Jock Rule

by Sara Ney

  Those legs.

  I groan, remembering how it tasted between them: fucking delicious.

  Groan again, remember how I’m not fucking sleeping with girls.

  But if I were, Teddy Johnson would be a great place to start.

  She’s adorable, blushing when I stroll into the room, dust on my jeans, black sweatshirt, and hands.

  “Hey.” My voice is gravelly. Low.

  “Hey.” She ducks her head, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. Teddy tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, even though she has it pulled up into a ponytail. It’s still wavy and thick.

  Damn, she’s cute.

  “Are you blushing?”

  “Um…no.”

  “Yeah you are—you should see how ruddy your skin is.”

  She turns to face me, coffee cup in hand, eyes in gorgeous, narrow slits. Should I not have called her complexion ruddy?

  “No, Kip—this is rug burn.”

  Well shit.

  That’s not cool.

  I laugh to myself, not stupid enough to say it out loud.

  “You mean beard burn.”

  Teddy snorts. “Let’s be honest, it’s the exact same thing. I might as well have dragged my face and crotch across the carpet last night.”

  The visual almost makes me laugh.

  “That wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” I grin, moving toward the coffee that’s already brewed in the pot. Fill myself a mug, dump in a bunch of creamer, drop in some sugar, and lean against the counter, watching her.

  Stir it with a spoon, sipping every so often as she regards me.

  “It doesn’t look terrible,” I try, lying.

  “Two minutes ago you asked why my face looked ruddy. Ruddy. Of all the words in the world to use.”

  “I mean…” It does though.

  Dark red patches mar her otherwise beautiful skin like a rash, and I wonder what it looks like between her legs, on the insides of her silky thighs. Wonder if she’ll let me have a look-see in the light of day.

  “Could you not stare?”

  “I can’t help it.” I laugh. “I’ve never done that to anyone before.”

  She scowls. “Yeah, because you’re a freaking giant covered in hair. I cannot believe I made out with a guy they call Sasquatch. I mean, really Teddy?” She sounds appalled at herself.

  “Technically, you didn’t make out with anyone—I made out with your vagina.”

  She frowns harder. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  I smirk into my cup. “Maybe. I mean, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “What am I going to say to my friends when they notice this?”

  “Can’t you cover it up with makeup?”

  “Mariah is going to see me without it.”

  “So?”

  “So! What am I going to say?”

  “Tell her we made out and I went down on you.” I shrug my shoulders. “What’s the big deal?”

  Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I…I can’t…”

  “It was oral, not anal. I don’t see what the big deal is.” Why is she acting so damn strange about this? “You can’t tell your friends I went down on you?”

  “No. I mean…yes. I mean no.”

  I stare, waiting for her to make some fucking sense.

  “I can, I’m just not going to. They wouldn’t understand.”

  Those chicks? The ones who get laid by someone different every weekend? They would applaud Teddy, not judge her for it.

  My lips tighten into a straight line.

  “If I said something about this—about us—they would keep asking for details, and then I would feel…weird, because we’re not, you know…seeing each other or whatever.”

  I can see that happening. “I guess.”

  Teddy ducks her head again, hiding her face. Hiding her feelings and shit.

  “Plus,” she ventures slowly. “It’s not like…” Clears her throat. “It’s not going to happen again.”

  It’s not?

  Because I can still smell her on me—on the whiskers of my beard—and if she hadn’t been sitting at the counter when I came up from the basement, I would have climbed back into bed with her, under the covers from the foot of the bed and woken her up between her legs.

  Woken her tight ass up with my mouth on her delectable pussy.

  Yeah.

  I’m gonna want more of that.

  “You can’t un-ring a bell, Teddy Johnson.”

  “What?” My reference is clearly lost on her.

  My wide shoulders shrug again. “You heard me. The deed is done—we can’t go back so we might as well keep doing it.”

  “Um, I get we can’t go back and undo it, but it doesn’t mean we have to keep doing it. We should probably—”

  “Too late.”

  “But—”

  “Nope.”

  “Stop doing that.”

  “Next time you come over, I’ll probably purposely cut the line for the furnace so it’s freezing cold.”

  Teddy rolls her eyes and it’s adorable. “Like I’d fall for that.”

  “Worth a try.”

  “What are you saying? That you want to have me over again?”

  “Don’t you like being here?”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to come just so we can fool around.”

  “We’ll watch movies too. And eat.” Each other, obviously.

  “Kip.”

  “Teddy.”

  She stands, frustrated by the conversation. Grabs the jacket off the back of her chair and tosses her ponytail. “I should go.”

  I study her across the counter. “All right. Let me grab my keys and put shoes on.”

  She knows not to argue; we’ve had this conversation once before. Plus, it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside and I know she won’t want to walk home. Not that I’d let her.

  “Thank you.”

  Teddy watches as I squat, grab my boots, and tie the strings, one at a time, bent over at the waist, fingers at work. When I glance up, those brown eyes of hers are intense, fixated on my hands.

  Yeah, that’s right—these fingers were inside you last night. Take a long, hard look at them and imagine wanting them back on your body.

