
I would die a slow, extremely painful death before asking any one of them to help me find a guy to hook up with.
Cillian stares at me intently, an expression I can’t quite read on his face before he eventually shakes his head. “Sorry but I’m not that guy.” He rises from the bench and starts walking down the stairs.
“Wait, you’re going to just… leave?”
Turning, he looks back over his shoulder. “Yep. Cheers, St. James. Might want to head in before you catch a cold.”
I don’t bother to stop the groan that tumbles past my lips as I lean backward against the gazebo fence and drop my head onto the chipped wood once he’s gone.
Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any more humiliating.
CHAPTER 8
Cillian
Cairney. I need to see you in my office.Now,” Coach St. James barks from the doorway of the weight room, his expression a mask of tight irritation.
Nodding, I place the fifty-pound weights back into the rack and grab my water bottle from the floor, squirting a hurried stream into my mouth. Then I reach for the hem of my shirt and drag it down my face, wiping the sweat clean.
My stomach feels like it’s full of lead as I make my way out of the weight room toward Coach’s office. There’s a huge possibility he found out what happened in the locker room the other day with Brooks, and this could end up a bloody fucking mess.
Nearly everyone on the team was there and saw what went down, but that was days ago, and unless shit changed, I was under the impression no one said anything.
Coach pulled me aside before film review and asked me where I got the black eye from, and I lied. Told him I tripped. Face-first into the locker. That I’m clumsy like that sometimes.
We both knew I was full of shit, but if no one else was talking neither was I.
I’m not giving them another reason to ice me out by snitching.
Wouldn’t change anything even if I did say something to Coach. Thorne’s still going to be a motherfucker who thinks he runs this team and this school.
And when Coach addressed everyone at the conference table, no one spoke up. That only seemed to piss him off more, the fact that he knew something had happened, but none of his players were talking.
