Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  Fifteen

  Ashley

  My truck smells like Georgia’s perfume.

  House, too.

  The fridge is stocked with her food, little reminders of her presence beginning to scatter throughout the house: her shoes by the back door next to mine.

  A snuggly blanket on the couch in the den.

  Fuzzy socks on the floor.

  A bra left in the washing machine.

  The bra I didn’t need to see or touch, but it was clinging to my sweatpants when I pulled them out of the dryer—a baby blue confection like nothing I would have pictured her wearing.

  Nothing chaste or prim about it.

  Sheer.

  Lacy.

  Not sure why, but I imagined her in something white. Or gray. Sports bras as everyday attire, not that I was imagining her in underwear, but maybe bras that come in a three-pack from Costco or something—not lingerie from Victoria’s Secret.

  I think about that bra later in the day when I’m rushing to a communications class. Think about it again when I’m running laps around the field for practice. Think about it in the locker room at the field house after I hop out of the shower and am lacing up my trainers.

  “Ash, bro—do you have a spare set of cleats I can borrow?” A chap by the name of Will comes up behind me, already dressed. “Andy said you’re a size thirteen too, and I busted the toe out of mine tonight.”

  I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Yeah, I have a spare pair.”

  A few of them, actually; it’s no hardship to lend one out.

  “Cool—can I come grab them?”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll see you before practice tomorrow as I’m coming straight from a doctor’s appointment—having my balls checked out.”

  I stare at him blankly. “You are not.”

  Will laughs. “No, I’m not—I’m getting tested for STDs.” He laughs again. “Just started dating this chick and she won’t have sex with me until she knows I’m clean.”

  Makes sense.

  I finish tying my second trainer, standing and pulling a hoodie over my head. “Yeah, you can follow me home. I can grab the cleats for you.”

  I’m not in the mood to have anyone over—the guys tend to linger—but if he needs them before tomorrow and I have zero reason not to give them up…

  “Cool. Preston and I will follow you.”

  Preston?

  Ugh.

  Oh shite, that’s right—Preston is Will’s roommate, and Will drives the kid everywhere as if he were his chauffer.

  I grab my duffle bag and we walk to the parking lot, my two teammates and me throwing greetings at other athletes coming in and out of the building to get their workout in.

  They tail me to my place, and I have no choice but to invite them in considering they’re both breathing down my neck at the side door to the kitchen.

  “Do you have food?” Will asks as soon as he steps inside, heading straight for the fridge.

  When he pulls out a large container of strawberries and sets them on the counter then goes for the cut-up cantaloupe, I begin shaking my head.

  “You can’t have those. Sorry, put it back.”

  “Why not?” He stares down at the containers with longing. “I’m hungry.”

  “They’re not mine, they’re my roommate’s.”

  Preston sits himself down at the counter and makes himself comfortable. “Since when do you have a roommate?”

  Since when does he keep track of my business?

  “Since last weekend.”

  He scrunches up his face. “You have a dude living here who eats that much fruit? Bro.”

  “He is a she. My roommate is a female.”

  “Whoa. Hold up—you’re living with a chick?” Will cranes his neck to look around, as if Georgia will magically appear.

  And she does.

  She chooses that moment to walk through the kitchen door, hair down, breeze making it blow up around her like she’s got a goddamn wind machine following her around.

  Pink cheeks.

  Pink lips.

  Surprise widening her eyes.

  Crap.

  “Oh hey.” She shuts the door behind her, kicking off her shoes and moving them out of the way. “Hi.”

  I grunt. “That’s Preston and his roommate, Will. They stopped by but were just leaving.”

  “We weren’t just leaving.” Preston grins. “Sorry, Will was going to eat your fruit, but Jones here wouldn’t let him.”

  “Aww—that’s nice of you,” she says with a smile. “But you can have some, really I don’t mind.”

  She can’t afford for these arseholes to be eating all her food, especially the fruit—that shite is the most expensive thing at the damn grocery store.

  I glare at Will until he shrinks two sizes and leaves the barstool to put the strawberries and cantaloupe back in the fridge. He looks back at me, gesturing.

  I roll my eyes. “You can make a sandwich.” All of that shite is mine: the bread, the turkey meat, the mayo and mustard.

  He groans, not happy, but begins plucking the stuff out and putting it all on the counter, throwing a sandwich together for himself, never mind us.

  “What’s your name?” Will asks Georgia.

  “Georgia.”

  “Cute.” He says it in a way and looks at her in a way that wouldn’t make you guess he just started dating someone he’s going to the doctor tomorrow for.

  Wanker.

  “You’re tall for a girl.”

  “Um. Thanks?”

  “How did you meet this scrotum?” Preston asks her, reducing me to a ball bag with absolutely no shame.

  It makes Georgia giggle prettily. “We met at a party—at the rugby house.”

  “And you’ve been best friends ever since.”

  Another giggle. “Something like that.”

  “Are you single?” Will comes out with it, not mincing words, taking his first bite of my bread and meat, leaning his hip against my counter, gazing at my roommate with interest.

  “Yes I’m single.”

