by Ney, Sara
Jock Royal
Sara Ney
Copyright
Jock Royal
Copyright © 2021 by Sara Ney
Editing by Caitlyn Nelson
Proofreading by Julia Griffis
Proofreading by Shauna Casey
Cover Design by Okay Creations
Formatting by Casey Formatting
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without “express “written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
“This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or shared with other people. If you would like to share with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the “author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Maddie.
Contents
1. Georgia
2. Ashley
3. Georgia
4. Ashley
5. Georgia
6. Ashley
7. Georgia
8. Georgia
9. Ashley
10. Georgia
11. Ashley
12. Georgia
13. Ashley
14. Georgia
15. Ashley
16. Georgia
17. Ashley
18. Georgia
19. Ashley
20. Georgia
21. Ashley
22. Georgia
23. Ashley
24. Georgia
25. Georgia
26. Ashley
27. Georgia
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sara Ney
One
Georgia
Being the new girl is never easy—even when you’re twenty-one and in college, in the final year of school. Months from earning a degree but having it all snatched away when your university cuts funding for your sport.
And therefore your scholarship.
So, I did what any self-respecting young woman would do: packed up my bags and moved from the south to the Midwest, all to attend a university that could—and did—offer me the financial aid that would keep me on the road to earning my degree.
Barely.
But still—every bit helps, yeah?
Which is why I’m standing outside a shitty-looking, dilapidated fraternity house on a Friday night, staring dubiously at the front door.
“Why am I doing this again?”
“It’s part of the initiation,” one of the members of the track team tells me.
Oh.
Right.
I cock one eyebrow. “You mean hazing?”
“Shh.” A few of them hush me, hissing out on the sidewalk as we stand around while they prep me.
“You can’t go saying that word out loud!” Veronica—Ronnie, they call her—explains with a hiss.
“Why? Because it’s bad luck, or because it’s true?”
Hazing on university campuses is against the nationwide student code of conduct among sororities, fraternities, and unquestionably athletic organizations.
“It’s just fun. We want you to get to know people since you’re new—and what better way than at a party?”
If that were the case—if they actually wanted to introduce me to people—there are a million better ways to go about it. They would let me go inside and mingle like a normal person instead of going in to pull a childish prank like the one they want me to participate in tonight. I’m already embarrassed and I haven’t even walked through the doors yet.
“Wow. So like, I’m going inside to meet the welcoming committee?”
It’s clear they don’t appreciate my sarcasm or my sense of humor, nor my impression of an airheaded valley girl. Instead of laughing off my comments, Ronnie crosses her arms and huffs.
“No one is forcing you to do this. You can go home.” Her long lean arms—the ones that have been turned golden by the sun—extend, pointing to the street behind us. “We’ll call campus security and they can escort you so you’re not alone.”
Gee. So much for team camaraderie and no man left behind.
We all know I have to do this. They all know I’m on scholarship and cannot jeopardize my spot on the team, not a team like this one. Not this late in the game, not while I’m staring down the nose of only one more semester—I don’t know what strings my father pulled to get me here at this point, but if I lose this chance to have my education paid for…
It’ll take me at least another couple of years to finish.
I’ll have to quit most of my classes and work full-time to pay for the few I’d be able to afford. And those I’d have to take at night.
“I just don’t understand why we’re at a fraternity party. You said it was going to be on Jock Row.” Not Greek Row.
I’m glancing up at the house’s façade, eyes searching and scanning for Greek letters but finding none. Nothing but old, weathered siding that needs to be painted and crooked shutters flanking the front windows.
The girls all laugh.
“This isn’t a frat house, dumb-dumb—it’s the rugby house.”
Rugby house? That’s a new one.
“This is Jock Row, not Fraternity Row.” Chelsea Newbauer chimes in from the back of the pack, hair Texas sky high, glitter eye shadow catching the light from the dim porch lamp.
“And we need you to go inside and find the…” Ronnie hesitates, about to reiterate the rules of the lark they’re playing on me. “The ugliest guy you can find and ask him on a date.”
Why?
WHY.
The whole thing is just. So. Freaking.
MEAN.
“What!” I’ve heard the catch before, but hearing it again is so cringe-inducing I panic. My tone says it all; I’m horrified.
“You’ll live through it.” Tamlin rolls her eyes. “We all had to do it and so can you.”
Okay but…
…but.
Why.
