Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  Am I down with that?

  I glance at the clock hanging on my bathroom wall, frowning. “When?” I still haven’t done my hair. Or gotten dressed. “What time?”

  “Nine. They heard there’s a party at the rugby house.”

  Shit. That gives me no time to get myself ready.

  “You want to party at the rugby house on the Row? That’s so completely random.” Usually it’s the baseball or football houses my friends flock to; no one on campus gives a crap about rugby, and no one I know has ever dated a player.

  It’s not like any of these boys will play professionally—unlike the other sports—so it’s kind of weird they have a designated house on Jock Row. At this university, living on “The Row” is the equivalent to being a king of campus: everyone wants to be an athlete, and everyone wants to date one.

  It’s the off-campus party scene, and students flock there every weekend.

  “I’ve never heard of them having a party.” I smudge black charcoal under Mariah’s left eye. “Ever.”

  “Right, but they have some regional tournament or something coming up and they’re throwing a blowout—it’s supposed to be huge. Everyone will be there.”

  “Dang. Everyone?” I drag out sarcastically, brushing shadow across her upper eyelid. “How big is their house?”

  “Tiny.” She’s already eyeballing herself in the mirror, scrutinizing my work, pursing her lips. “It’ll probably be in the backyard. If it sucks, we’ll just ditch and go to a frat party.”

  “You don’t think it’s going to get out of hand, do you?” Dark brows rise. “Why would it get out of hand?”

  I stare back at her reflection in the mirror; the way she’s watching has me feeling naïve and immature. “Uh…because they’re rugby players and don’t they usually fight a lot?” Not that I know anything about it, but I swear I heard somewhere they were kind of brutes, especially on the field.

  Muddy, dirty brawlers.

  Mariah shrugs. “God, Teddy, who cares if they fight a lot? A party is a party, and it’s Friday night—what else is there to do?”

  “I don’t care. I was just asking.” Why do I sound so defensive?

  I swipe some blush across her cheekbones. Add highlighter. Do her eyebrows. Hand her the mascara wand.

  “Here, go apply two thick coats.”

  “Just two?” She steals it from the tips of my fingers and stands, flouncing into my room to the mirror behind my bedroom door so she can get an up-close and personal look at what I’ve done to her eyes.

  I swear, if we hadn’t been best friends since we were seven, I’d wonder what the hell I was doing hanging out with her. Sometimes she’s exhausting, and the older we get, the more opposite we become.

  I catch a peek of myself in the mirror. Sigh with resignation, running my fingers through my long, brown hair—my stick- straight, un-styled hair. Stare at my wide brown eyes. My shiny skin, freshly scrubbed, complexion rosy—and also not bearing a speck of makeup.

  Glance at the clock I hung in the bathroom so I wouldn’t run late in the mornings before my eight o’clock class.

  8:32. Mariah wants to leave by ten to nine, which gives me eighteen minutes to get completely ready.

  Fuck my life.

  * * *

  “You can do this, Teddy. You’re going to have a great time tonight.”

  God, why am I talking to myself in the mirror at a party?

  It’s because I’ve been hanging out alone since we got here, that’s why, even though I’ve been in a room full of people.

  I take a deep breath, checking my face one last time after washing my hands, no hand towel in sight. Using my jeans instead, I slide my palms up and down the denim, creating dark, damp streaks.

  Someone bangs on the bathroom door. “Just a minute!”

  Startled, my lip gloss slips from my fingers to the dirty, laminate tile floor, and I cringe when the cap cracks. Pluck it off the disgusting floor like it’s a flammable explosive.

  “Dammit. This was my favorite,” I complain to no one, fingertips barely grasping the tube as I toss the entire thing into the trash can, wash my hands again, and shoot myself one last cursory glance in the mirror before leaving the room.

  I look good. Cute and natural.

  Wearing way less makeup than I’d planned to when I had actual time to get myself ready, I lean against the water- soaked counter and sternly give myself another lecture.

