Jock Rule

by Sara Ney

  She slaps my hand away. “I will stab you with this fork if you touch my carbs.”

  Shit. Hangry Teddy is savage. “What about the sausage?”

  “I came here specifically for the sausage.”

  “Here for the sausage,” I repeat, leaning back in the plastic booth seat, not even trying to conceal my snicker. “Good one.”

  Never has there been a bigger eye-roll from someone so tiny. “Shut up, you moron.”

  Teddy spears one of the brown links of meat, jiggling it in my direction. It wobbles on the end of her fork, up and down between us.

  “Is that an offer?”

  “You can’t have it—I’m just torturing you because I know you’re still hungry. You only ate one plate of food, you lightweight.”

  “Whatever. I can just get another side order if you’re going to be greedy with your meat,” I whine.

  “You would have already ordered more meat if you wanted it. Admit it—you just want to take this because it’s mine, and you’re a spoiled brat.”

  “But food tastes so much better when it doesn’t belong to you. Just like so many other things that aren’t yours taste good.”

  Christ, that came out sounding so perverted…or maybe it didn’t and I’m just a pervert?

  Other things taste good, like…

  Dessert. Sweets.

  Pussy.

  Pussy? Where the hell did that come from? Jesus Christ, Kipling, you’re in the middle of eating breakfast.

  But, now that it’s on my mind…

  My eyes travel south. Even though I can’t see under the table to Theodora’s lap, I imagine what her pussy looks like. Bet she keeps it nice and tidy too. Bare? Nah, she doesn’t seem like the type to wax—plus, she can’t afford it. Doubt she shaves it either, but I imagine she trims.

  When I glance back up, Teddy is slowly shaking her head at me, emitting a little tsk, tsk sound.

  “What?”

  “I can totally read your mind.”

  Somehow, I doubt that.

  “Trust me, no you cannot.”

  “Pfft, please—you might think I’m naïve, but I’m not.” She mirrors my pose, leaning back in the booth, right arm draped over the back. “I know you’re sitting there thinking about eating my breakfast. But you can’t have it.”

  “Eating your…” The sentence trails off because I choke on the last word.

  Breakfast—is that what we’re calling it now?

  Breakfast is not the only thing I’m thinking about eating right now.

  Because I’m immature as fuck, a pervy asshole who didn’t realize until now how perverted he actually was.

  Now I do.

  And it’s because of her.

  Shit.

  “I’m not thinking about eating your food. It’s safe.”

  “Mm hmm.” She slowly takes a bite off the tip of a sausage link. Chews, a smile playing at her lips. “If you say so.”

  Takes another bite, then another, and I watch until the whole thing is gone.

  “I do say so.” Clear my throat and get down to business.

  FIRST SATURDAY PART 2

  “Guys are just gross.”

  Teddy

  “Now.” Kip’s voice is low and croaks a little as he tries to get serious. “What were we talking about before? Oh yeah—you were about to tell me what you would say if some dude came up to you at a party and said he liked your shirt.”

  “We weren’t talking about that, and we’re not going to. It’s stupid.” I place another bite of eggs in my mouth and set about ignoring him. Mmm, delicious.

  “Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Honestly? I’m probably a little bored—give me something to do, would ya?”

  Oh god. “The last thing I want to be is your pet project. It would be bad enough if you were female—I cannot handle having a random guy give me dating advice.”

  “First off, I’m not random—you just spent the night at my house. Secondly, you see the rationale behind that argument sucks balls, right? Taking advice about guys from a girl? Makes no fucking sense. I’m a guy—take advice straight from the source. I’m giving you a gift here.”

  “But you’re not into girls.”

  Kip laughs. “Not right now, but someday I’m sure I will be…maybe.”

  “You need therapy.”

  “Actually, I’ve had tons of it. When I dropped out of Notre Dame to come to Iowa, my mother had a coronary and thought I’d gone off the deep end. Boom, therapy.”

  Boom, therapy?

