The Cad and the Co-Ed

by Penny Reid

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked, again his gaze moving over me searchingly, like he was also having trouble reading me.

  I was about to suggest that he stay for a short while after Patrick went to sleep so we could talk about it, but then my phone rang again. I huffed, lifting my eyes to the ceiling.

  “Who is that?” Bryan asked, a note of irritation in his tone. “Your mobile’s been ringing constantly since we got home.”

  “I know.” I turned for the living room and the offensive phone, planning to place it on silent. “Sorry. It’s Josey.”

  “Josey?”

  “That’s right. She’s driving me nuts.” Reaching the phone, I switched it to vibrate and shoved it in my purse.

  “Why is she calling?”

  I turned back to Bryan, not quite able to meet his eyes as I explained, “I made the mistake of telling her we—you and I—were going on a date.”

  Bryan was quiet for a moment and I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, embarrassed for reasons I didn’t understand.

  When I finally found the courage to look at him, he was glaring at the wall behind me, and I didn’t like the set of his jaw.

  “Bryan?”

  “I should go.” He nodded at his own assertion, his eyes flickering over me, his smile not reaching them as he strolled toward me and placed a light kiss on my cheek. “Tell Patrick I’ll see him tomorrow, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I said, a sinking sensation in my stomach had me wrapping my arms around my torso.

  Bryan paused, looking down at me distractedly. But then after a moment, his gaze warmed and his smile became true.

  “I had a great time tonight,” he whispered, pulling my hand from my body and tangling our fingers together. He bent forward to brush a sensual kiss over my mouth, hot and soft.

  I felt myself sway toward him, melt under his touch.

  “Me, too,” I whispered when he drew away.

  “I know,” he said, wagging his eyebrows.

  And, despite everything—my uncertainties, my worries, my fears—that made me laugh.

  “You’re wicked.”

  “The wickedest,” he agreed, pulling the neck of my top to one side and peeking down my shirt.

  I smacked his hand away, still laughing. “Go. Get out of here, pervert.”

  “Fine. I’ll leave.” He held his hands up as though surrendering. But then he pointed at me as he backed away toward the door. “But you should know, I’m only pervy for you.”

  * * *

  Bryan did come over on Saturday and we did build a blanket fort. And then the three of us ate ice cream inside it.

  But I caught him giving me strange looks. He’d stare at me, frowning, as though concentrating or working through a problem.

  He left after dinner, making an excuse about having work to do around his apartment despite my invitation for him to stay and watch a movie with us. And when he left, he gave me a light peck on the cheek.

  A peck. On the cheek. Nearly twenty-four hours ago, he’d had his hand in my pants, begging to stay the night.

  His behavior since had continued to be unsettling.

  At work he was very polite, but distant. And then he was all friendly flirtation when we were at my apartment. He hadn’t asked me on another date, but he came over almost every night to see Patrick.

  I wondered if it was the upcoming match that had him acting so strangely. It was the first of the season and everyone seemed to be a little more on edge, talking a little louder, pushing themselves harder.

  With these thoughts plaguing and distracting me, I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. So when I was walking out of the locker room after an urgent session with Daly two hours before the big match, a hand reached out and grabbed me by the wrist, catching me completely off guard. The mysterious hand tugged me firmly behind the wall leading to the showers.

  I stumbled, colliding ungracefully into a familiar chest. Bryan’s rumbly chuckle met my ears. “Hello, love. Fancy meeting you here.”

  I glanced up at him, becoming aware of several things all at the same time.

  One: he hadn’t shaved this morning and it made him devilishly handsome.

  Two: his hand had released mine and he was palming and grabbing my arse.

  Three: he was wearing just a towel.

  “Bryan!”

  “Were you expecting someone else? Maybe Alice from the front office?” He grinned wolfishly, then lowered his lips to my neck and squeezed my backside.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered harshly. “Daly and Moore are in the locker room. They’ll hear us.”

  “Not if we’re really quiet.” He grabbed my hand and moved it to the front of his towel. “Can you be quiet?”

  Instinctively, I gripped his cock through the fabric, my breathing coming ragged. He felt so good.

  And he would feel even better if I just gave in.

  Give in!

  “Wait,” I breathed, shaking my head for some sobriety from my lust. “We shouldn’t do this here.”

  Bryan’s reputation would survive a tryst in the locker room, but mine would not. I already had Connors making comments about me spreading my legs for players.

  “Fine.” He rocked his hips forward, pressing himself into my hand. “Where should we go? The showers?”

  “I don’t know,” I said weakly, biting my lip as an image of us taking this to the showers floated through my mind.

  God, yes!

  Damn.

  Damn damn damn.

  “Bryan, please,” I whimpered, because he’d bent lower, nuzzling my breasts and biting my nipple through the fabric of my long sleeved polo.

  “Anything you want.” His voice was a rumble, thick with promise. “I need you, I need the feel of you. I miss your taste.” His hands delved into my pants, his fingers finding my clit. I was already aching and wet.

  FORKS!