  “You’re going to put yourself out there tonight. You’re going to step outside your comfort zone and maybe you’ll meet someone. No standing by the wall.” I raise my brows at myself and point a finger at my reflection, unable to resist a pep talk. “No standing by the wall, you got it?”

  I’m almost afraid to pull open the door, knowing a lynch mob is waiting on the other side—unhappy young women who had to stand in line while I screwed around inside the bathroom, giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror.

  My hand reaches for the doorknob. Unlocks it. Clasps.

  Pulls.

  Loud music and voices assail me all at once, along with the line outside the door. I was right: some of them do look pissed off. Others lean on the wall for support, totally drunk. Not a surprise since this is a drinking party and everyone here is shit-faced.

  Except for me. Which reminds me…

  I grab the red plastic cup off the counter, clutching it protectively in my hand as I nonchalantly breeze out the door as if nonplussed by the glaring, heavily made-up eyes.

  Compared to them, I look like the girl next door.

  I did what I could manage in the eighteen minutes Mariah left me to get ready, but it wasn’t enough; I wasn’t even able to do my hair. Thank God it’s long, hanging in a flat, shiny sheet down over my shoulders, hiding the fact that my face barely has anything on it.

  Concealer. Blush. A few swipes of sooty, black mascara. Nothing to write home about.

  I look like the chaperone and not someone here for the party. Not even my outfit looks put together: black half boots, jeans, and a simple long-sleeved shirt I grabbed off the hanger in a rush.

  It’s not even cold outside yet.

  I probably look ridiculous and out of place. Lord knows I feel ridiculous.

  Curse Mariah—she ditched me to play beer pong when I said I had to use the bathroom. Now I have to figure out where they’re playing it…

  “What were you doing in there, masturbating?” one of the girls in the hallway crudely asks as I squeeze past.

  The rest of the line laughs.

  I give the girls an awkward smile, shrugging my shoulders as if to say, Sorry! and slither away, head bent to find my friend.

  The beer pong table where she said she’d be? Nowhere to be found.

  I check the living room—nothing. The kitchen. Back bedroom.

  Ugh.

  Slightly irritated, I gradually make my way to the backyard, where the crowd is gathered around a beer pong table I can hardly make out; the area is so congested it’s almost impossible to move. I tiptoe down the porch steps, shielding my eyes from the blinding spotlight set up in the corner of the yard, and squint.

  No sign of Mariah. Of course.

  My breath hitches when I spy some familiar faces. Relieved, I push through the crowd, making a beeline for Tessa and Cameron, two girls we made friends with in the dorms our freshmen year. They’ve both always been really friendly, despite being jock chasers like—well, like Mariah.

  God am I glad to see them.

  It takes me a good ten minutes to claw my way to their side, and when I do, “Thank freaking God I spotted you. I was beginning to think I was going to spend the entire evening alone on the porch.”

  They give a collective squeal when they see me—of course they do, because they’re that type of girl. Squealers. Always overexcited to see someone they saw the day before in the quad. Nevertheless, I let them hug me and fuss and act like we didn’t walk to the party together tonight, like they haven’t seen me in years.

&
nbsp; “Teddy! Teddy, where have you been? We thought we lost you!” Tessa—blonde, beautiful Tessa—has eyes as wide as saucers and genuinely looks devastated by my disappearance.

  That’s what being drunk does to a person, I suppose. She clutches my upper arm.

  “I went to the bathroom and it took forever. Sorry,” I shout over the noise, over the music blasting and everyone else who’s trying to have a conversation and fight the climbing decibels.

  They both nod knowingly. “Well you’re back now.” Cam looks into my red cup. “But you’re not drinking.”

  I was.

  I tip the cup upside down. Empty. “I’m out.”

  “You can’t have an empty cup—house rules.”

  I laugh. “It is not.”

  Cam’s expression is somber as she bobs her head. “It is. That’s what the kid at the keg told us.”

  “That’s just something guys say so girls get drunk.”

  “But don’t you want another beer?”

  Not really. “Sure.” I shrug. “I guess?”