  He says the line so casually—“When I dropped out of Notre Dame”—like he was asking me to pass the salt.

  “You got into Notre Dame?”

  He scrunches up his face the way I do when I eat something sour. “Do you have to say it like that?”

  He’s avoiding my gaze now, the fingers of his left hand pushing and pulling on the handle of the white, ceramic coffee cup, tapping on it a few times with his fingernail.

  “Yeah I have to say it like that.” I’ll admit, my tone does sound kind of duh, which is rude—but still. Notre Dame? You don’t drop a bomb like that, leave it to detonate, and walk away without explaining yourself.

  His grades in high school must have been insane. I couldn’t have dared to dream of going to a school as illustrious as that, even if I’d gotten a full-ride scholarship with housing. No way.

  And he dropped out.

  Then I start to wonder…

  “Were you there on scholarship?”

  His eyes stay trained on the table. “No.”

  Well shit.

  Non-scholarship kids aren’t in my wheelhouse. I can’t relate, nor do I have any friends who aren’t receiving some kind of aid. So, having Kip sitting across from me with all that money has all the pieces falling into place.

  The house.

  The car.

  The ivy-covered education.

  His parents must be loaded.

  I try not to let thoughts of all that money change my facial expression—try to keep the thunderstorm of questions at bay—but damn, it’s difficult. A true test of my self-control because, despite myself, I am a nosy little bugger. My mom always said so.

  Swallowing a bite of bread, I ask, “Are you glad you transferred?”

  “Exceedingly.”

  “Okay Mr. Ivy League, calm down—no need to throw out the fancy words,” I tease.

  “Oh, I see how it’s gonna be now.”

  “I mean, if I can’t tease you, what fun would that be?”

  “Fun for you, not for me. And keep that shit quiet, okay?”

  “I will. You can trust me.” If there’s one thing I understand, it’s not wanting the state of my finances—or lack thereof—spread around.

  He’s silent for a few heartbeats, staring intently into my eyes, heavy eyebrows still in a straight, serious line—same as his mouth.

  “Okay. I’ll trust you.”

  My lips creep into a leisurely curve. “Good.”

  “You can trust me too, you know.”

  “Sure.” More bread gets pushed between my lips and I chew then swallow it down with a gulp of juice.

  “I don’t have any friends so I don’t repeat shit.”

  “You have friends. Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “I have teammates—there is a huge difference. I don’t tell those guys shit.”

  I consider this. “I used to tell Mariah everything, but…she’s…”

  “A loudmouth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would never have guessed that about her.” Sarcastic ass.

  “Shut up.”

  “Okay.” Kip clamps his lips together, the hair around his upper and lower lips concealing his mouth.

  “You are so hairy.”

  “Thanks!”

  I laugh. “I bet when you shave all that off you’ll look twelve. Right now you look forty-five.”

  “I’m never shaving this off, so…�
�

  “Does your dad have a beard?”

  “God no!” Kip laughs. “Oh my god, no—I can’t even imagine my dad with facial hair. He’s so buttoned up and stuffy he wears cuff links to brunch on Sundays. Plus, my mother—there’s no way she’d let him.”

  Brunch on Sundays? Well la-di-da!

  “Does the beard drive them nuts?”

  “Yup, and that’s the beauty of it.”

  “Ahh, now it’s all making sense.”

  “What is?”

  “You rebel. You’re purposely doing all that to piss off your parents, aren’t you?”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Do you know how I can tell you’re lying? You can’t even look at me when you deny it.”

  “Whatever, Teddy. Can we stick to the subject at hand here?”

  “You really must be bored. Fine, let’s say I entertain the idea of letting you help me—you can’t boss me around. That would drive me nuts.”

  “I won’t.”

  I was right; he can’t look me in the eye right now. “You’re such a damn liar!”

  “Tell me how I’m supposed to help without bossing you around! Go ahead, tell me.” I open my mouth to respond, but Kip silences me with, “I can’t. It would be impossible.”