  “Please,” I mewled, tilting my hips mindlessly, the back of my head falling to the wall. This was so wrong. We were at work. He had a match in less than two hours. Why did he always make me so mindless? So thoughtless?

  “I love the sounds you make when I touch you.” He kissed my eyelids, separating my folds, rubbing my slick center. “I love how you feel.”

  My breath hitched, and I rubbed him through the towel. He bucked against my hand.

  “I love how you touch me,” he growled, then softer added, “I love how you look at me. I love how brilliant, strong, and brave you are.” His movements slowed and he shifted his hand, caressing my hip as he nipped my jaw.

  And then he held very still.

  I blinked open my eyes, staring at him in question. It took a moment for the haze of desire to recede, but when it did his stare was intent. Had I done something wrong? How I wish I understood all his looks. His look confused me. He confused me. One minute he was insatiable, and the next a dividing wall.

  “I love you.”

  I could only blink at him, at his fierce gaze and words, dumbfounded.

  “You . . .?”

  His eyes dropped to my lips. “I’m in love with you.”

  22

  @ECassChoosesPikachu: Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .

  @THEBryanLeech to @ECassChoosesPikachu: You are. Always.

  *Eilish*

  “Wait. Wait a minute. Just. Wait.”

  I was out of breath.

  I couldn’t think.

  My eyes lost focus.

  It’s too soon.

  “It’s too soon,” he said, bringing my attention back to him, reading my thoughts. “But it’s true. You’re perfection.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “You are.” He grinned, charming me. “You are noble and genuine and—I feel like I need to be honest here—so goddamn sexy I can’t think straight.”

  I shook my head. “Bryan—”

  “Eilish, listen to me.” He gripped my face, holding it between his palms. “I’m in love with you. And it’s a relief to say it. I’ve been
trying to keep my distance, not scare you, not push you. But I have to tell you. I love you. I’ve never said it to another person before, and I can’t imagine saying it to anyone else.”

  All the breath left my lungs and I leaned heavily against the wall behind me. My eyes and nose stung, but I was in no danger of crying.

  I just felt . . . blindsided.

  And scared.

  We stared at each other, but his stare was expectant. I knew what he wanted me to say, but I couldn’t.

  I can’t. Not yet. Not yet.

  Silence pressed around us as I struggled. He watched me, the expectation in his eyes cooling, growing remote, until finally he released me and stepped back.

  My heart twisted, my lungs ached.

  I had to say something. So I did.

  “I used to stutter.”

  Bryan’s eyebrows rose slowly. “What?”

  “I used to have a stutter.” His gaze flickered over me and I shrugged, a small, helpless smile on my lips as I explained, “It used to drive my mother crazy. She told me not to speak—at all—because it irritated her so much.”

  “I’m sorry.” His features softened a little, and I straightened my back. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me. That wasn’t the point of the story.

  “I’m not.”

  He blinked once and frowned, obviously confused.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I know my mother is despicable, and I don’t condone her behavior. I would never treat Patrick like that. I felt sad about it, but mostly I felt frustrated. And then determined.”

  “Determined to speak without a stutter.” He was openly studying me now, like he was trying to understand this odd alteration in conversation and how it related to his confession.

  “Kind of. Yes. I wanted to speak without a stutter.” I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of voices behind me, beyond the curtain in the locker room. Lowering my voice, I returned my attention to him and rushed to explain, “But having the speech impediment and overcoming it is something I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. It taught me how to work hard for what I want, to stay the course, to define goals and stick to them.”

  Bryan’s brow cleared as I spoke and his mouth hitched to the side. “So I have your stutter to thank for your extreme stubbornness?”

  I laughed lightly, liking this, talking to him this way, hoping he would understand. “I suppose you do. But that’s not all.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Yes. There’s more.” I hesitated, studying him.

  His eyes were jade green today, and he was looking at me like I’d invented rugby and cake.

  He loves you.

  I braced myself, because what I needed to tell him next might diminish his opinion or change his mind. We had limited time to talk and the clock was running out.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense,” he prompted, clearly interested in where I was leading this conversation.

  “I wasn’t a nice person,” I blurted.

  His eyebrows jumped. “Excuse me?”

  I swallowed an unexpected dryness in my throat. “I found it was easier to speak without a stutter when I was being sardonic and insincere. Being genuine, being . . . vulnerable, made it worse. So I grew up making jokes and being snarky.”

  Bryan’s gaze searched mine. “That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

  “You don’t know what I was like as a teenager. I wasn’t nice. And when other kids made fun of me for the way I spoke, I never forgave them.”

  “You were also a kid.” Bryan gave me a funny look, like I was crazy.

  “I was, but I never forgave them. Even when the teasing stopped and we weren’t kids anymore, I held a grudge.”

  “What are you saying? That your grudge extended to revenge?”

  I shook my head. “No. Nothing like that, not really. I just—” I tilted my head back and forth, trying to find the right words, keenly aware that he was still in a towel and needed to get ready for the match. “I was derisive, sarcastic, mean. Bitchy. But it wasn’t because I wanted revenge, I couldn’t bring myself to be sincere with people who’d hurt me.”

