Welcome to Prescott University, asshole.” The bloke wearing a Prescott Rugby Football Club jumper snickers, checking my shoulder roughly as he walks past me. I recognize him from the team roster I memorized on the plane ride from London.
I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome from my new teammates. I knew better. I’d learned early on in life to set the bar low and that way you’ll never be disappointed. And judging from the interactions I’d had so far, these wankers clearly don’t want me here almost as much as I don’t want to be here. Pretty fucking unfortunate for us all since we’re going to be playing together for the next two years whether any of us like it or not.
“Yeah? Thanks for that. There a problem you want to discuss, mate?” I say, turning to face him. “Wanna have a talk about it?”
The laughter from his friends standing beside him dies down before he whips around. “Yeah, mate, let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about how you’re the fucking charity case that walked on to this team while everyone else earned a spot because no one else would take your fucked-up ass.”
“Seems like you’re threatened or something. Worried I’ll take the spot your mummy bought for you?” I smirk tauntingly and step forward, now toe to toe with the arsehole who’s running his mouth.
Even though I know this is exactly what this wanker wants—to rile me up and make me react, to get me off the team before I even have a chance to prove what I’m capable of—hot tendrils of anger lash through my body, my temper rising by the second. My hands fist at my sides as I try to tamp it down. Lock it away. Stay in control of the situation so I can stay in control of my future.
Before he can respond, the door to the athletic building flies open and a tall, burly man with salt-and-pepper hair busts through.
“Cairney… my office. Now. You’re late,” he spits out before turning and disappearing back inside the building.
Goddamn it. Of course, my new coach would see this shit.
Less than twenty-four hours in this shithole, and I’m already regretting stepping foot on campus.
“Toss off,” I mutter, my shoulder hitting his roughly as I brush past him toward my new coach’s office.
I can’t afford to start off on the wrong foot with Brody St. James. I can’t afford any missteps, which means I can’t let this happen again.
Not when my old coach, Coach Thomas, pulled so many strings to make this happen. Not when my shot in America is riding on me being a model player and staying the fuck out of trouble. If I don’t, I’ll be on a one-way ticket back to London, and my last chance at playing rugby professionally is gone. I can kiss my dream of playing professional rugby goodbye. Forever.
No more chances.
Simple as that. It’s the same thing I’ve been repeating to myself over and over since I stepped off the plane. I’ve run out of chances, and playing at Prescott is a last-ditch effort to hold on to my rugby career.
I can’t fuck this up. I won’t. If not for myself then for Aisling and her future. My sister’s all I have left, and I can’t let her down.
All of this is in my hands. My responsibility.
The doors of the athletic building are painted a deep, rich burgundy, and the heavy wood creaks when I swing it open to step inside. It doesn’t take me long to find the coach’s office at the end of the trophy-lined hallway, with a bronze plaque outside the door inscribed with the name BRODY ST. JAMES.
My knuckles rap against the heavy wooden door twice before the voice on the other side calls me in. When I step inside, my new coach is sitting behind a large mahogany desk with a tight scowl on this face. I’ll admit, he’s pretty fucking intimidating.
Or maybe that’s simply because this is the man who holds the strings to my future in his hands. Either way, it’s a feeling I’m not accustomed to experiencing. I’m the player who the sports reports have deemed intimidating because of my aggression on and off the pitch.
And now… the tables have turned.
“Coach.” I walk to the front of his desk and extend my hand. He looks down at it for a moment, his eyes dragging over the dark ink on the top that trails up and disappears into the sleeve of my jumper, before shaking it. “I’m sorry about that out ther—”
He drops my hand, cutting me off. “Sit. I’ve got ten minutes before practice starts.”
Without hesitating, I drop down into the worn leather armchair across from him.
Coach leans forward and rests his forearms on the desk. “I’m not going to lie and say I’m particularly happy to have you here. I’m not going to bullshit for the sake of feelings. It’s not how I run my program. Stay long enough and you’ll see that. You messed up in London, and you’re here because I owed a favor. You are now that favor, Cairney.”
