The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 5
Although, judging from the look of the place, I doubted Will had much of a hand in planning the party. I’d bet my last jockstrap some WAG organized the whole thing.
“Nice party.” I nudged Will a few inches forward; the crowd hadn’t noticed us yet. “Did you demand the silver and gold streamers? Or was the chocolate fondue fountain one of your mandates?”
My teammate sighed, though it sounded more like a growl. “None of this is necessary.”
I cracked a grin because Will hated excess. The man had lived in a spartan studio apartment on Baggot Street before we’d recently moved in together. Our place was right on the quays, but it was on the top floor so it was quiet. I liked quiet.
Before I could respond, we were spotted and I stiffened my spine, not quite ready to face the throng of well-meaning team members, their significant others, and the others—hangers-on, sycophants, and groupies.
A memory struck me of a party just like this one, where I’d met Jennifer, one of my many ex-girlfriends. Now there was a fake if ever I knew one. Unfortunately, Jennifer was a prime example of the fact that I was born with blinkers on. Couldn’t see clearly when there was a pair of tits and an arse in my face—and too many pints of beer in my gut. Jennifer had gotten a good fifty grand out of me over the course of our “relationship,” though long-con was probably a better description. The woman had been out for my money from the start, and given, like I said, I was born with bad judgment, too trusting, and was constantly drunk, I’d been easy pickings. A total mark.
“Well, good luck, mate.” I stepped to the side and gave him a shove forward. He didn’t even sway. The man really was built like a brick shithouse.
“Wait, where are you—?”
“Happy Birthday!” Shouts erupted from approaching partygoers, and I took that as my cue to abandon William to the crowd, glancing over my shoulder only briefly to see they’d placed a crown on his head.
Chuckling lightly, I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket and set the gift—two concert tickets to Coldplay—on the table next to several large garish boxes. I hesitated, frowning at the small envelope next to the wrapped presents. Deciding it might get lost or overlooked in the pile of larger objects, I turned from the table and slipped the envelope back in my pocket just as I caught sight of a long, silky river of red hair.
That color was my kryptonite, always had been. The woman’s back was to me, but I could make out a tall, willowy frame. The aforementioned hair was draped over one pale shoulder, showcasing a delicate, swan-like neck.
My eyes were glued to that neck, and I was struck with a sudden urge to bite it.
In a sexy way, mind.
And this was odd because I hadn’t wanted to give anything or anyone a sexy bite in over a year. Not even a nibble. Then my entrancing view was ruined when Ronan Fitzpatrick stepped in front of me.
“You look rough. Been letting that loss get to you?” he asked with a commiserating expression.
“Isn’t it getting to all of us?” I replied, suddenly grumpy at the reminder. A fortnight ago, the squad played the Six Nations semi-finals, and we’d had our arses well and truly handed to us by the Welsh.
“You can’t win them all, Leech. We brought the trophy home last year. Let’s just focus on that.”
I considered the irony of the statement, because Ronan was beating himself up about the loss far more than any of us. He was team captain, and even though he pretended not to, I knew he felt responsible. “Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?”
He grimaced and downed a gulp of beer. “Yeah well, next year we’ll bring it home again. Management is making a few changes. Did you hear they hired a new physio?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. Everybody hates Connors.”
Our current physiotherapist had the worst personal hygiene of any man I’d ever met. Tell me who wants a bloke who hasn’t washed his hands after using the john getting up close and personal with their glutes? No one. And don’t get me started on his halitosis; I suspected it could be cleared up easily if he simply brushed his teeth.
Ronan nodded. “True.”
“Bryan, you left before I could . . . uh, can you, ah, help me out with something?” William asked, joining us. He looked flustered, his cheeks red and his posture rigid.
“Of course. What do you need?”
He glanced over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze to where a group of girls stood giggling and whispering to one another as they sized him up. And when I said girls, I meant it. None of them could’ve been any older than seventeen, and still, their eyes were lit up with the promise of snagging a rube. Ahem, I mean, a husband.
“Christ,” I swore. “Who let the baby WAGs into the building?”
“Don’t you mean wannabe baby WAGs? Were they even invited?” Ronan added gruffly.
“One of them is Orla Flanagan’s younger sister. The rest are her friends,” William informed us, sounding stressed. “They want me to dance with them.” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t dance.”
“Nor do you dance with children. Every single one of them is a Daily Mail headline just waiting to happen,” I said, my crankiness rearing its ugly head.
I was five years older than William, but I felt protective of him. Probably because he was too nice for his own good. The kind of nice that could be mistaken for interest by naïve little girls. Or less than naïve little girls. They’d have themselves up the duff and walking down the aisle before he even noticed the holes in the condom. I may have made some poor choices in my time, but at least I could say I was never stupid enough to get anyone pregnant.