  He blinked at that, his expression softening further. His affection hadn’t waned. If anything, his gaze warmed.

  “You don’t trust easily.” His voice was low, not quite a whisper, and he said the words as though they’d just occurred to him.

  “No. I don’t.” I tried to smile, but I couldn’t. I needed him to understand why I couldn’t return his love. Not yet. I wasn’t there yet. I needed time, free from the murkiness of my desire for him. Because I desired him so completely I was suffocating with it.

  As we continued to stare at each other, I thought I saw something like comprehension pass over his features. I hoped he understood that my inability to say the words wasn’t him; he wasn’t the problem.

  I’m the problem.

  And we’re out of time.

  “Listen,” I reached out, squeezing his arm, needing to touch him. “You need to get ready. Can we talk about this after the match?”

  “Of course,” he nodded thoughtfully, adding, “It’s too bad you didn’t make an exception for your mother.”

  “What?” I frowned at him. “You think I should trust her?”

  “No. Not at all. I was talking about revenge. You should make an exception and use your sarcasm superpowers to take revenge on your mother.”

  I chuckled lightly. “I guess I did take small revenges on my mother.”

  “What? Don’t hold out on me. What did you do?”

  Pleased he was joking, I admitted, “When she praised me for finally speaking so well, I made a point to discuss topics she found distasteful with my perfect diction.”

  He grinned, this news apparently tremendously agreeable. “Like what?”

  “Everything, from describing the worst-case scenario for wound sepsis in great detail—”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “—to using the word ‘salivate’ during Sunday brunch. She hates that word or anything having to do with bodily fluids, so I try to speak about them in front of her as much as possible. As soon as my mother remarked on how nice a voice I had when I wasn’t butchering words, I made it a point to be as politely offensive as possible.”

  “Good for you.” He smiled, looking proud. But then something dark flashed behind his eyes, a secret knowledge of some sort. “She certainly deserves it, and much worse.”

  * * *

  This would be the first time I’d seen Bryan play in over five years.

  Actually, that’s not true. I’d seen him scrimmage over the last few months, in practice and drills, but this was the first match I would watch. Avoiding rugby in the States wasn’t difficult, most of the country doesn’t know much about it, can’t tell the difference between league and union rules.

  “Oh, Christ.” Connors winced from his spot on the bench next to me. We were on call and on the sidelines, ready to jump into action should we be needed. “That looked painful.”

  Ronan Fitzpatrick had just gotten trampled in a ruck, and I tensed in readiness. But the play moved on and he stood, running back into the fray once the giant huddle dispersed. I noted he was sporting blood over one eye, and he was opening and closing his right hand. Someone must’ve stepped on it.

  “Say what you will,” Connors said as he gnawed on his thumbnail, his eyes wide as he followed the action of the game, “but these blokes are tough bastards.”

  I didn’t respond.

  Since calling my coworker out on his behavior last Friday, we’d reached an uneasy truce. I was using the therapy room for sessions, pushing his mess over to his side, and wiping down the tables with disinfectant every morning, afternoon, and evening. As well, I ensured the floors and standing mats were cleaned daily, the supplies restocked, and the trash removed every night.

  But I still charted in the office on the admin floor.

  As the match progressed, I became aware of twisting knots in my stomach and had to stand
and pace, finding it difficult to keep my eyes on the match. Bryan was playing brilliantly, but witnessing the brutality up close, hearing the grunts, the crunch of bone against bone, made me cringe. Each time he took a tackle, each time he shouldered a ruck, I worried my lip. Eventually, I drew blood.

  At the end of the first forty-minute half, I was relieved when Coach Brian had me stay back in the locker room to attend to Daly. Poor bloke would be out for the remainder of the match with an ACL injury.

  “Is it bad?” he asked, bracing for bad news.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You have full range of motion without pain. It’s a strain. We’ll do a full set of X-rays, and you’ll need extra therapy this week.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad.” Daly winked at me, his eyebrows bouncing once.

  But then all cheerfulness leached out of his expression as he caught sight of something over my shoulder. I turned, spotting Bryan with an ear turned toward the offensive coordinator, giving Daly a look meant to incinerate.

  He moved his eyes to me meaningfully and then back to his teammate, his jaw working.

  Meanwhile, I slid my teeth to the side and tried not to roll my eyes.

  Too much testosterone. I’d seen the fellas hyped on its effect before—after they’d had a particularly rough practice—but never like this. The locker room reeked of it—of the violence of sport, of winning and losing and testing limits. Of giving and taking punches.

  Boys.

  I spent the second half with Daly, taking him through gentle exercises, icing, and rubbing down his legs. We watched the remainder of the match on a TV mounted to the wall. Ireland won. It wasn’t even close. But still, when the last minute drew to a close, I could see Daly’s features relax.

  Soon the room was full of players and reporters, coaches and support staff. I was tasked with administering massages, applying stitch strips to cuts, and disinfecting wounds. Everyone was high on victory, the room vibrated with celebratory male energy. Their eyes were a little wild, looking at me like untamed marauders instead of professional athletes. No one seemed to mind their abrasions or bruises. Quite the opposite.