  “Just don’t be a jerk and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “So you agree to let me help you?”

  Do I? “Not really—it’s more like you’re wearing me down, like a dull pencil after too much use.”

  “Mission accomplished then, eh?” He looks oddly satisfied with himself.

  I’m this close to planting a facer on the tabletop. “I can’t believe I’m considering this—with you.”

  “You’ve been waiting for a guy like me to come along and help you.”

  “Stop making this my idea—it was yours. I’m still not convinced I should let a matchmaking giant follow me around.”

  “Hairy godmother—not the same as a matchmaker.”

  “Whatever. You’re still being ridiculous, whatever you want to call yourself.”

  “You know, come to think of it, a hairy godmother would make an amazing Halloween costume. I’ll have to remember that come next October.” Kip stares off into the distance, imagining what it would look like. “Dude, like the Tooth Fairy, with tiny wings and shit? I could pull off a tutu, right? Camo would be badass—or brown.”

  A brown tutu?

  “It would be pretty awesome,” I relent begrudgingly.

  “Hairy godmother, at your cervix,” he jokes.

  “If you went anywhere near cervixes,” I mumble under my breath with a chuckle.

  “Ha ha.” He isn’t laughing.

  “I thought it was funny.”

  “Think we should establish some ground rules?”

  “Probably—I can see you’re getting overzealous and amped up to do this. If we could curb that from the beginning that would be outstanding.”

  “Me? Overzealous?”

  And I’m becoming powerless to stop him. Or maybe curious enough to go through with it. He’s crazy and fun—and perhaps I could use a bit of both in my life right now.

  “Yes, you—you’re like a bored frat boy, minus the frat, minus the boy, itching for something to entertain himself with. I am not that something.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But, I’m curious enough to go along with this stupid plan of yours.” I mean, who could say no to that furry face? He looks like a dog. Or a shaggy lion. Kind of scary, but adorable.

  “First rule: we are a team, Teddy, and there is no I in team. Write that down.” He looks at me expectantly, but I don’t have a pen. “Got a sheet of paper?”

  I quirk my head to the side—I don’t have that either. “Uh, no.”

  “Napkin it is then.” Kip’s brawny arm reaches across the table, fingers plucking a couple napkins from the shiny, silver dispenser. He whips a pen out of his man bun, and why he even has one in there is beyond me.

  I waste no time. “Rule number two: the five-foot rule.”

  His pen hovers. “Five-foot wh…what is this nonsense?”

  “I don’t need you breathing down my neck. Five feet is close enough for you to stand while we’re in public.”

  “How can I instruct you from that far away? It’ll look strange with me stage-whispering from five feet away.”

  Oh brother. “I’m sure you’ll get your point across in other ways.”

  “How will you hear me giving you directions?” The level to which he is apparently affronted knows no bounds.

  “Well, good point: I don’t want you stage-whispering at me, let alone giving me directions.”

  “Then what is the point?” He taps on the table. “Two feet.”

  Oh, little guy wants to negotiate? Fine by me. “Four.”

  “Three.”

  God this is exhausting.

  I nod, accepting three feet. “Next rule.”

  “Rule number three: you can’t go home with anyone.”

  That makes me laugh. “That won’t be a problem.”

  “It sure could be—guys will screw anything with a pulse. Someone will want to take you home if you’re going to quit playing barmaid.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Kip shrugs, clicking his pen. “Rule number four: wardrobe.”

  He’s going to nitpick my clothes? No. “You’re not telling me what to wear. Look at you!”

  His brown eyes roll. “This isn’t about me. You’re the one who needs help.”

  “Jerk! I do not! My clothes are fine—I didn’t sign up for a makeover. God you’re an asshole.”

  “Fine isn’t going to have anyone hitting on you.”

  “You literally just said guys will screw anything with a pulse.”

  “That’s true, I did say that, but we’re looking for quality, not quantity.”

