by Ney, Sara
Fortunately, I learned a few general rules quickly enough from spending time with my teammates:
1.Nothing is sacred if you’re a member of the team, so anyone living here better get a goddamn lock on their bedroom door.
2.It’s loud every damn weekend, whether a party is happening or not.
3.Guys are slobs when there is no one cleaning up after them. And no one is.
4.Even with a lock on your bedroom door, there is still no peace in this place.
5.Everyone is in everyone’s business.
Whatever. Anyway.
I swipe at the hair in my eyes.
Bend at the waist, setting my half-empty beer bottle on the ground, resting it between my feet so it doesn’t spill. Pull the rubber band out of my hair and shake my entire head, dipping over to gather it in my hands. Yank it into a top knot and wrap the black elastic band around it.
“Looking good, Sasquatch. You really shouldn’t have gotten all fancy for us,” one of my teammates goads from a few feet away, having caught me doing my hair. “Want to blow me later?”
My hands are now free, so I flip him off. “Fuck the fuck off, Winkowski.”
“But you’re such a pretty girl.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ha ha. Jesus, these guys. Constantly giving me shit about my appearance—as if I give a crap what they think about my hair. Nothing I haven’t been hearing the two years since I decided to let it all grow out.
It’s easier this way. Less distraction.
Less of a pain in the ass.
The hair and the beard work because I’m not getting approached constantly, and no girls are trying to get themselves knocked up.
I’m no one’s sugar daddy and no chick’s meal ticket.
So, here’s the thing: my parents are…wealthy. And not the millionaire-next-door kind of rich. No. They’re the You want to have dinner in Vegas tonight? Let’s take the leer jet. kind of rich. Hilton rich. Rockefeller rich.
Sometimes it blows dick that Dad is one of the biggest employers in the state and owns one of the largest manufacturing plants in the country, located right here in Iowa. It’s like wearing a big, red target on my back, and eventually…I got sick and tired of it.
Don’t get me wrong—I love them like crazy. Our family is really close. But along with my parents, come the people; the assistants. The users. The ass-kissing employees.
It was time to distance myself from it all, at least for the time being—while I have the chance.
My sister got to change her last name when she got married; she didn’t even hyphenate like most socialites tend to do.
Nope. Not Veronica. Lost the Carmichael name entirely, moved to Bumblefuck, USA, and only comes back for the holidays and big charity events—and even then, she digs her heels in.
Stiletto heels, but still.
My sister has a giant set of lady balls, and I’m trying to follow in her footsteps by becoming my own man—not the obedient scion my father expects me to be.
So.
The first middle finger to my lifestyle was me dropping out of Notre Dame—Dad’s alma mater—after one year and transferring to Iowa.
My parents have actually been pretty damn cool about it, albeit a little uptight from lack of understanding. They’re really regimented from habit and set in their ways, getting everything and anything they want. Their expectations of people can be ridiculous and often times impossible to meet. But, they worked their asses off to get where they are, building a company—actually, an empire—over the course of thirty years.
You get the picture; I don’t have to paint it for you. The point is: I do what I want.
And when the time comes, when I feel ready, I’ll take my place at my dad’s company—and not a day before.
I asserted my independence and hid out, growing out my hair and beard and not giving a shit what I looked like.
Sometimes, no matter how rich a guy is, girls just aren’t willing to put up with all the unruly hair.
It’s the perfect fucking disguise. Genius, really.
Smith Jackson is a trust fund baby too. Not like I am, of course—very few people are—but the difference between us is that I’m not a self-centered, narcissistic prick. I’m no shrink and haven’t diagnosed him, but because of how I grew up, I know a self-serving asshole when I meet one.
Jesus, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to think about it, but any time I see him with a girl, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The girl seems to be warming up to him, slowly but surely, her shoulders relaxing in a way they weren’t when he first walked up. Her laugh looks like it’s coming easier, less forced. She’s not touching her face anymore or fidgeting with her long hair.
I watch.
I watch as three more girls approach, shouldering their way into the conversation, the one with dark hair planting herself firmly in front of Smith. Flipping her hair and laughing so loud I can hear it from here, and believe me—nothing that jackass is saying could possibly be that funny.
There is no fucking way.
The blonde one in the group throws her arm over the quiet girl’s shoulders. Gives it a squeeze.
Ah, so they know her.
She gives a weak smile, her eyes darting to Smith, that smile eventually fading until it’s nothing but a flat line of confusion. Resignation.
I see her body sigh, and she’s back to brushing her hair to the side, out of her pretty face.
Smith touches one of the friends, fingering the strap of her skimpy tank top, earning himself yet another loud, fake laugh. He smiles.
She smiles, and…
I’m instantly irritated.
Her friends are jock-blocking—so fucking typical. I recognize their type: jersey chasers. Gold diggers. Here for the MRS degree and not for an actual education because there are so many athletes running around this university who will end up in the pros.
And these girls reek of desperation: while their pretty, shy friend was chatting Jackson up, instead of leaving her to it and letting her enjoy the moment, they swoop in and flirt with him instead. Like vultures. How fucking shitty is that?
I’ve seen it over and over and over, and it pisses me off every fucking time. Why are chicks like this? Why are they such backstabbing bitches?
I can’t hide my scowl.
That right there is the reason for the long hair and the beard, and for the I gave up giving a shit attitude toward women.
That right there.
No loyalty with these girls when they see something they want.
Man, if I had friends like that, I’d want to fucking cut my own balls off with a dull knife.