I grit my teeth together so hard that a deep ache forms in the muscle of my jaw. The old Cillian, the one who fucked up and landed us here in the first place, would’ve told him to fuck off and walked out of his office without a backward glance. Maybe thrown out a few more choice words. But I can’t be that guy anymore. Or at least I’m trying not to be.
The guy who acts before he thinks. Who lets his temper, and grief, control him.
I’ve just got to keep it together, put my head down, and focus until I graduate and get the hell out of here. Until I can get back to London and play rugby. Really start my life.
Coach doesn’t give me the chance to respond before he continues. “First and foremost, understand that whatever the hell just happened out there with Banes, it’s not happening again. I don’t give second chances. Being here is your second chance. The only chance you get. I don’t baby my players, I’m not hand-holding, and I run a tight program. I know you’ve had a problem with aggression off the pitch. Fighting.”
My shoulder dips. “Here and there.”
Not exactly the full truth, but he’s got the file in front of him, and I know he’s read it.
We both know exactly what put me here. And it wasn’t just my aggression.
“If you want to stay on this team, you walk the straight and narrow. No fighting. No drugs. No illegal activities. No fucking your way through the cheerleading team. No creating tension with your teammates. You’re not the only one with something at stake here. This program operates on private funding. Boosters who expect a championship win this year, which means that we can’t afford a fuckup. Of any nature.”
“Understood,” I retort, my jaw hardening again as we stare off over the desk.
He nods. “Good. We’re on the same page then. Look, I’ve reviewed your tapes, Cairney… You’re a damn good player. Naturally talented in ways that some guys work their entire life to be and never achieve. Don’t waste it.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard this. From my coach back in London, from scouts, from my teammates, my sister. From the voice in my head telling me not to end up like my father, who’s never been anything but an alcoholic fuckup with a temper that puts mine to shame.
Truthfully, it’s been a long time since I’ve felt like myself. The guy I used to be before Mum died. I’ve spent the last two years fighting to make it back to that person, and I’ve got the scars to show it. On every inch of me, inside and out. I spiraled so far down that sometimes I feel like I’ll never make it out alive.
What I want more than anything is to leave the mess I made in London behind and start over. To take the opportunity I’ve been given even if it means moving to a new country and playing for a team of blokes who don’t want me here. I can deal with it if it means that I’ll have a chance at playing professionally and making sure that Aisling is taken care of.
“I have no plans to,” I respond in a clipped tone. “I’m here to play rugby. That’s it. I’m not going to cause any trouble. I know that doesn’t mean much right now, and I get it—I haven’t exactly shown anyone that my word means much, but I want to change that. Starting here. Starting now.”
“All right then.” Lifting his wrist, Coach glances down at his watch before looking back at me. “I’ve got to head to practice, but we can talk a bit more later. There’s one thing I want to say before I go. You’re walking on halfway through a season, Cairney. There’s inevitably going to be some challenges. These guys have been playing together for years. There’s a dynamic in place, and I know that it’s going to take some time for everyone to adjust. And not only that… these guys have a lot on the line, and they know it. Doesn’t help that they’re feeling the pressure of expectation. I just need your assurance that you’re going to give fitting in and becoming a member of this team everything you’ve got.” His voice is low and solemn as he says exactly what I’ve been thinking since I got the transfer confirmation.
I already have a fairly good grasp on what it is I’m walking into, especially after the confrontation that happened a few minutes ago, but if anything, it’s only making me more determined. To show not only Coach that I’m going to follow through, but also the arseholes who think they’ll get rid of me as easily as I came here.
I nod, raking a hand through my hair. “I understand. You’re not going to have any issues out of me. I’ll make an effort.”
“Good. Let’s head down to the pitch and you can observe for a bit and meet Matthews, our assistant coach.” Standing, he rounds the desk toward his door, and I rise, following behind him. “You’ll officially meet the team tomorrow, before practice.”
The pitch is a short walk from Coach’s office and when we arrive, the team has already started their training session. He doesn’t attempt to bring me out there to introduce me to everyone, and honestly I’m thankful for it. I’d rather observe from the touchlines and see how they operate as a team from the outside.