  He. Is. Infuriating. “Besides, I don’t want those guys anyway.”

  “Good, because they won’t be interested if that’s the shit you’re going to wear out.” He smiles, laughing into his cup of coffee, barely concealing his idiotic smirk.

  “Dickhead, this isn’t about my clothes.”

  “It kind of is, just a lil’ bit.” He holds up two fingers close together. “We’ll see. I’ll put a TBD next to rule number four.”

  “Or don’t, because we’re done talking about it.” Which leads me to, “Rule five: I get to veto any of your rules at any time.”

  “Same.”

  My eyes narrow. “If we’re both able to veto rules then what’s the point of having rules?”

  “If you’re the only one who can veto rules, what’s the point of me helping you? You’re not the freaking president.”

  “Oh my god.”

  He ignores me and drones on. “So, rule number six—I’m thinking can be something about you having to trust me, because I’m a guy, and I know what I’m talking about because I know what guys are thinking since I am one.”

  Wow.

  Kips mouth opens again, but I interrupt what he’s about to say next. “When it comes to guys, sure, but not when it comes to girls. You’re about as subtle as a steamroller through a china shop.”

  “If we’re being honest here, it’s true that my size does me no favors.”

  “Aww, you poor, poor thing.”

  “Sarcasm does not become you, Teddy Johnson.” Kip narrows his eyes and stabs his pen in my direction. “Rule number seven,” he rolls on. “PDA.”

  Oh lord. And when the hell did he find out my last name? Was he searching for me on social media?

  I roll the thought of Kip Carmichael creeping on me and secretly smile, the idea warming my insides.

  “What about it?”

  “Guys love competition. If someone thinks I’m interested in you, they are more likely to be interested in you.”

  That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “That’s stupid.”

  “But also: true.”

  “So what’s your p
oint?” I shovel cold eggs into my mouth, chewing as he explains.

  “If I have to put my arm around you, you can’t punch me in the gut. You have to let it dangle there.”

  This raises a brow. “This dangling arm of yours—where is the hand at the end of it going?”

  He pauses to stare at me. “Not on your boob. Chill out.”

  “Sorry, but the way you said it was creepy. Dangling arm over my shoulder? Gross.”

  “So?” He’s impatient to write this one down. “Rule seven, you good with it? No punching me in the gut?”

  “I’m so short, it’s not your gut I’d be worried about if I were you.” Then I tack a “ha ha” onto the end of the sentence for good measure.

  “Teddy, be serious.”

  “Am I good with PDA from you? Suuure, why the hell not?” I mean, how often is he actually going to touch me? Probably never. Still, my eyes stray to his hands, his big man paws. They’re large, a dusting of light hair on his knuckles, callused fingers gripping a blue pen, scribbling words across the napkin.

  “Great.” When he writes PDA acceptable, no touching her tits, I bite my tongue.

  “No kissing,” I add.

  “Kissing?” Kip’s head shoots up, and he sounds positively horrified. “Why would I kiss you?”

  He sounds so horrified, in fact, that I start stumbling over my words. “I-I only said that because k-kissing is PDA. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Oh.”

  The silence that follows is painful. Clanging pots and pans from the diner’s kitchen, the waitress taking orders, and talking patrons are the only sounds that meet my ears.

  “I don’t want you kissing me, Kip, jeez!” My eyes go to his hairy upper lip.

  Ugh, as if.

  His lips part. “Trust me, Teddy, kissing you isn’t part of the equation here. My mouth won’t be going anywhere near your face, so you can calm down.”

  I have no idea if that was an insult or not.

  “I get that you’re not interested, but you don’t have to say it like that.” My faces flushes as this conversation goes from bad to worse. “Forget I said anything.”

  Kip grunts, nodding. “Rule eight.”

  “You want to keep going?” Really? Because I no longer have any wind in my sails.

  “Yeah, let’s get these knocked out so we don’t have to worry about it before next weekend.”

  FOURTH FRIDAY