  Both my teammate and his mate look from me to Georgia, then back again, gazes flitting back and forth.

  “You’re single and he’s single and you’re not…” Will’s voice trails off.

  “Hey,” I demand. “Watch it.”

  His free hand goes up. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just asking if you’re banging or if she’s available to take on a date—calm your tits.”

  If he’s trying to sweet-talk her, he has a shitty way of going about it. Banging and tits in the same sentence? That’s how he intends to approach her for a date?

  What a fucking twat.

  Even I have more wherewithal than that when it comes to women.

  “I’m standing right here,” Georgia says, advancing into the kitchen with a roll of her eyes, backpack still slung over her shoulder.

  She snatches up an apple and tosses it in the air as she walks out of the room.

  I hear her seconds after, clomping up the steps to her room.

  “Way to go, idiot.” Preston smacks his roommate on the arm.

  “What? I was just asking a question.”

  “Now she thinks you’re a pig.”

  Will shrugs. “Plenty of fish in the sea, my friend. I cast a wide net.”

  I only stand there a few more seconds before springing into action, heading to the laundry room off the kitchen. “Let me grab those shoes for you so you can be on your way.”

  My tone leaves no room for discussion, but that doesn’t mean shite with these blokes sometimes.

  Stubborn and oblivious as fuck.

  I fetch the spare cleats—conveniently, they’re hanging on a hook where I spy them immediately—and walk them back to Will.

  “Here.”

  He stands and takes them. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.”

  Will nods to his roommate, giving him the universal signal for ‘Let’s get
out of here.’

  Fine by me; I’m knackered and want to put my pajamas on and watch the telly before heading to bed, and I don’t need these buffoons cramping my style more than they already have in the past fifteen minutes.

  I bound upstairs, stopping by Georgia’s room before going into mine.

  Give a knock.

  “Come in.”

  She’s on her floor, legs crossed, mobile in hand. I must have interrupted her playing on social media.

  Also—she’s in leggings and a sports bra and nothing else.

  “Hey.” She greets me with a smile. “Your friends gone?”

  “Those aren’t my friends,” I clarify. “Well, Will is on my team, but his roommate is a blithering imbecile. I stake no claim to him.”

  Georgie laughs. “Plenty of blithering imbeciles walking around campus. Not your fault.”

  It’s not, but…

  “What are you working on?” I blurt out, despite the fact that it’s obvious she’s not working on anything, just tinkering on her mobile.

  “Eh, nothing really, just looking at Instagram. I have to shower.” She lifts her arm and smells her pits, something I’ve seen lads do but never a girl.

  I must look appalled because she begins cackling out a laugh.

  “You should see your face. Oh my gosh, it’s hilarious.” More laughter. “I’m sorry, that was bad manners, but I couldn’t resist.”

  I scoff. “I don’t judge anyone for their breaches of etiquette—I just can’t help the fact that I’ve had deportment drilled into me from the womb.” That sounded so fucking stuffy. “Try being on the rugby team surrounded by Neanderthals. You sniffing your pits is nothing—I watch blokes walk around naked scratching their nut sacks on the regular.”

  Should I have said that? Was that crossing a line?

  I’m trying to treat her like a lady but also my roommate, and the line is confusing. She’s not one of the guys, but we’re also not romantically involved so I don’t have to impress her.

  But.

  I want to.

  Damn if I don’t.

  “Are you hungry? I have a rotisserie chicken in the fridge from yesterday that’s still good—you’re welcome to it.”

  Georgie leans back, resting against her bed. “That does sound good. I think I’ll take a shower before I eat, then hang out downstairs.” She looks up at me from the floor. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

  “Yeah, I could do that.”

  She pokes her mobile with the tip of her finger. “It’s almost seven…let’s meet on the couch in forty-five minutes?”

  “Cool.”

  Cool?

  I have got to get back to Britain—I’m losing the one and only edge I have over these American blokes: class.

  * * *

  Georgia isn’t wearing anything revealing when she comes back down to the den; in fact, she’s essentially wearing what amounts to a paper sack. Or scrubs.

  Baggy.

  Loose.

  Worn and ratty, even.

  Fine, so maybe baggy and ratty is a bit uncharitable—but the point is, she isn’t trying to impress me or lure me by putting on an outfit that’s sexy or revealing.

  She does look cute though.

  Real cute.

  Gray university sweatpants. Red track and field t-shirt from her old school. Bare feet.

  Hair piled on the top of her head in a messy bun.

  I busy myself on the couch unfolding the blanket, all the while sniffing the air for traces of fresh shower and body spray.

  She’s still wet.

  Her hair is wet, I mean.

  When she’s seated on the other side of the couch, I toss her the remote and tell her she gets to choose the show; we watched what I wanted to Saturday, the night she moved in, the one and only time we’ve watched the telly together.

  Georgia holds the remote up, pointing it toward the TV, biting on her bottom lip.

  “I’m not sure what I’m in the mood to watch. How about a thriller? Wait, no—that might give me nightmares.”

  On she goes, flipping through the menu of regular channels. Clicking over to cable, then to the subscription accounts.