Coach St. James introduces me to a short, lean guy with red hair that’s so bright it looks unnatural, and I almost wonder if the bloke dyes it.
“Cairney, this is Assistant Coach Matthews. I need to get out there, but I’ll leave you two to it and I’ll see you tomorrow before practice.” He brushes past us onto the pitch, leaving us alone.
Coach Matthews turns to me and offers his hand. “Good to have you, Cairney. I’ve seen you on the pitch, and I’m impressed. I wanna see you adapt and do the same thing here,” he says as he drops my hand, then shoves his back into his pocket.
“I plan on it.”
“Got a good team this year,” he says, nodding toward the pitch as they run a phase of play. “Powerful. A solid defense, disciplined. And that makes it hard to break through the line. Some fast guys that focus on moving the ball and exploiting gaps in defense.”
I nod along but keep my eyes trained on the pitch, watching as they go for a try. He’s not wrong; they’re bloody good. Their bond is evident in the way they work together and execute plays. These guys are powerful and skilled playmakers. That’s the best you could ask for in a team, and it’s not just about being talented. It’s all about communication and how it plays out on the pitch.
“And I think you’ll be the perfect addition to the team if you can keep your head on straight.” He adds, “Conditioning at least once a week, two sessions on the pitch until spring games start. I expect you at all of them, putting in the work just like everyone else.”
I shove my hands into the pockets of my trousers and nod. “I’ll be there.”
A long, hard whistle blows down the touchlines, and we both turn to see a girl stomping out onto the pitch over to one of the blokes, her long espresso braid swishing behind her. From our position, I can make out the delicate slope of her nose, the high cheekbones, plump pink lips, pale, creamy skin, and a blazing fire in her eyes.
She’s pissed. And proper fit. But who the hell is she?
When she makes it to the pitch she stops in front of the tallest bloke on the team and shakes her head while sporting a fierce scowl. “Soccer tryouts are in two weeks. If you’re not gonna commit to a tackle maybe you should try out.”
“But I—” he sputters.
“But I? But I? Drive with your legs and make the damn tackle, Williams. Jesus, are we playing rugby or ballet out here?” She does a mock twirl, which would be rather comical if she didn’t actually look a little scary taking on a guy who’s at least a foot taller and outweighs her by at least a hundred pounds.
Holy shit.
Coach Matthews chuckles next to me. “And that… is Rory St. James.”
My gaze bounces to him, and then back to the tiny spitfire on the pitch who’s now giving someone else a verbal lashing. Most guys wouldn’t take a girl like this seriously, but these guys are looking at her with a mixture of fear and awe in their gazes.
“That’s Coach’s… daughter?” I mutter, my eyes still widened in shock.
“Yep. She’s our equipment manager, but that girl knows more about rugby than half these guys do. You’ll meet her when you meet the rest of the team. Look, all I’d worry about, Cairney, is putting in your time and making rugby your top priority. We’re not asking for perfection. We’re asking you to show up, do your job, and stay out of trouble. Earn your spot on this team. Earn their trust.”
I nod. “I know. And I know that I’m an asset. If you give me time, I’ll prove it not to just you and Coach St. James, but to them.”
Silence hangs between us for a beat, both of us still watching what’s unfolding on the pitch.
“You wanna know the real secret to getting in with those guys?” He jerks his head toward the feisty brunette on the pitch. “It’s her.”
There is no one more petty and dramatic than a group of college guys.
Specifically, rugby players.
Trust me, I know, since I spend the majority of my time with them.
You’d think that it would be girls who like the tea, but there is nothing these guys love more than being dead center in the middle of anything and everything.
Generally, I ignore anything that has to do with drama, but this situation can’t be ignored.
And by situation, I mean Cillian Cairney.
Prescott University’s latest headline straight off the plane from London. Six foot four, 230 pounds of tattooed, British bad boy for everyone on campus to lose their minds over.
Which they absolutely are. Everyone’s obsessed with our new transfer.
Half the campus is falling over their feet to catch a glimpse of the guy who’s been dubbed “Kill” on the rugby pitch, and the other half are too busy trying to figure out why he’s been exiled here to begin with.