That’s not true—I wouldn’t let anyone near my nuts with a dull knife, let alone have the fucking nerve to hack them off myself.
I lift the beer bottle in my hand and take a healthy swig. Wipe at the liquid dripping from the corner of my mouth with a wry smile.
SECOND FRIDAY
“The Friday where she learns she needs a bigger set of lady balls.”
KIP
She’s back.
And this time, she’s dolled herself up a bit more. No, not a bit more—a lot more.
Her long hair that was straight last week falls in waves down her back. Last week it looked like her eyes were free of makeup, now they’re coated with mascara and dark eye shadow. Full, pink, shiny lips. Large, gold hoop earrings hang from her ears.
The girl is wearing a yellow sundress, sticking out like a goddamn sore thumb in this room full of provocative clothing. It’s got thick straps that are tied around the back of her neck in a bow, the waist snug and skirt flaring out around her hips.
The outfit is conservative and sweet, and I almost feel bad for her.
She’s on the taller side with toned, tan arms and a tentative smile curving just above the rim of her red beer cup. Eyes roam around the room but don’t make it as far as my spot in the corner—the same spot I stood in last weekend, silently judging everyone in
the room.
I sigh.
This is fucking boring.
I don’t understand why these assholes keep having parties; it’s not like anyone gives two shits about rugby at this school—they reserve the top spots on the totem for wrestling, football, and baseball. I don’t give a shit, but if our captains keep throwing keggers, someone at campus security is going to notice and nail us, and we won’t be able to talk our way out of any fines.
Not like the assholes in the other houses can. And do.
Trust me, I’ve seen squad cars come and go plenty, but they never linger out front for long.
Lucky fucks. Entitled.
I snort. Like I’m one to talk. Life at home doesn’t get any more privileged than I have it, but at least I’m not a total prick when I’m out in public, or to anyone living in the house. For all they know, my father is a mechanic and my mom is a school secretary. None of them have a clue because guys do not give a crap about that kind of thing.
If any of them found out, I’d probably catch a rash of shit for it.
Girls, on the other hand…
The less they know, the better. And the only way to keep someone at arm’s length is to not get involved.
Easy.
I’ve managed for the past two years, and I’ll manage until I graduate in the winter.
Speaking of girls…
I can’t believe what I’m seeing: the chick from last weekend is down by the keg—again—and has been filling beer cups in the middle of the room for the past hour. Every so often that dark-haired friend of hers wanders over, flirting and talking to whatever guy the girl is chatting with—then walk off with him.
Cockblocking harpie.
I watch as Phil Blaser, a rookie hooker on the rugby team, saunters off, confident that the girl has the whole thing handled—a job he’s supposed to perform the entire night.
Why the fuck is Phil leaving, and what the actual fuck does she think she’s doing filling beer cups?
Wow. This girl.
She is way too polite—it’s almost painful to watch. Jesus, she needs help, and not the kind a shrink can provide; no dude, she needs a reality check. This is the second weekend in a row I watch her get taken advantage of—not an attractive quality. First by her friends—a trio of jock-strap-pursuing jersey chasers—then tonight by Phil, a member of my team.
I make a mental note to find him, wring his scrawny neck, and lecture him about treating women with more respect. This is our house—it’s his goddamn job to stand rooted in that spot and keep our guests happy, not hers. We fucking assigned him that spot. Then he hands the hose off to some girl?
What the actual fuck, Phil?
Not only that, it’s the same girl as last weekend—a girl who obviously needs to be taught how to say, Go screw yourselves and stop walking all over me.
That’s a bit of brutal honesty she’ll only get from someone who couldn’t care less about her feelings.
Someone like me.
* * *
TEDDY
I’ve been standing in this same spot for over an hour.
At first, it was because I had to get in line for the keg, then, when they kid at the tap finally handed me the hose to fill my own glass…
Somehow, I never let it go. Or. No one took it from me?
Somehow, without my noticing, a giant of a man-child sidles up to me, shadow looming from above, almost blocking the light.
That’s how large he is.
That’s how large he seems, anyway.
Gingerly, without speaking, he plucks the tap hose out of my grip, grasping the nozzle in a giant hand, pinching it between two fingers and holding it over his cup. The hose hisses from having air in the line, so the big dude reaches down and gives the barrel a few pumps.
Holds the nozzle down again. Fills his cup without speaking to me.
Then, “Where’s your tip jar?” He’s still not looking at me, intent on watching the foam building over his beer. Flicks the top off onto the rug beneath the keg before meeting my eyes.
His are big, brown, and framed by arched bushy brows, a hair-covered face, neck, and head.
His whole appearance is startling. He’s kind of a mix between Wolverine, Teen Wolf, and Bigfoot—if Bigfoot were real. And now he’s pinning me to the floor with his question.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t all bartenders have a tip jar?”
“I’m not the bartender.” Did he really think I was? I can’t for the life of me read his expression under that bush.
“I know that. I was fucking with you.”
“Oh.” Yeah, I said Oh, as if it was the best response I could come up with. Then, because I’m a genius, I follow it up with, “Why?”
“Because you’re just standing here filling everyone’s cups like a fucking bartender, that’s why.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to squeak out a loud, I am not!
My lips part to protest, but the words won’t come out because…my god, he’s right—I have been standing here filling cups. I don’t even know for how long. How did that happen? It’s kind of like holding a door for someone at the store. You do it for one person then more come, and before you know it, you’re stuck standing there.
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?”
&nb
sp; 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.