Jock Rule

by Sara Ney

  God no.

  I rotate my body, presenting him with my back, and come face to face with the keg.

  Dammit.

  Move to the side a few feet, creating more distance between us, not sure what to do with myself because once again, I’m standing in the middle of a party alone.

  I should be pissed at my friends, but the truth is, I’m relieved; standing with them is too much pressure. Too many people coming up to chat, too many guys coming up to flirt. Drunk guys make me nervous. Guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.

  Drunk guys who are hitting on us make me nervous.

  Unfortunately, that’s what I’m surrounded by, and unfortunately, I’ve been left to fend for myself.

  The party is packed—third weekend in a row. I make a silent vow not to return for a fourth, not if I can help it. I’m bored and, stifling a yawn, take a drag of my beer for lack of anything better to do.

  Stop watching me, I implore the hairy guy, still feeling his eyes on the back of my head.

  The skin on my neck prickles.

  Stop it. I’m not turning around.

  My nose twitches despite itself, my head gives a little shake.

  No.

  Jeez. Doesn’t he have anything better to do other than stand there and creep on people who want to be left alone? I mean, not that I’m alone, alone. We are, after all, in a room full of people.

  My gaze wanders.

  Is he still looking? I’m dying to look over my shoulder but square them instead, standing taller on the heels of my tall, brown boots. Tap a toe impatiently, craning my head to survey the room.

  If I tilt it just so, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye without actually having to turn my head? I test the theory, adding a hand to the column of my neck, faux-massaging it, lifting my cup to my lips.

  So smooth.

  Shift my eyes to the right.

  Heart plummeting to my stomach because those sullen brown eyes of his are indeed locked on my short frame. I’m not facing him, but they’re so bright and striking I can make them out nonetheless. Even shrouded amongst all that hair.

  Is he judging me? He must be—why else would he be attempting to telekinetically drill holes into the back of my skull? No doubt he thinks I’m a loser with no friends.

  No—he thinks I’m a loser with shitty friends.

  Big difference.

  He doesn’t like them and doesn’t even know them. Or me, for that matter.

  Judgy, arrogant asshole.

  My throat hmphs indignantly.

  A noise from the kitchen has my head jerking in that general direction. Two huge guys spill through the narrow door and into the living room. It looks like they’re fighting—or wrestling?

  I recognize one of the moves as a half nelson, and the entire scene suddenly escalates when one of the guys maneuvers his meaty right arm, hooks it around the others guy’s neck, and pulls the guy down. Down onto the dirty, disgusting shag carpet.

  Gross.

  They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.

  One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.

  The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.

  Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.

  Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.

  No luck.

  “Fuck you, Kissinger,” he slurs. “Let me the fuck up.”

  Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.

  The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.

  An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.

  A punch.

  Someone gets kicked and falls over as blood gushes from his nose.

  Girls scream—so dramatic—and a few guys on the perimeter of the room start shoving people forward, toward the fight. Why? I have no idea, but it creates chaos and more fists are thrown, this time from spectators, not the two dudes still on the floor.

  The person closest to me stumbles backward, and I take a step back to prevent myself from getting jostled. Another and another and my back is almost pressed firmly against the wall, eyes bugging out when half the room erupts into right hooks and punches.

  “Oh my god,” I say breathlessly as I exhale, the scene playing out in front of me a far cry from how the evening began.

  I measure the distance to the front door, the bodies in my way. The noise. The chanting and cheering from the idiots watching instead of breaking up the brawls.

  A large hand cuffs my arm and I barely have time to look down before I’m being ushered toward the exit, full cup of beer still clutched in my hand.

  When that warm hand leaves my bicep and juts out, clearing the way, I have time to glance over my shoulder for a look at my rescuer.

  The hairy guy whose name I haven’t figured out yet.

  Roy?

  Paul Bunyan without the ox. Without the axe.

  Rescuing me.

  But why?

  I whip around, an errant elbow slamming into my body, sending me lurching forward—backward? I don’t know. I can’t stand straight and would have hit the wall if not for…

  My beer cup goes soaring; his does too, splashing down the front of my dress. His chest. Cold and wet.

  Soaking us both.

  “Jesus H. Christ.” He sighs loudly enough for me to hear over the racket. The ruckus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  A giant paw is at the small of my back, his mammoth body shielding mine as he shoves through the people standing in our way. Like a linebacker on the football field—or, a rugby player, I guess? Whatever position blocks people on the rugby field.

  I’ve never seen it, so I have no clue.

  The air outside is cold, or maybe it just feels like it because I’m drenched in alcohol, the yellow stain on my pretty dress running the entire length of the now sheer cotton.

  The best part? I’m not wearing a bra.

  Shit.

  “I should text my friends to let them know I’m outside.”

  A curt nod. “You do what you gotta do.”

  Me: Outside

  A few minutes slowly tick by before Mariah replies: Outside where?

  Me: The party.

  Mariah: I left.

  What does she mean, she left? Without telling me?

