Jock Rule

by Sara Ney

  I wasn’t doing it on purpose, and this guy?

  He noticed.

  I glance around, wondering if anyone else did too.

  Shit. How embarrassing.

  “Why do you keep coming back if you’re just going to stand here all night?”

  “What do you mean, keep coming back?”

  “Last weekend you did the same thing—walked over to the keg and stood there.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  Who the hell is this guy?

  “How do you know? Were you watching me?”

  His broad shoulders shrug—no, not broad. Mammoth. Wide. Expansive. All better words to describe the width of this guy’s amazing upper body.

  I avert my curious gaze.

  This guy is freaking huge, his intelligent, intense gaze following mine across the room curiously when they land on some guy with shocking red hair near the kitchen wearing a bright blue polo shirt. “You like Jasper Winters?”

  “Who?” My palms are sweating, making the cup in my hand slippery. “I don’t even know him.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know him—like, biblically?”

  “What? No! Jeez, all I did was look in his direction. Would you stop?” What is with this dude? I try to steer the conversation. “And how do you know I was standing by the keg last weekend?”

  Those bright, caramel colored brown eyes bore into me. Roll. “I saw you.”

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “Well no shit. But why?”

  “I was holding up the wall over there, and it was hard not to notice when you didn’t move the entire night. You know”—he tips his cup in my direction—“kind of like you’re doing right now.” He finally lets the hose from the keg drop to the floor. “There. Now you’re officially off duty—let them pour their own fucking beer.”

  His voice has a timbre so low, my cheeks flush to the point I’m tempted to cool them with the palms of my hands. It’s deep and masculine and—

  “Rule one: if you’re going to date one of these guys, you can’t be a pussy.”

  I’m sorry, did he just say…the P word?

  Now I’m blushing for an entirely different reason. He could have chosen any other word in the dictionary but that one. Wuss. Chicken. Wimp.

  But no. He went with pussy and made my cheeks flush so fast I can feel the blood flow hit my face.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t be a pussy,” he repeats casually, taking a deep chug of the beer inside his red cup.

  “I…I… Who says I want to date one of”—my hands flail through the air helplessly as I choke on the rest of my words—“these guys?”

  He takes another chug. Another swallow.

  Raises a thick brow. “Don’t you?”

  My hands smooth down the front pleats of my yellow skirt and when I look up, I notice his eyes tracking my fingers.

  “No! I mean, not these guys specifically.” And not just any guy. A gentleman—someone smart, who can make me laugh and have a good time. Someone on a career track so I—we—never have to struggle financially—like my Mom always had to after my dad walked out on her. Us.

  Someone—

  “Uh…hello?”

  He says it in that tone you reserve for your idiot friends who can’t take a hint or don’t have a clue.

  Nice.

  Our eyes connect when I look up. He’s so tall I have to stretch my neck and tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

  This guy. How do I describe him?

  Crude. He’s already said pussy twice, and the set of his lips is sarcastic, even if no words are coming out of them at the moment.

  He’s a giant, taller than anyone else in the room—or anyone I’ve ever met for that matter. Six three? Six five?

  Definitely too hairy.

  My eyes rake down his chest—his shirt is actually nice, looks expensive, despite the droplets of beer soaking in beneath the logo on his right pec. His hair is dirty blond and long, pulled up into a topknot—much like the one I wear when I’m in a rush and have no time to do my hair, only his is messier.

  He has a mustache and beard too—not one of those neatly groomed, manscaped ones that are so trendy right now.

  No.

  His is…unkempt, untrimmed, burly. Kind of pre-mountain man meets college hobo meets mass murderer in training. I’ve never seen a beard like this on a college kid. Once, in high school, there was this wrestler with one, a big, burly, farm kid who gave zero shits about what anyone thought. He did what he wanted, including sporting a beard, which I don’t think was allowed. He looked older than most of the faculty.