It’s not a secret that he got expelled and a permanent red card from his team in London, and since no one truly knows why… everyone’s desperate to find out.
Of course, the only person who knows the real reason is my dad, and that’s only because he’s Prescott’s head rugby coach.
Even being the coach’s daughter didn’t give me access to that piece of information. All I know is that Cillian’s apparently run out of chances, and a friend of my dad’s called in a favor, which is how he ended up here, walking on to the team midseason.
During what could be our most important season yet.
Yesterday, I spotted him on the touchlines with Coach Matthews observing practice, but aside from the couple of stolen glances I allowed myself, I did my best to pretend he wasn’t there at all.
I have no intention of feeding into the frenzy.
Cillian Cairney is a distraction.
One that I nor the team can afford.
The guys are having a hard time focusing with his arrival, and if we want any shot at the championship this year, they’ve got to bust their asses for it.
And now, that includes him.
I fidget in my chair, glancing down at my phone for the tenth time since we walked into the film room for this team meeting, chewing my lip. Better my lip than my nails since I’m attempting to grow them out long enough to keep them painted.
“Well, I heard that he got caught with like half a pound of cocaine. The guy’s basically a low-level drug dealer,” Ezra mutters from across the conference table. He’s leaned back in his chair, tossing a ball up in the air as he speaks, and I roll my eyes.
Of all the ridiculous, made-up gossip I’ve heard about Cillian, this one might just take the cake.
“Brother, shut up.” Brooks, the team’s captain, scoffs from beside Ezra, reaching over and swiping the ball from midair. He starts tossing it back and forth in his hands. “First of all, like Coach would let someone on the team who deals fucking drugs, Ezra. Be so for real. Second, half a pound of cocaine is definitely not low level on the drug dealer chain.”
Ezra’s brow pinches as his lips purse, like he’s only now realizing just how ridiculous his accusation sounded when his best friend laid it out for him.
“Regardless of what he did to end up here, I personally think this is a bad idea, letting this guy who’s clearly a liability walk on to the team. I don’t know what Coach was thinking,” Fitz chimes in. He shrugs and glances at me. “No offense, Ror.”
Sebastian Fitzgerald, better known as “Fitz,” is my best friend. We’ve been inseparable since we met at his first rugby practice our freshman year, and he knows me better than anyone. So he knows just how protective I am when it comes to my dad.
And this team.
Lifting a brow, I narrow my gaze, dragging it over each of them before landing back on Fitz. “How about we not spread rumors? None of us knows the real reason why he’s here, and I trust my dad to make the best decision for the team. Plus… say what you want, but he’s good. Really fucking good. I’ve seen the tapes. I don’t know him, but I do know that if he plays as well as he did in London, then he’ll be good for the team.”
No one has anything to say after that, not that I expected them to, so I pick my phone up out of my lap and scroll through my socials while we wait.
There’s nothing else to say about any of it. It’s already done. I know they don’t want him walking on to the team, they’ve been antsy since they found out, and they’re right to be distrustful when it’s clear he was expelled from his last school, but… I trust my dad more than anyone. I know there’s a lot at stake for everyone involved, but they have to trust that my dad knows what he’s doing and is making the right choice. He’s always been a damn good coach and put this team above everything, and I don’t think that’s changing.
A few minutes later, the door opens and my dad, Coach Matthews, and Cillian walk through. It’s the first time I’ve seen him up close, and I’m surprised how much more… intimidating he seems.
He’s taller than I thought, his thick shoulders even broader than they appeared from the try lines. A burgundy T-shirt stretches across them. Tattoos cover both his arms, the dark ink spilling down his skin onto the tops of his hands, painting a portrait that tells a story of some kind. His sharp, chiseled jaw is set in a hard line as his dark, smoldering eyes scan the room of unhappy faces peering back at him.