It’s so mean-spirited—not to mention so unethical and just makes me want to curl up in a ball and die. Or puke. Or hide.
So rude.
So embarrassing.
So everything that’s wrong with college these days.
This is how my peers get alcohol poisoning. This is how they end up in hospitals. This is why they do shit they shouldn’t be doing.
Peer pressure.
And here I stand like a turd, debating my options.
I thought my backbone was stiffer than this; I thought I was a leader.
My parents would be so ashamed that I’m stooping to this level to save face and blend in at my new school.
You’re not physically going to hurt anyone, Georgia.
The boy will live. He will walk away unscathed, minus some minor bruising to his ego, probably.
Hopefully.
Besides, they told me he—whoever he is—won’t even know what I’m up to.
Still, I make one last-ditch effort to weasel my way out o
f the task.
“Can’t you come up with something else? I’ll sing in the cafeteria if you want me to. Tap dance in the quad.” Does this school have a quad? If they do, I’ll find it and—
“Sing in the cafeteria?” Someone scoffs. “The Gammas do that during sorority pledge week.”
“And none of y’all get in trouble?”
Ronnie taps her foot, sole clicking on the pavement from impatience. “First of all, the longer we stand here debating this, the longer it’s going to take once we’re inside. If you want to draw it out so it takes an eternity, that’s your problem, not mine. Secondly, it’s not the end of the world.” Her blood red nail points to the house. “March inside and find a guy, ask him on a date, and bring his sorry ass over so we can make sure you’ve completed your mission. After that, you can run home and crawl into bed and forget the entire thing ever happened.”
My mission.
Ha!
“The guy doesn’t even have to know what you’re up to.”
But I will know what I’m up to, and the dozens of them will know what I’m up to.
My gut clenches.
See, the thing is: I don’t have to do this.
I know I don’t.
Logically and realistically, I know I can walk away right now and go home—that would be the right thing to do.
Nothing will happen to me other than…
…these girls not accepting me as one of them.
Treating me like a bottom feeder for the remainder of my time here.
And while I don’t need to be their best friends (let’s face it, who wants friends like this), it will certainly make life easier.
Crap.
Crap, crap, crap.
“We can’t stand out here all night. My feet are getting sore.” Tamlin flashes her gams, feet buckled into heels that have to be four inches high. How she walks in those is beyond me. “Don’t tell me I wore these shoes for nothin’.”
Tamlin is from the south, too, but her accent is thicker than mine.
“Fine.”
“Remember,” says a vaulter named Clarissa, “he has to be ugly. Like, you wouldn’t want to bang him.”
Ugly.
“Would you please not use that word?” My good conscience shivers. “I’m not here to bang anyone, let alone a guy inside this house. I’m here for a degree.” And I’ve almost got it.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, move it along Miss Smarty-Pants.” Ronnie nudges me toward the house. “Blah blah blah, study, study. We get it.”
Having had enough, I stalk toward the door, long hurdle runner’s legs taking the pavers in stride, stomping angrily up the ramshackle steps.
As if I wasn’t nervous enough, one of the boards is rotten and needs to be replaced, causing me to misstep and almost trip the entire rest of the way forward.
The front door swings open before I can reach for the knob, noise and bright light blinding me.
Behind me, ten members of the university’s women’s track team press against my back, smiles pasted on their faces, simpering salutations streaming from their mouths.
“Well, well, well, look who it is,” a tall guy says, ushering us inside. “Ronnie Baker, fastest girl in town. Haven’t seen you out in an age.” He leans down to kiss her on the cheek.
“Aww, Nate, fastest girl in town? You’re so sweet.” She reaches up to itch the bottom of his stubbly chin. “Where’s the keg? Back deck or kitchen?”
His mammoth hand points. “Back deck.”
She blows him a kiss. “We have a curfew this weekend so we won’t be staying long. Training starts Monday.”
“But you’re here now.” He wiggles his eyebrows and slides an arm around her waist. “Let me have one of the rookies get you something to drink.”
Nate’s arm rises, and he cocks a finger until two brooding lummoxes amble our direction; he promptly gives them instructions to fetch ten cups of their finest cheap beer on tap.
I assess them.
Both tall.
Both average.
One smiling, one frowning.
The girls watch me watching the boys, smirks aplenty.
My head shakes. No. Neither of them will do because, dress them up? They’d be passably handsome.