  The thought makes me smile. Shit, what was his name…Mitch? Darren?

  “Hi.” His deep voice snaps me out of my perusal. “My eyes are up here.”

  Somewhere is a mouth—one I faintly detect. Somewhere, I want to sass, shadowed by one of the most ridiculous mustaches I’ve ever seen on a grown man. Can barely tell if his lips are tipped into a smile or in a straight, serious line. It’s impossible to be sure if he’s joking or not.

  I lift my chin and study him. Unwavering eyes. Purposeful gaze, unflinching. Straight brows.

  Oh.

  Crap, he isn’t kidding—I think it’s seriously bothering him that I’m checking out his body.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t staring.” I mean, I was, but not to be rude. Merely curious.

  What was his original point? Pussy—god, that word—and something about rules and dating and the guys in this place?

  Beards.

  Jesus, my eyes are straying again and I swear I’m not doing it on purpose—there is just too much to see. His large brown eyes, the bushy brows. The man bun, the beard.

  This guy is so freaking…

  Hairy.

  And intense.

  I give my head a physical shake. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

  He expels a loud sigh. “We were talking about how if you’re going to date one of the guys here, you can’t be such a goddamn pussy.”

  “No we weren’t. I never said anything about dating guys here—you did.”

  He snorts then takes a drag from the cup in his hand. “Please. Everyone wants to date the guys around here.”

  “Rugby players?” I scoff, disguising my snort with a cough. “I don’t think so.”

  “Rugby players isn’t what I meant—I meant athletes at this school in general.” He lifts a leg, propping his massive booted foot on top of the metal keg. “But what’s wrong with rugby players?”

  “Nothing!” I don’t want to offend him, it’s just… “Nothing is wrong with them, but I don’t think they’re any girl’s first choice in the hierarchy.”

  That sounded so rude, the candor surprising me, and I clamp a hand over my lips to shut myself up.

  I shouldn’t have any more beer.

  “Well even if that’s not the case, you are without a doubt the worst jersey chaser I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen shit tons of them come through these parties. You’re terrible.”

  “Did you just call me a…a…” I can’t even get the words out.

  “Jersey chaser? Yeah. You didn’t hear me stutter, did you?”

  “What would make you say that?” I’m one second away from clutching a hand to my chest at the indignation of it all.

  “Dude, you’ve been here two weekends in a row, chatting up everyone and standing next to the keg—that’s prime real estate. That’s where all the guys congregate.”

  Is it? I guess I hadn’t noticed.

  “I did not do that on p-purpose!” I’m sputtering. Actually sputtering.

  The giant takes another long pull from his cup. Swallows, his Adam’s apple somewhere in his throat concealed by all the hair. He’s in desperate need of a shave but clearly does not give a shit.

  “Whatever you say, jersey chaser.” His drawl is nonchalant, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me.

  “I don’t!” Wait, that didn’t make sense. “I’m not!” />
  Those wide, lumberjack shoulders shrug. “Whatever you say.”

  “Stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Agreeing with me in a patronizing manner.” God do I sound like a prig.

  One of his dark brows rises. “A patronizing manner? What the fuck is that? It sounds exactly like something my mom would say.”

  Could this conversation get any worse?

  “Look, man.” The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, further adding to my stuffy demeanor, but honestly, I have no idea what to say. “Thanks for the advice, but I don’t think I need it.” Especially not from someone who looks like he just emerged from the wilderness after being lost for a month.

  “Just trying to help.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  His shoulders hunch as he laughs, and they shake a little with the action. “Sure you don’t.”

  Pretty sure I’m gaping, mouth wide open. “I don’t! And I wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone so—whatever!”

  “Then you were doing a great job.” His mustache twitches. “Until your friends showed up.”

  Okay. Now he has my full attention, and I jut out a hip. “What about my friends?”

  “They’re cock-blockers.”

  Huh? “No they’re not.”

