Iwould almost call today’s practice productive…Almost.
It’s not as if my teammates have rolled out a welcome mat and are throwing a party down at the pub, but the air doesn’t feel quite as thick with tension as it normally does. I don’t know if that had anything to do with Rory, but it does seem like after the game night at her place things are a little less heavy with my teammates. They’re working with me as a team instead of shutting me out every chance they get.
I’ve said I wasn’t going to worry about making friends or anything other than rugby in America since my stay here is temporary. Complete tunnel vision. That was always the plan. Not let anyone get too close, not after all the shit I’ve been through. After my trust had been broken by the people I had back home. The ones who dropped me like it was nothing when I was going through the hardest, most brutal time of my life.
But lately… I feel like that might be starting to change. St. James… has a way of burrowing beneath your skin.
I guess if I had to call anyone a friend, it might be her.
“Come in!” her soft voice calls from inside. I turn the knob and push the front door open, stepping into her apartment. “In the living room!”
When I walk into her living room, the first thing I notice is the giant whiteboard on wheels that’s positioned in front of the TV mounted on her wall.
“You’re late.”
My gaze whips to Rory, who is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her hair piled high on her head. She’s wearing a thick, oversized navy-blue jumper and a pair of tiny white shorts that have my eyes dropping to her exposed creamy thighs. She’s all of five two, but her legs seem to go on for days. Staring at them makes me feel like I’m staring at something indecent even though it’s just fuckinglegs.
Sexy, off-limits-as-fuck legs, arsehole. I feel like a bloke from the Renaissance peeping at bloody ankles.
I’m honestly not sure when I started to notice she was hot, but every single time I think of Rory in a way thatisn’tmy coach’s daughter, I force myself to shut it the fuck down.
Admittedly, lately, it’s more often than it should be, and that worries the fuck out of me.
Clearing my throat, I rub the back of my neck as I flop down beside her on the couch. “Yeah, sorry, my sister had me hang some photos on the wall at the flat. Said we needed to make it more ‘homely’ or some shit and I don’t exactly trust her with a power tool.”
“Why, because she’s a woman?” Her brow lifts.
“Christ, no. Because she’s got a track record for putting holesin anything that she touches, so I wasn’t going to let her anywhere near a seven-hundred-watt drill and old Sheetrock.”
Rory giggles, covering her mouth. “Okay, that’s fair. Coincidentally, I also suffer from the same problem. I usually just call one of the guys over to do it for me.”
“Hell, the last time she used a hammer, my mum…” I didn’t even think before saying that to Rory, and when my voice falters, her brow furrows in confusion.
“Cillian?” she murmurs, her eyes narrowed with concern. “What’s wrong?”
I swallow, trying to breathe, but my throat feels so fucking tight I might suffocate. “Uh… My mum… she was killed in an automobile accident. And it’s… I—”
Rory’s face softens, her expression a mixture of sadness, sympathy… pity.
I hate the pity most of all. When people find out about Mum, it’s like the puzzle pieces align, and they finally realize why I’m as fucked-up as I am, and I fucking hate it. I hate that me being fucked-up is aligned with the best person I ever knew. I hate that it still hurts as badly as it did the moment it happened.
“Sorry, I… I can’t talk about it,” I say, my voice rough as I drag my palm roughly over my mouth and pull my gaze away from her. To anywhere but the pools of pity shining back at me in her eyes.
Suddenly, I feel her soft, warm fingers curl around my forearm. She squeezes gently, and the touch helps to bring me out of my head and makes it a little easier to breathe. “That’s okay. You don’t have to. What about your sister? What’s she like?”
When my eyes meet hers, a small smile tugs at her lips. I guess she’s trying to distract me from the panic attack I almost just had,but at any rate, I’m grateful because I needed the distraction more than she probably even realizes. Anything to make my chest feel less constricted and my throat to not feel as if it’s closing and cutting off my ability to breathe.
“Aisling’s a freshman, two years younger, and she’s… fuckingbrilliant. The smartest person I’ve ever met. Loads smarter than I’ll ever be, without a doubt.” A quiet, wistful laugh rumbles from my chest, and I see Rory smiling. “She’s sensitive. Kind. I think she has all the best parts of Mum.”
“I can tell how much you love her,” she says, her rich brown eyes like melted chocolate, soft and full of warmth. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I understand, but if you everdowant to talk about it, Cillian, I’m here.”
A brief moment of silence passes between us until I finally lift my chin. This is a conversation I was wholly unprepared for when I came here tonight, and I’m not sure if I ever will be with Rory. Or anyone else.
“Thank you. For…” I trail off, and Rory nods, giving me an understanding smile. Jerking my head toward the giant whiteboard taking up most of her living room, I change the subject to something… anything other than this. “What’s up with the board?”
Rory’s eyes light up, and she bounces up from the couch and grabs a black marker from the top of her TV stand. “Okay, welllll, yesterday when we were talking about how stupidly charming you are… it gave me a brilliant idea.”
I eye her warily. After the whole bloody Twister “idea,” I’m not feeling very confident in any of her brilliantideasright now. I never want to get that close to another man’s balls ever again outside of a rugby pitch.