  “They moved the beer to the living room,” Tessa informs me, though I passed it on my way to the backyard.

  A keg in the living room—classy.

  “Can you get us some, too, while you’re in there?” Cam asks. “But get us new cups so we can keep drinking these.” She holds up hers to demonstrate that it still has alcohol in it then gives the cup a shake in my direction. “Dumping this out to get new beer is alcohol abuse, even if it’s super warm.”

  “I’ll get you a new cup if they let me.” We had to pay ten bucks at the door for a red plastic cup, and I hope they give me a new one without making me argue for it. Probably not, but it’s worth a shot.

  “They’ll give you a new cup—you’re adorable!” Cam enthuses, winking her heavily made-up eye. She really is a sweetheart, and I steal a glance at Tessa.

  “If you see Mariah, tell her I’m looking for her?”

  They both shrug, as if tied to marionette strings. “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  With that, I’m elbowing my way amidst the throng in the opposite direction I’d already struggled through—back over the yard, across the porch, into the kitchen.

  “Excuse me…excuse me.” It takes no less than fifteen minutes to reach the living room and the keg.

  No one is manning it. No one is here to pump the hose thingy or whatever it’s called.

  No extra cups to be seen, not even on the floor. My eyes hit the floor, nose wrinkling at the soggy mess beneath the gray, metal keg. Beneath my feet.

  Beer has spilled onto the floor, saturating the fibers of the already dirty carpet, squishing slightly when I shuffle my shoes. Gross.

  Typical males, not having a sense of ownership and trashing the house they’re lucky enough to live in, probably for half the rent I pay. I’ve never been that fortunate; I have to work for everything I have, including tuition, because my mom can’t afford to help me, not even while working two jobs, one as a bartender and waitress in the tourist town we live in.

  It sucks, but I’ve never had handouts. I’ve never known anything but hard work, so seeing this house being trashed so carelessly…

  I swallow.

  It’s none of my business what these guys do. I’m only here for beer and to hang out with my friends, and why the heck do I even care? Let them ruin their stupid carpet! It doesn’t affect me one bit.

  * * *

  KIP

  That girl has been standing next to the keg for way too long.

  I should probably go tell her it’s tapped, completely out of beer, and we’re just waiting for someone to come pick the damn thing up, but…

  I won’t.

  Instead, I lean against the wall and take a long pull from the beer I brought that’s locked in the fridge at the back of the house.

  She glances from side to side, waiting with her red cup, shifting on her heels, grimacing at her feet every so often, a completely disgusted look on her face.

  It’s a pretty face.

  If you’re into pure and perfect and barely made-up. Which I’m not.

  I’m not into any faces, hot or cute or not.

  I don’t date. I don’t have sex, don’t get involved with anyone.

  But.

  The girl is cute in a clueless way, and I’m compelled to study her as she stands there, waiting for beer.

  The house is packed—we knew it would be—the entire student body seemingly crammed into our living room, busting out onto the porch, into the yard, and even into the unfinished basement. It’s nothing but cinder block and musty smells, but it’s packed full of drunken idiots.

  I cringe when the curtains at the far side of the room come crashing down then wait for the aftermath: loud laughter and cackling. The dude who made the mess wraps himself up, fashioning a toga, curtain rod and all, loudly proclaiming himself emperor of the party.

  Fucking moron.

  The cold amber bottle in my hand touches my lips as my eyes casually slide back to the waiter. Still standing in the center of the room looking aimless. Unsure. Self-conscious.

  She tucks a long strand of brown hair behind her ear and bites down on her lower lip, nibbling. Readjusts her weight.

  Why hasn’t she given up yet and gone hunting around for another keg? It’s on the freaking front porch; anyone with half a brain would have given up and gone searching.

  Not this chick.

  She’s rooted to the floor like it’s her fucking job to stand in that one spot.

  Another swig from my bottle has me settling against the wall behind me, my massive shoulder slouched against the drywall. Bored.