  “So you weren’t flirting with Smith Jackson, and tonight you weren’t flirting with Ben Thompson, and your dark-haired friend didn’t come up and steal them both away?”

  Wait…what? How does he know all this? “Smith Jackson who?”

  I have no idea which guy he’s talking about, but they’ve all been nice. And so what if they’ve all walked off with Mariah? I wasn’t interested in them anyway.

  “Were you watching me last week too?”

  He shrugs. “Yes.”

  His honestly confuses me. Most guys would lie or make up a lame excuse. “Why?”

  “I had nothing better to do.”

  Well then. “And you don’t think that’s strange?”

  “Nope—not when you’re bored.” The guy snorts through the hair growing under his Grecian nose. “It’s not like I’m interested in you.”

  Wow. “Gee, thanks.”

  “No offense.” He looks like he couldn’t care less if he’s insulted me.

  “None taken?”

  He laughs again. “You sure about that? Now you look kind of pissed.”

  Not pissed—but slightly offended. And embarrassed. And confused.

  “Listen, I’m not trying to be a dick, okay? But you can’t come into a house like this and act like a deer caught in headlights. That just makes you an easy target. And if you’re interested in someone, you can’t stand there when one of your idiot friends hits on him and do nothing about it.” His voice is a baritone and drones on, doling out more unsolicited advice. “You can’t let your friends walk all over you.”

  What the hell is he talking about? “I don’t!”

  A pair of chocolate brown eyes settle toward the ceiling. “You’re in total denial. Your dark-haired friend is a total asshole—the female equivalent of a douchebag.”

  Is he talking about Mariah? “Okay, this conversation is over.”

  “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

  “I’m walking away now.” My feet stay rooted to the spot.

  The guy smirks…I think—it’s hard to tell with all the hair covering his mouth, but a set of straight, pearly white teeth flash, causing me to blink upward.

  And now I’m staring again.

  “Go. Don’t let me stop you.” I swear, he keeps taking sips of his beer for dramatic flare, flawlessly timed pauses. “Have fun.”

  Annoying.

  “I will.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “I will.” Why am I arguing with this guy? Jeez, Teddy, stop repeating yourself or he’ll think you’re a moron. Not true, I continue protesting to myself, because he already does. Thinks he’s so damn smart, watching everyone from the corner like a creeper. Judging.

  Mariah is not a cock-blocker! She would never…

  Besides, I scoff, it’s not like I wanted any of those guys to hit on me—we were just talking. I was standing at the keg, and they came up for beer, not to hit on me. And I certainly would never hit on a guy—not on purpose, anyway.

  If Mariah, Cameron, and Tessa happened to come up at that exact same time and join the chat, and Mariah just happened to have better chemistry with someone, that has nothing at all to do with me.

  She would never purposely…

  I feel my brow tighten and furrow, glancing at my feet, at the open-toed, brown leather wedges buckled around my ankles. Cute. Pretty.

  Sunk into the worn, stained carpet that’s been beat to hell from all the abuse, still standing in the spot I just declared I was walking away from.

  My gaze wanders, settling on those stupid work boots.

  Who wears that kind of footwear these days? Seriously? Lumberjacks, construction workers, and bad male rappers, that’s who, not twenty-something-year-old college guys at a house party. What is he even doing?

  My lips purse with annoyance.

  My eyes slide up his denim-clad legs, quickly passing over the slight bulge of his crotch—he doesn’t have a hard-on, but since I know he has a dick in his pants, naturally I want to look. Narrow waist. Belt. T-shirt half tucked at his hips.

  Broad chest.

  “Hey, look at you, leaving and shit. Good job following through.” With one hand clasped around his red cup, he smacks it with the other in a mock clap, holding it forward so it doesn’t spill.

  My god, could he embarrass me any more?

  “Your friends went that way.” He points, the mammoth paw at the end of his hairy arm raised and directed toward the back of the house.

  “Thanks.”

  “No prob—I’m here to help.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Helping?”