  Me: Where are you?

  Mariah: I left like, an hour ago?

  Me: Why didn’t you tell me???

  Mariah: You were busy filling beer cups and stuff.

  Me: No, I wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for you all night. I didn’t even want to be here.

  Mariah: Whatever. The point is, I’ll be home in 20. Right now we’re at some guy Lance’s house and then I’m bringing him home.

  Me: What am I supposed to do while you have some guy in our apartment?

  Mariah and I share a room because we pay our own rent, live in a one-bedroom, and can’t afford anything bigger. It sucks, but at least we have our own place and don’t have to live in the traditional dorms—or one of those horrible off-campus rental houses infested with bats and outdated everything.

  I grew up living like that; I’m not doing it anymore.

  Mariah: It’s not a big deal, Teddy—just stay out on the couch.

  Me: And listen to sex noises all night?

  Mariah: I mean…don’t you have those noise-canceling headphones?

  Mariah: Shit, GTG. See you in like, half hour. K bye.

  There is no way I can spend the night at home if she has a guy there! No freaking way do I want to listen to them banging all night—Mariah is stupidly loud when she has sex, I
don’t think I could stand her bringing someone home tonight. She thinks being loud is a huge turn-on for guys, but really it sounds fake and porny, and I can’t believe she’d bring someone home without discussing it with me first.

  That’s always been our rule: before bringing home guests, male or female, give the other roomie a heads-up first.

  My brows furrow, dipping deep, creasing my forehead.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I spit it out in the way girls do when they’re pissed but don’t want to admit it.

  A snort. “Is it really nothing? Or are you doing that thing girls do where they say it’s nothing when it’s actually something, and deep down inside you’re pissed off and want to explode?”

  I can’t help it—I laugh because he’s right. It is something, and I am kind of pissed.

  “My roommate left an hour ago, went to a guy’s house, and didn’t tell me.” I give him the abbreviated version. He doesn’t need to know there is going to be a dude in my room having sex with my roommate in less than an hour.

  “Well let’s get you home then.”

  I wave him off with a sigh. “I can’t go home. She’s bringing the guy back to our place.”

  He glances toward the rugby house, gives his beard a few strokes. “So?”

  “She and I…share a bedroom.”

  “Well shit.” His drawl drags out, and this time he does sound like a hillbilly. It sounds like he’s saying whale sheet. “That ain’t cool.”

  No, it’s really not. Mariah knows I won’t want to be in the apartment with a strange guy there. She knows this and yet she’s doing it anyway instead of staying at his place. Or asking me first.

  “It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor in the hall outside our apartment.”

  Fluorescent lights. A stiff couch thousands of people have sat on. Probably a student or two or fifty will see me sleeping there and think I’m a loser.

  Awesome.

  The guy’s chuckle is deep, vibrating deep in his broad chest. He’s thoroughly amused. “You’re not sleeping in the GD hallway.”

  “The GD what?”

  “God damn.”

  The amused look on his bushy face turns to unexpected irritation, making me laugh despite myself and the circumstances, one of my shoulders shrugging. Pulling at the wet dress plastered to my chest, sending a cool shiver down my spine.

  I hug myself, rubbing at my upper arms. Shiver. “It’s not like I’ve never done it before. It’s only one night, and I can take a nap tomorrow.”

  “No. Fuck that.” He runs a hand through his hair, fiddling with the rubber band holding it back. Yanks it out, pulling it loose and shaking out his hair.

  It’s a lion’s mane, hitting just below his shoulders, wild and tangled and beautiful. A beautiful mess.

  With two hands, he scoops it back up, twisting it into a knot, the black rubber band looping around the strands as he mumbles, “Your friends are assholes, I swear to fucking God. Why do you put up with their shit?”

  I allow my mouth to fall open, because honestly? This night has gone to complete shit.

  “Please don’t start with that again. You don’t know them—or me.”

  “I know enough. They’ve ditched you three weekends in a row. If those were my friends, I would have told them to fuck off by now.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yup.” His nod is terse. “Just like that.”

  “I’m not you—I’m not a barbarian, I can’t just…” I wave my hand in the air aimlessly, searching for words. “I can’t.”

  He turns his broad back, starting toward the stairs leading down into the yard, long strides taking them one at a time. When he glances back at me, he says, “Are you coming with me or not?” I hesitate, one foot inching forward. “Yes or no?”

  Seconds pass and I bite down on my bottom lip. Where is he going?

  It’s dark out, obviously, and the only thing in the yard is him, some trash, and a few cars parked along the curb.

  Still, I haven’t gotten any creeper vibes from him; if anything, he’s been strangely…protective? Considering we don’t know each other whatsoever, it’s strange that the way my friends have been treating me lately seems to annoy him to no end.

  So weird.

  So…intriguing.

  I hustle down the steps after him, trying not to trip and kill myself once I hit the bottom, my shoe catching on the lip of the concrete slab anyway. Thankfully, I keep my balance.