  She settles on a movie that was just released, still hedging, not wanting to choose something that’s a stinker, something I’ll hate and give her total shite about later.

  Which I will if it sucks.

  We settle in, all the lights off downstairs except the one above the stove, the room taking on the feel of a small theater.

  I put my feet up on the ottoman.

  She puts her feet up on the ottoman.

  I have a blanket. She has a blanket.

  It’s all very cozy and oh so platonic.

  The movie she’s chosen is fine; if we’re being real right now, I’m barely paying attention. I’m thinking about rugby and the match we just lost, the shitty way I played—which is unlike me—the call from Dad about Jack and how he’s faring at the office.

  My parents are nagging me about when I’ll be home, pushing me to get on a flight as soon as graduation is over and start the life I’ve been bred to live.

  Every day closer we get to graduation, the inquiries increase.

  Mostly Mum.

  Dad cares, but he’s got his head buried in too many social functions and work to ride my arse about it like she does.

  Not much either can do all the way from jolly ol’ England; it’s not as if they’re hopping on a plane to help me pack my shite, either. If they intend to drag me home immediately at the end of the semester, they’ll have to work a bit harder for it.

  It’s not as easy to ignore Georgia sitting there, looking quite fetching in her attempts to be camouflaged. She’s even wearing a bra, which hasn’t escaped my notice.

  Who wears a bra when they’re home in their pajamas?

  Not that I know anything about women and their nocturnal habits, but aren’t undergarments uncomfortable? Don’t women usually tear them off as soon as they walk in the front door?

  So maybe it’s a sign that she’s not as immune to me as I thought she was. Or maybe she just doesn’t want me staring at her boobs, because chances are at some point her nipples are going to harden because it’s cold in this room, and I’ll be able to see those through the thin t-shirt material and that would be awkward.

  I won’t be able to stop myself from looking—I am only human after all, and it’s been hella long since I’ve been laid.

  Nipples.

  Tits.

  Crap. The thoughts have me shifting uncomfortably, dick stirring inside my sweatpants rather inconveniently, and I promise I’m not usually a pervert.

  Is this me being a pervert, or is this me fighting off an attraction I didn’t think I had?

  Fuck.

  Do I have a crush on my roommate? She hasn’t even been here a blasted week!

  This can’t be happening.

  My cheeks redden with a blush, something I haven’t done since one of the teachers at boarding school caught me jerking off in my dorm room when I was supposed to be outside for a routine fire drill.

  It was horribly uncomfortable for both of us.

  Almost as uncomfortable as I feel right now, the twitching in my pants inconvenient and—if it gets any bigger—embarrassing.

  I can’t get up. I have to sit here and stop thinking about boobs and bare skin.

  Georgia giggles at something on the telly, and I readjust.

  “You didn’t think that was funny?” Her voice cuts through the tension she doesn’t realize is there.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you even paying attention?” she accuses, pausing the program.

  “Of course I’m paying attention.”

  “What just happened then?”

  “I didn’t realize there was going to be a quiz.”

  “You’re right.” She lowers the remote, unpausing it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…never mind. Sorry.”

  She says it twice, and I feel like a miserable cow.
/>   “Don’t apologize. I’m just preoccupied.”

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Just had one of those days.”

  She sets the remote down and leans forward as if to rise from the couch. “Do you want me to get you anything from the kitchen? I was thinking about a snack.”

  “Uh. Sure.”

  She’s watching me expectantly.

  “Whatever you’re having is good.”

  Happily, she bounds off, shuffling about the kitchen whilst the movie plays—I have no idea what’s happening on screen, nor do I care. I only know that what’s happening in my pants is not okay.

  For two more hours I sit like this—two—relief coming only in the form of me climbing into bed once the movie is over, pulling the covers over my body.

  Huffing and turning this way and that, unable to find a comfortable spot to rest my head.

  Since when is this pillow so lumpy?

  Restless and suddenly crazy horny, I say, “Fuck it,” before shoving down the band of my sweatpants, over my hips, kicking them to the bottom of the bed along with my boxer briefs.

  My hand sneaks down my stomach the short distance to my stiff cock, the voice in my head rationalizing what I’m about to do.

  This is not about her, this is not about her, this is not about her.

  Except it’s Georgia I see when my eyes slide closed, hair down, shy smile on her lips the night she walked up to me at the rugby house. Behind my closed lids, she’s only wearing a sports bra, tits pushed up, skin tan from all the running she does outside.

  Her lips are pink.

  No, no, no—her lips are not pink!

  They’re…they’re…

  Chapped.

  Beige. Plain.

  Nothing plump or sexy about them.

  You bloody liar.

  There’s absolutely nothing I can tell myself at the moment to get my mind off of my roommate, who is no doubt fast asleep or snuggled in bed just down the hall, oblivious to my lecherous thoughts of her.

  This dick will not go down without a fight.

  I feel like such a creep.

  I feel like such a fraud.

  I feel like I’m letting her down thinking of her this way, in the least friendly way a man can think of a woman. Out of the friend zone, out of the roommate zone, and into my bed.