  “I do what I can.”

  I cross my arms over my breasts, mindful that my cleavage is now plumped and uncomfortably on display. I immediately uncross them—from his bird’s-eye view, no doubt he can see right down the valley between my boobs. “I didn’t ask for you to give me advice or stalk my friends or cast judgment on me.”

  “Then you shouldn’t make it so damn easy.” He has the nerve to laugh, tipping back his beard-covered neck. The stubble is thick and dark blond, and I want to pull on it to get him to stop talking.

  A few deeps breaths and I’ve sorted my insides out, quelling the unease that has been growing in the pit of my stomach. I smooth a hand over my abs, down the pleats in my pretty yellow sundress—a nervous habit I’ve caught myself doing on more than one occasion.

  Expel a long, drawn-out breath he won’t be able to hear above the noise.

  “It was nice meeting you.”

  Only it wasn’t, because we didn’t actually meet. I have no idea what his name is, where he’s from, what his deal is.

  He tilts his head. “Same.”

  “Bye.”

  When I chance a glance over my shoulder, the behemoth is watching, cup to his lips. It’s paused there, suspended, dark eyes boring into me.

  Wow. He really is freaking huge. And honestly, not polite and not at all cute.

  With a grimace, I give my head a shake and keep walking.

  THIRD FRIDAY

  “The Friday where he’s a combination of Neanderthal and Prince Charming.”

  Teddy

  This is the third weekend in a row we’ve been at the rugby house, and I don’t have any solid proof, but I’m almost positive Mariah is hooking up with one of them. She hasn’t said anything to me about it, but why else would we keep coming back? She either likes someone here or she’s already sleeping with them.

  I fiddle with the cup in my hand, conscious of the fact that once again, I’ve been left alone to fend for myself while my childhood friend works the room, having ditched me within minutes of our arrival.

  It stings a little, if I�
��m being honest.

  I wouldn’t have come tonight if I had known she was going to once again leave me hanging.

  She never used to be like this; in high school, we were inseparable. When we began applying to colleges, against her parents’ and my mom’s better judgment, we applied to all the same schools. Lived together in the dorms our freshmen and sophomore years. Now, it’s our junior year.

  We used to be attached at the hip, and now it seems I’ve become a second thought where Mariah is concerned.

  In any case, I’m not going to get stuck standing by the keg tonight and risk the chance of being caught by that…that…

  Guy.

  He weirds me out, not because he’s creepy or perverted, but because he’s way too honest, and it makes me uncomfortable. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t need to have things sugarcoated, but he did bring up a subject that’s been on my mind a lot lately and that I’ve been a bit salty about.

  Mariah taking advantage of our friendship. Of me.

  The fact that a complete stranger picked up on it is embarrassing. I’d like to avoid him if humanly possible. Tonight, I want to have fun, not have it thrown in my face that my friends keep throwing me over for boys.

  I move along the perimeter of the room, putting up the pretense that I’m not scanning the room for him.

  Him.

  That guy—whatever his name is.

  I wonder about that as I grip the cold red cup in my hand. Try to picture what a guy like that could possibly be named.

  What would I name a lumberjack baby if I had one?

  Billy Ray. John Boy? Duane.

  Cooter—that one makes me laugh, and I choke on the foam rimming my cup. The name Woody makes me laugh too, and by the time I look up and meet his eyes, I’m almost stupid giddy.

  He’s scowling at me, of course, and wearing a plaid flannel shirt, sleeves rolled and pushed to the elbow.

  His hair is up, twisted into a messy mop, long strands escaping at his temples, curling up and around his ears. It’s a gorgeous dirty blond, naturally streaked from the sun, a hue any girl would kill for and few could recreate.

  Skin tan, high cheekbones pink. Not ruddy, but close.

  The beard still long, although from here, it does look like he might have cleaned it up a bit? I have no interest in finding out—the last thing I want is for him to come over.