Unfortunately for me, I have to stand here awkwardly scanning the room like a creep, eyes darting here and there, narrowly avoiding eye contact with a few dudes trying to meet mine.
Not today, bro. Not today.
Not him.
Not him.
Not that guy. Or that one.
Not the guy behind the makeshift bar dealing cards to a few girls.
And most certainly not the freshly shaved prep with the pink polo shirt standing in the corner—way too good-looking.
Every single one of these guys seems too confident.
Too big, too cocky.
Too in shape to be unattractive.
I won’t lie, one of the things that attracts me is a guy who takes care of his body the same way I take care of mine; he doesn’t have to be perfect, but if he’s not eating slop for every meal and exercising?
I call that a win.
Why would they bring me to a house full of athletes? It’s just setting me up for failure! These guys are all attract—
Wait.
Who is this now?
A giant mountain of a guy has just entered the living room through a side doorway, plastic beer cup suspended halfway to his lips.
He’s smiling down at something another guy is saying, and I catch a gap in his front teeth.
I squint: is that a gap, or does he actually have missing teeth?
His cheek is noticeably bruised, and his bottom lip has a gash. The closer he gets, the more dry blood I can see on his face—as if he couldn’t be bothered to wash it from his skin properly.
Shaggy hair that could use a trim.
Rumpled shirt, like he rolled out of bed to join the party.
Of course, that alone does not an ugly man make—he’s not. Not really. But the combination of things—the bumps, the scars, the hair, the clothes—certainly make him a fitting candidate for my task.
Perhaps tomorrow in the morning light, he’ll have shaved and thrown on some clean clothes.
But for tonight, he’s not looking all that cute.
Ten out of ten would not bang him.
“Be right back,” I tell Ronnie on the sly, stepping forward toward my mark, anxious to end my own misery, striding toward the other side of the room so I can breathe—the teammates at my back are not a comforting force. They’re stifling and breathing down my neck like a gaggle of micromanaging biddies eager to watch me crash and burn.
I will not allow that to happen.
With more confidence than I’m feeling, I do a quick lap of the room, giving my teammates the show they obviously want. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me only about half of them are paying attention—Ronnie, Tamlin, and Clarissa all have their eyes glued to me.
Ugh.
My target pays me no mind—obviously, since he has no idea I exist or that I’m in the same room, watching him.
I notice several other sets of eyes watching him, too, and give him another once-over.
He’s tall—one of the tallest guys in the room.
Big.
Broad.
Did I say that already?
Muscular but not in a gym-rat sort of way.
But man, that shirt he’s got on…
He clearly gives no fucks.
I toss my hair—I have it down so it falls straight down my back, though the dark strands are normally kept in a messy top bun. My hair is also usually an air-dried disaster. Bedhead. Rushed.
I am no supermodel myself, but I do alright, though it’s been an age since I’ve actually been on a first date.
You don’t have to go out with this person. Ronnie’s voice echoes in my head. The goal is to ask him out and bring him to us so we know you’ve done the thing.
Okay. Right.
&nb
sp; I don’t have to go out with this guy.
He looks like a man, kind of—more mature than the rest of them. How is that possible when we’re all around the same age?
I feel like a stalker hunting its prey, my second lap around the room almost complete.
Such a creep, Georgia!
Good gracious, what would your mama say about this?
She’d be dang pissed.
A short perky-looking girl says something to make the guy laugh; he tilts his head back and bellows out, Adam’s apple bobbing, stubble covering his entire neck.
He needs to shave.
Beards aren’t really my thing, but then again, I was raised by a father who wore a button-down dress shirt and tie daily to the office. The first thing Dad does every morning when he wakes is go to the bathroom to shave.
No mustache, no beard, never any stubble.
I cock my head, gathering more details before realizing I’m wasting time; he’s the most unattractive guy in this room if I’m judging him against the guys in this room.
Not that he’s all that unfortunate-looking. It’s just…
I have this one job—one goal. One mission.
He’ll do.
He’s what I need to get my tush back out the door, back home in bed, and back in the good graces of my team.
Mustering up my courage is hard; it feels much like being in a national championship. Waiting for the starting pistol to go off at the start of a race.
Sweaty palms.
Beating heart.
I’m not short by any means, but he towers over me when I’m finally close enough to touch him, giving him two taps on the arm when his attention is free from onlookers.
The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself or have anyone overhear me.
I would die.
Not sure if he felt me the first time, I tap him again, more firmly.