“Nice party.” I nudged Will a few inches forward; the crowd hadn’t noticed us yet. “Did you demand the silver and gold streamers? Or was the chocolate fondue fountain one of your mandates?”
My teammate sighed, though it sounded more like a growl. “None of this is necessary.”
I cracked a grin because Will hated excess. The man had lived in a spartan studio apartment on Baggot Street before we’d recently moved in together. Our place was right on the quays, but it was on the top floor so it was quiet. I liked quiet.
Before I could respond, we were spotted and I stiffened my spine, not quite ready to face the throng of well-meaning team members, their significant others, and the others—hangers-on, sycophants, and groupies.
A memory struck me of a party just like this one, where I’d met Jennifer, one of my many ex-girlfriends. Now there was a fake if ever I knew one. Unfortunately, Jennifer was a prime example of the fact that I was born with blinkers on. Couldn’t see clearly when there was a pair of tits and an arse in my face—and too many pints of beer in my gut. Jennifer had gotten a good fifty grand out of me over the course of our “relationship,” though long-con was probably a better description. The woman had been out for my money from the start, and given, like I said, I was born with bad judgment, too trusting, and was constantly drunk, I’d been easy pickings. A total mark.
“Well, good luck, mate.” I stepped to the side and gave him a shove forward. He didn’t even sway. The man really was built like a brick shithouse.
“Wait, where are you—?”
“Happy Birthday!” Shouts erupted from approaching partygoers, and I took that as my cue to abandon William to the crowd, glancing over my shoulder only briefly to see they’d placed a crown on his head.
Chuckling lightly, I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket and set the gift—two concert tickets to Coldplay—on the table next to several large garish boxes. I hesitated, frowning at the small envelope next to the wrapped presents. Deciding it might get lost or overlooked in the pile of larger objects, I turned from the table and slipped the envelope back in my pocket just as I caught sight of a long, silky river of red hair.
That color was my kryptonite, always had been. The woman’s back was to me, but I could make out a tall, willowy frame. The aforementioned hair was draped over one pale shoulder, showcasing a delicate, swan-like neck.
My eyes were glued to that neck, and I was struck with a sudden urge to bite it.
In a sexy way, mind.
And this was odd because I hadn’t wanted to give anything or anyone a sexy bite in over a year. Not even a nibble. Then my entrancing view was ruined when Ronan Fitzpatrick stepped in front of me.
“You look rough. Been letting that loss get to you?” he asked with a commiserating expression.
“Isn’t it getting to all of us?” I replied, suddenly grumpy at the reminder. A fortnight ago, the squad played the Six Nations semi-finals, and we’d had our arses well and truly handed to us by the Welsh.
“You can’t win them all, Leech. We brought the trophy home last year. Let’s just focus on that.”
I considered the irony of the statement, because Ronan was beating himself up about the loss far more than any of us. He was team captain, and even though he pretended not to, I knew he felt responsible. “Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?”
He grimaced and downed a gulp of beer. “Yeah well, next year we’ll bring it home again. Management is making a few changes. Did you hear they hired a new physio?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. Everybody hates Connors.”
Our current physiotherapist had the worst personal hygiene of any man I’d ever met. Tell me who wants a bloke who hasn’t washed his hands after using the john getting up close and personal with their glutes? No one. And don’t get me started on his halitosis; I suspected it could be cleared up easily if he simply brushed his teeth.
Ronan nodded. “True.”
“Bryan, you left before I could . . . uh, can you, ah, help me out with something?” William asked, joining us. He looked flustered, his cheeks red and his posture rigid.
“Of course. What do you need?”
He glanced over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze to where a group of girls stood giggling and whispering to one another as they sized him up. And when I said girls, I meant it. None of them could’ve been any older than seventeen, and still, their eyes were lit up with the promise of snagging a rube. Ahem, I mean, a husband.
“Christ,” I swore. “Who let the baby WAGs into the building?”
“Don’t you mean wannabe baby WAGs? Were they even invited?” Ronan added gruffly.
“One of them is Orla Flanagan’s younger sister. The rest are her friends,” William informed us, sounding stressed. “They want me to dance with them.” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t dance.”
“Nor do you dance with children. Every single one of them is a Daily Mail headline just waiting to happen,” I said, my crankiness rearing its ugly head.
I was five years older than William, but I felt protective of him. Probably because he was too nice for his own good. The kind of nice that could be mistaken for interest by naïve little girls. Or less than naïve little girls. They’d have themselves up the duff and walking down the aisle before he even noticed the holes in the condom. I may have made some poor choices in my time, but at least I could say I was never stupid enough to get anyone pregnant.