“Afternoon,” my dad says, addressing his players. He’s always been a pillar of strength, and it’s one of the many things I’ve always admired about him. I know this can’t be easy for him, bringing in this guy and hoping like hell that it works out, but I do believe that he’s the best coach I’ve ever known, and he would never steer his guys wrong. If this new guy is here, it’s because my dad believes that he’s worth it. “I’m going to keep this short and sweet. We’ve got a practice to get to and I know that you’ve all heard what’s going on. Let’s just call this an official introduction. This is Cillian Cairney. He’s transferring in from London and will be joining the team.”
The entire time my dad’s speaking, Cillian’s quiet, his stormy gaze slowly moving around the room as my dad talks about the transition and how vital it is that they work as a team. Play as a team.
Honestly, Cillian looks completely uninterested in being here, and when we lock eyes from across the room, the scowl on his lips seems to deepen, a look of something I can’t read passing through his eyes.
I lift a brow, holding his stare until he finally looks away, placing his gaze back on my father.
All right then.
Dad tells the guys that Cillian will be jumping in immediately, participating in all team workouts and practices.
Even though they all nod, the air in the room is tense and so thick you could practically choke. Everyone’s aware the guys aren’t happy to have Cillian walking on to the team, and it’s clear that he’s not happy to be here either. Which seems like the perfect recipe for disaster.
Sighing, I sit back in the chair and cross my arms over my chest. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but it seems even more impossible after seeing him face-to-face. Seeing the guys’ reaction to him.
Dad finishes his speech, then asks Cillian to hang back before dismissing the rest of the guys to head to the pitch. They file out of the room in a sea of whispered murmurs and stares, not bothering to hide their disdain.
I’m on my way to follow them out when my dad grabs my forearm softly, stopping me. “Hey, Ror, could you stay back for a second?”
Turning back to face them, I plaster on a small smile, tucking a strand of hair that’s fallen from my ponytail behind my ear. “Yeah, of course.”
Cillian looks annoyed that he wasn’t dismissed with the rest of the team, shuffling from one sneaker-clad foot to the other before shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his dark gray joggers.
“Cillian, this is my daughter, Rory. She’s our equipment manager and my right-hand girl. I just wanted to introduce you two since you’ll be seeing her around. Going to head out to the pitch, I’ll see you shortly,” Dad says, jerking his head toward me with a smile before disappearing along with Coach Matthews through the door, leaving us alone.
In painfully awkward silence.
“Hi,” I say, offering him a small smile. “I’m Rory, unofficial assistant coach. Official equipment manager.”
Cillian’s brow raises, but he remains silent, so I stick my hand out and refuse to look away, not backing down. “Nice to meet you.”
He glances down at my hand before slowly dragging his eyes back up to meet mine. For a second, I think he might actually leave my hand awkwardly hanging there, making this entire encounter that much more unbearable, but after the longest seconds in history, he slides my small hand in his, and shakes it.
It’s over before I can even register the feel of his hand in mine because he drops it like he’s been burned.
“Likewise.” The hoarse, growly, English accented syllables slip from his mouth, his tone flat and void of any emotion at all.
“If you need anything just let me know. I can help with whatever. I help a lot of our guys with nutrition plans, going over tape, anything really…” I trail off, tucking my hands into the pockets of my athletic shorts when he gives me a look that says he doesn’t give a shit.
“Noted. We done here? I need to be on the pitch,” he says sharply.
I shrug. “Yeah, sure. Have a good practice. Good luck.”
Without another glance, he walks out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.
Well… okay then.
Nice talking to you too.
I knew that the first practice as a team would be rough, but I may have underestimated just how rough it would actually be.
Still, I choose to remain hopeful even though a disaster is currently unfolding on the pitch. It’s like watching a train wreck, in ultraslow motion, that you just can’t stop staring at no matter how bad it is. The tension is palpable and there’s zero cohesion. Zero teamwork. They’re practically ignoring him entirely. It’s clear that the guys aren’t making an effort to pass the ball to Cillian, regardless of him being a major playmaker.
“There might as well be a line drawn in the grass between them,” Dad murmurs from beside me, clutching his clipboard so tightly his knuckles have turned white, a dramatic contrast to the shade of crimson his face currently is. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t get angry o. . .
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