The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 24

Patrick’s existence wasn’t a secret, but I thought it prudent to leave pictures of him at home.
William’s attention skipped to the room behind me and then back to my face. “Are you finally allowed inside?”
I gathered a breath and debated how best to respond.
I must’ve taken too long because he said, “You should let us speak to Coach Brian about this, about Connors and how he—”
“No. Don’t do that. I’ll take care of Connors, I will. I’ll get him to see reason. I’ve only been here for one week, I need more time.”
William made a face, and I thought for a moment he was going to argue, but then he took a step back, nodding. “Fine. Well, the guys are just down the hall and Ronan’s with them if you change your mind.”
“Thanks, William.”
“See you later.” He nodded politely.
“See you.” I gave him a little wave as he left, his footsteps retreating down the long hall.
Turning my attention back to the disaster area known as the therapy room, I made a quick survey of what needed to be done and in what order.
Trash first. Then supplies.
Stepping forward, I kicked a pile of takeout containers to one side, wanting to clear a path to the cabinets so I could look for latex gloves. But then I stopped, stiffening, an odd scratching sound coming from the pile I’d just nudged with my foot.
Turning back to it, I crouched on the ground and lifted a greasy paper at the top of the mess. And that’s when I saw it.
A cockroach.
In Ireland.
A giant behemoth of a bug, the likes I’d only ever seen on nature programs about prehistoric insects.
Okay, perhaps I was overexaggerating its size. Perhaps not. Honestly, I didn’t get a chance to dwell on the matter, because the roach-shaped locust of Satan hopped onto my hand.
I screamed.
Obviously.
Jumping back and swatting at my hand, I screamed again. But evil incarnate had somehow crawled up and into the sleeve of my shirt. The sensation of its tiny, hairy legs skittering along my arm had me screaming a third time and I whipped off my shirt, tossing it to the other side of the room as though it was on fire.
“What the hell is going on?”
I spun toward the door, finding Ronan Fitzpatrick and Bryan Leech hovering at the entrance, their eyes darting around the room as though they were searching for a perpetrator. Meanwhile, I was frantically brushing my hands over my arms and torso. I felt the echo of that spawn of the devil’s touch all over my body.
“Cockroach!” I screeched. “Do you see it? Is it still on me?” I twisted back and forth, searching.
Bryan and Ronan were joined in the doorway by more team members, but I barely saw them in my panic.
God, I could still feel it.
I. Could. Still. Feel. It.
Now I knew what those hapless women felt like in horror movies when they realized the serial killer was still inside the house.
“Oh! I see it!” Bryan darted forward, grabbing me by the arms and turning me to one side.
And then he smacked me right on the arse. And then he grabbed my arse, squeezing.
I squeaked, too shocked to do anything but stare at Bryan. He met my startled gaze, apparently also too shocked to do anything but stare at me.
Then he lifted his hand, covered in roach guts, looking equal parts proud and bracing. “I got it.”
“Disgusting.” This came from Malloy, loitering by the entrance as though he didn’t dare venture into the physio room lest more dragon-sized roaches be ambling about.
“I’ve never seen a roach that big before.” Daly, one of the other team members, sounded positively scarred.
Realizing I was out of breath—and wearing no top but my bra—I yanked my gaze from Bryan’s and glanced around the room, the burning heat of embarrassment crawling up my cheeks.
Crawling . . .
I shivered. Poor word choice.
My shirt had landed on a computer monitor at one of the workstations. I hurried to retrieve it.
“All right, all right. Nothing to see here. Crisis averted.” I listened as Bryan lifted his voice. Glancing at him, I saw he had his hands up, like a moving barricade, and was walking everyone out of the room.
“Keep that hand away from me,” someone said.
Followed by another of the lads chiming in, “Yeah, we know where it’s been.”
“Very funny. You’re all a bunch of crack-ups.”
Once everyone was out, Bryan shut the door. There was a short pause before he asked, “Can I turn around?”
I swallowed, my limbs feeling loose and wobbly—likely the aftereffects of the adrenaline—and nodded. “Sure. Yeah. I’m—I’ve got my shirt on now.”
Bryan peeked over his shoulder, then gave me a sympathetic smile. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m just sorry.” I huffed, crossing my arms over my chest and resisting the urge to scratch my arms raw. “I’ll be even better as soon as I get a hot shower.”
His eyes flared and he flinched, just slightly, before averting his gaze to the floor and clearing his throat. “Uh, speaking of which. I guess I better wash this hand.”
“Oh, yeah. There’s soap by the sink. Miraculously.”
The side of his mouth hitched ruefully and he nodded once, moving to the built-in sink along one wall, next to the supply cabinets.
I waited for him to wash his hands before I moved to the door, opening it and strolling out to the hall. I couldn’t stand another second in that room. Given the fact that I had the remnants of a dead cockroach on my arse, all my plans to clean the physio space fled.