  At six foot four, I have a bird’s-eye view of the entire living room. I’m a head taller than most people here, definitely taller than all the chicks. A few of my teammates come close to my height, but not many.

  Brawny.

  My scowl keeps the girls at bay, and I arch my brows when an errant female partygoer mistakes me for someone who wants to talk.

  I don’t. Not to her.

  And not to the blonde in the low-cut black dress. Or the one in the midriff-baring top and low-rise jeans. Or the one flipping her hair in ten different directions as she looks me up and down, blue gaze landing on my junk.

  Jesus, these girls. No class. No shame.

  I have one semester and summer classes left before I can go through commencement; I’m not going to spend the time chained to some needy cleat chaser or a gold digger who’s only after my family’s money.

  Not even one as pretty as the girl in the middle of the room.

  I don’t know why I’m freaking staring at her. She’s not “hot,” or drunk, or the type that typically shows up when we have parties.

  She looks more conservative, self-conscious and…out of place.

  Long, straight hair. Black shirt. Jeans. Barely any makeup from what I can see from here, and she’s pushed the strands of her hair away from her face no less than four times already.

  Yup, I’m counting.

  Watching as Smith Jackson approaches her, I barely contain an eye roll when his blaring smile aims in her direction as he swipes one of his tan hands through his jet black hair.

  Flirting.

  Smith is on the soccer team and a giant douchebag.

  Does hard drugs recreationally—shit like coke. Treats girls like crap, from what I’ve heard. Takes advantage of the services offered to athletes, like preferred class selection, then skips those classes.

  Basically, Smith Jackson is a real cunt.

  I have no fucking idea why girls drop their panties for him.

  Oh—yeah I do: he’s an athlete and he’s good-looking. But who the fuck names their kid Smith? Who?

  He’s sizing up the girl by the keg, but with a familiar air surrounding the approach that makes me think they’ve met. He taps her on the elbow. Smiles again. She nods.

  Yup, they definitely know each other from somewhere. Class maybe? Definitely haven’t fucked or he never w
ould have approached her; he’s not the double-dipping type, not from what I’ve seen.

  The kid is well and truly a total dipshit. I lean back, get comfortable, and watch.

  The girl isn’t bothered by him or overly charmed, but she’s blushing—I can see the tint on her cheeks from here, damn near across the room, and I can see the brightness of her face. Her high cheekbones shine. Her teeth are white and blinding.

  She’s nervous but trying to be nonchalant, as if she gets approached all the time, when it’s obvious to me that she doesn’t.

  I wonder what Smith wants from her. Why he walked over.

  He grabs the hose to the keg and holds it up, demonstrating to her that it’s tapped out.

  “See?” He laughs, tipping his head back. Mocking her a little until her head bows a bit.

  Fucker.

  He gives her a nudge, dropping the black line to the beer. It falls to the carpet and he sets it on the metal barrel, crossing his arms and looking up at her. Puppy dog eyes?

  Really, Smith?

  I can’t see the girl’s face anymore—just her back and the long brown hair spilling down it—but her arms eventually come uncrossed and her posture relaxes. Whatever it is Smith is saying, it’s easing her tension. It’s probably garbage, but she seems comfortable.

  And another one bites the dust.

  They always fall for his shit.

  Content to watch the party from the corner of the room, I slouch so I’m not standing at my full height, scratching at the full beard growing on my face. It’s been about two years since I shaved the hair on my chin, cheeks, and jawline, and I have no intention of doing so any time soon.

  I wouldn’t call it bushy, but it’s pretty damn close. Unkempt. Scratchy.

  My mother hates it. My sister hates it. Girls on campus hate it.

  The beard serves its purpose perfectly.

  Despite my size, build, and status on campus, I’m left alone all night. Not a single female approaches me, if you don’t count the girls in the kitchen who needed cups taken down off the top of the fridge earlier in the evening.

  The mop of man bun on top of my head wobbles when I give it an agitated toss. For a hot minute, when I first transferred to Iowa, I’d actually thought about living in this dump.