  “I have a game tonight if you wanna come by.” Pull my laces tight then get to work on the other boot.

  “Tonight?” Her brows go up, surprised.

  “Yeah. It’s just a scrimmage, but it’ll be fun—cold, but fun.”

  “Uh…maybe?”

  “Teddy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t overthink it, okay?”

  “I’m not!” She answers too quickly, and I laugh, because she totally is.

  “Sure you’re not.” I wink flirtatiously, rising to my full height. “You might like it—coming tonight, I mean.”

  I’m talking about the game, but it sounds like I mean something else.

  “I’m sure I would.”

  “It’s at Anderson Square Park. Five o’clock.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ll come?”

  “I’ll…think about it.”

  She’s going to come—I fucking know it. She’s too sweet to stand me up.

  Just like she’s too nice to tell her “friend” to go fuck herself.

  I make quick work of running her home, dropping her off in the front drive of her apartment building. Scowl when I think about the fact that she lives in a ground-level unit.

  Remember that we still haven’t exchanged numbers. “Want to put your cell in my phone?”

  “Um, sure.”

  After, I let my car idle so I can watch her walk up to her building. She glances back over her shoulder twice, giving me a tentative little wave both times.

  So damn cute.

  ***

  TEDDY

  Kip: I have an assignment for you.

  Me: Do I want to know what it is?

  Kip: Probably not. And you’ll probably think it’s really inappropriat
e.

  Me: Then maybe you shouldn’t tell me.

  Kip: Okay.

  Minutes tick by and I can’t for the life of me conjure up a mature reply. Towel wrapped around my midsection, I lean against the counter, palming my phone, staring at the screen. Waiting for Kip to text me again.

  He doesn’t.

  I can’t stand it.

  Me: Fine. What is it?

  Kip: You have to touch yourself inappropriately.

  Me: What is that supposed to mean?

  Kip: You know…masturbate.

  Me: You’re right—that’s not at all an appropriate thing to say to someone.

  And he has completely shocked me.

  Kip: I thought we were past the stage of being awkward with each other.

  Me: Nope. Definitely still at that stage.

  Kip: Well shit…

  Kip: You still going to come tonight or did I ruin it by being a pervert?

  Me: Don’t worry. I’m still coming.

  When I wipe the condensation off the mirror from the steam of my shower, I stand at the bathroom counter, staring at my reflection.

  Consider my breasts. Shoulders.

  Stomach.

  The trimmed up patch of hair between my legs.

  Feel myself blush, despite the flush from the hot shower I just took, chest and neck growing redder with each second I stand here, watching myself.

  I can’t do it.

  I cannot touch myself.

  Well, I can, just not like that.

  Except…I rise to my tiptoes and spread my legs a little, bending my head down to survey the damage Kip’s beard caused.

  Red, red, red.

  Red between my thighs, just like I knew it would be.

  Sore too.

  Why am I sore? I didn’t have sex.

  Is this normal?

  Should I google it? What would I even search: sore after receiving oral sex? Why are my legs so sore after a guy has gone down on me? Why do my inner thighs have slight bruising?

  My face gets hot thinking about it.

  Thinking about him.

  The change in him, overnight, talking to me like he wants…more. He hasn’t said it, but he’s not looking at me the same way. He looks at me like…he’s developing a crush on me. This morning, in his kitchen, when he looked me up and down, I swear he wanted to haul me up and carry me back upstairs and…do stuff.

  It took everything I had not to look at the crotch of his pants to check for a boner.

  The whole thing is so unsettling for me. I’m not used to male attention, not used to someone like him wanting me as something other than a friend.

  The whole thing has my stomach in knots.

  My hand goes there, resting on my belly. Presses down so I can even out my breathing.

  Is this what it feels like to have butterflies?

  Should he be the one giving them to me? This isn’t what I planned for myself—he is not my type, not even close. When I picture myself with a guy, I imagine him clean-cut. Handsome. No facial hair, certainly not someone with hair prettier than mine.

  Kip vaguely reminds me of that Brock guy, the InstaFamous dude who makes videos of himself throwing his hair up into a bun—but hairier. And less cocky and full of himself.

  Kissing him with the beard wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it would be—had I thought about it. Sure, it could probably use some conditioning to make it softer, but all in all, not the worst.

  If you don’t count the rash on my cheeks.

  My phone chimes and I pick it up, expecting Kip, heart racing.

  Instead, I’m disappointed to see it’s from a guy in one of my civil law classes, hounding me about the banquet the engineering department has coming up—an event I cannot afford to attend, let alone contribute to in the way of a donation.

  I wouldn’t even be going if it weren’t for this grant—they’re presenting it to me there, but I still have to buy a ticket.

  How stupid is that?

  Tyler: Hey. We’re trying to get a final headcount for the fundraiser. You getting a ticket or what?

  Me: I still don’t know why I have to buy a ticket when I’m there to receive a grant…LAME

  Tyler: Because it’s a FUNDRAISER, Theodora. The department needs money too.

  I don’t know how Tyler found out my real name, but he uses it frequently and it drives me nuts. Like we’re friends and he has the privilege.