  Look up, watching as he cuts across the grass, hands reaching for the hem of his black T-shirt, pulling the fabric up and over his long torso, presenting me with his bare back.

  His toned, ripped back.

  Muscles defined, his lattisimus dorsi is…

  Is…

  Um.

  I try not to stare even though he can’t see me, afraid that when he does finally whip around, he’ll find my eyes molesting his front side the way they’re molesting his rhomboid and trapezius, and holy shit, I can’t believe I know what these muscles are actually called.

  I also can’t believe how incredible his body is.

  It flexes when he balls up his shirt, walking to a shiny, black, luxury SUV parked at the curb. Its headlights flash brightly when he hits the remote to unlock it, cab illuminating as his voice calls out, “Get in.”

  Wow he’s bossy.

  And yet, before I know it, I’m inside the lavish vehicle, buckling the seat belt over my soaking wet dress, eyes fixed straight ahead out the window, carefully avoiding the naked upper torso he’s strapped in on the driver’s side.

  The engine roars to life, purring. “Where are we going?” I ask quickly.

  A long stretch of silence follows as he hits his turn signal and eases into the street. “My place.”

  What? No!

  “To do what exactly?”

  “Sleep?”

  “No! No, it’s fine, really. Just take me to the dorms—I’m in the upperclassman apartments on McClintock.”

  “I have a really nice place. You can crash with me. I really don’t give a shit.”

  “I-I can’t do that. I thought maybe we were going for cheeseburgers or something.” God I’m an idiot.

  “Why?” His face is contorted. “All we’re going to do is sleep.”

  In the dark, I raise my brows. Yeah right, they say.

  I’m almost insulted by his belted-out laughter. His cackle.

  I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “What’s so funny?”

  “You thinking I want to sleep with you.”

  “I do not think that!” We both know I’m lying.

  Another laugh. “Yes you do.” Pause. “Look, it’s fine—I’m not going to assault you or take advantage of you, trust me. I have zero interest in women, so your virtue is safe with me.”

  “Oh,” I mutter. Then, “Ooohhhhhh!!!”

  He gives me a sidelong glance and rolls his brown eyes, which are brightened by the street lights. “I’m not gay.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Well then don’t announce it like that. Being gay isn’t a big deal—I wouldn’t care, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you were.”

  “I know it’s not a big deal—but I’m not,” he grinds out through perfect teeth. “But I knew that was what you were thinking.”

  “Fine. That’s totally what I was thinking.”

  His grunt comes out of the dark, blinker for a right-hand turn ticking against the sudden quietness of the cab.

  “How could you tell?”

  “By the way you went Oohhh!!!” He mimics a high-pitched female voice so well my mouth curves into an amused grin. “All relieved and shit, like you just solved the freaking Pythagorean theorem.”

  I shoot him an agitated look.

  “It’s a math theory…”

  “I know what the Pythagorean theorem is, thanks.”

  You don’t earn a scholarship for enginee
ring without adding numbers and knowing some basic geometry.

  I might hate math, but I’m good at it, even though I still occasionally use fingers to do addition. Who doesn’t? I have zero shame, unless I’m sitting in front of my geometry professor. “Just so you know what you’re dealing with here. Don’t ever expect me to add my way out of a dangerous situation without a scientific calculator. We will both lose in a big way.”

  “Seriously? Math is so easy, I can do that shit in my head. And all the Pythagorean theorem does is state that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides and—”

  “I know all this, jockstrap.” I hold a hand up. “Please just stop.”

  I’ve had a few beers and don’t want to talk about classes right now, especially mathematics.

  Quick, what’s fourteen plus thirty-seven? Answer: I have no damn idea, leave me alone.

  “Do you want to stop by your place real quick and grab a change of clothes?”

  I do a quick calculation of the odds I’ll run into Mariah and whoever it is she’s bringing home, figure it’ll be safe to dash in if I make it quick, and nod my head.

  “Yes, please. I live in Dautry.”

  “Got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  It takes me less than five minutes to race down the hall to our place (we live on the first floor), grab a tank top, shorts, and underwear out of my dresser, and run back out to the waiting SUV.

  It idles in the still of night, a lone figure looming inside the cab patiently, his profile hairy and bearded, the outline of his topknot silhouetted in the dark.

  I hide a smile.

  “Thanks,” I repeat once I climb back in, and I get a chin tilt in return.

  Respecting that he’s not in the mood for chatter, we don’t speak again until we’re finally on the outskirts of campus and out of town, turning into a residential area, the kind with families and professors, not students and party houses.

  At the end of a driveway, he pulls into the garage of a red brick Tudor that looks like it came out of the pages of storybook.

  “Uhhhh…” I drag the word out because I just cannot help myself. “This is your house? Do you live with your parents?”

  I tug at my hemline, dragging it down over my knees. Shit, am I about to meet his mom? What is she going to think when she sees me? I look like a waterlogged Labrador, and I can’t imagine what my makeup looks like.