  Me: I know, I know, I’m just really broke right now. I don’t really have the extra money for a ticket, that’s all.

  Tyler: You want me to put you down for a donation then if you don’t plan to be there for the dinner? We’re putting together baskets for the silent auction.

  I just said I didn’t have any money! Why would I want to give them a donation? Ugh! He’s asked me about this no less than ten times and I’ve said no each and every one.

  Me: I don’t think so. NO to the donation. Do not put me down for one. Haha.

  Tyler: But yes for the dinner?

  Me: It’s not like I have a choice, do I? I’ll look like an asshole if I stand in back of the room while everyone else is eating LOL

  Tyler: One ticket or two?

  I want to bang my head against a desk.

  Me: How much are the tickets? Remind me.

  Tyler: $25 for a single, $35 for a couple

  Me: Umm… Hmm…

  I chew on my lower lip; if I buy a couple’s ticket, I could bring someone. A date.

  Kip springs to mind.

  Do I have the lady balls to ask him to be my date for something as important as this? What would I say? If I ask him, would he get the wrong idea about it?

  I’m pretty sure most of my friends from the department will be bringing dates, and I’d feel less self-conscious if I brought one too.

  But Kip?

  He’s not really a safe choice; what if he says something off-color and embarrasses me? What if he’s eating and ends up with food in his beard and makes it awkward?

  I’ve never seen him in any other setting besides a rugby party and his house.

  I’m getting way ahead of myself here, but Tyler keeps blowing up my phone, and I should make a decision.

  Me: I guess I’ll do a couple’s ticket.

  Tyler: Cool.

  His reply annoys me, and I turn my phone over on the counter and resume blow-drying my hair. I’ll think about what to do later—maybe the mood will strike me to ask him after his rugby match today.

  I face the mirror, brushing the wet strands aside, and look myself in the eye.

  “Kip, would you like to attend a banquet with me?” I ask my reflection. “Just as friends. It wouldn’t be an actual date.” I run a brush through my hair. “Kip, wanna come to a thing with me? No biggie if you can’t. Whatever.”

  I sigh. I suck so hard at this.

  “Hey Kip, great game—uh, match. So, I was wondering, if you’re not doing anything next Friday, I have this thing I have to be at…”

  For some reason, the brush is at my mouth like a microphone, like I’m reporter at the scene of a story. I cringe and set it on the counter.

  Maybe I should text him this week. It would certainly be easier. If I wait long enough, he’ll make plans for Friday, and say no, then I’m off the hook.

  But if I do and he says no, it will be on my phone, in writing, for all eternity, and I’ll have to see it every time he texts me.

  He won’t say no, a little voice inside me says.

  Who am I kidding—he’s going to say yes.

  He’ll say yes, because I have terrible luck, and then I’ll actually have to take the Neanderthal out in public; no doubt he’ll wear those god awful work boots.

  We’ll have fun, though.

  Me and Sasquatch.

  I groan, smile into the mirror, and hum.

  SECOND SATURDAY (At Game)

  “The day I just sit here and watch them throw their balls around.”

  Teddy

  I’m not the only girl here fly
ing solo, but I’m the only one here without a blanket or a chair.

  Why didn’t I think to bring one?

  I scan the area, searching for a dry spot.

  Lower myself to the ground, sitting cross-legged, facing the rugby field. Comb the bodies for Kip, watching for his familiar form among the giants.

  I know they’re not all as large as he is, but from this vantage point, they’re all Goliaths. Hairy legs, high sport socks already stained with mud and grass and matching jerseys. Far too many broad chests to count.

  And then…

  There he is.

  Stretching, torso bent, his thick thighs and ass are thrust in my direction. Even in the cluster of broody man children, he stands apart with his air of conceit as he moves to get limber.

  Kip has that mop of hair pulled up, twisted at the top of his head, and is wearing a headband—along with a rubber band in his beard too, and that makes my lips curl at the corner.

  What the hell is that all about?

  I continue to study him.

  The mouth guard he’s just popped into place over his teeth. The bright blue cleats digging into the ground. The band around his bicep with the letter C on it.

  I didn’t know he was the captain of the team—then again, I’ve never really asked him about it.

  “Who are you here to see?” a voice asks from behind me, startling me out of my scrutiny.

  I twist around.

  Two girls stand with plaid Iowa blankets in their arms, staring down at me curiously.

  “We’ve never seen you here before,” one of them says. She has brunette hair and a pleasant smile, and in her right hand she’s clutching a coffee cup. “But figured since you were here alone, you must be dating one of the guys and not just jock-chasing.”

  I blush despite the cold. “Oh, um, I’m a friend of Kip Carmichael. He, uh, invited me.”

  “Kip Carmichael…invited you.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and four eyebrows shoot up.

  I hurry to explain. “We’re friends.”

  “Friends. Whatever you sayyyy…” the one with black hair sing-songs. “Mind if we sit? We can tell you all the rules of the game.”

  I groan.

  More rules.

  “I’m Renee,” the brunette says. “And this is Miranda. I’m dating Brian Freeman—he’s number four.” She points a purple fingernail toward the field. “And Miranda is engaged to number thirteen, Thomas Dennison.”