Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  I pause to look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean…I’m sensing you haven’t really had to lift a finger growing up.”

  Obviously she’s correct—I didn’t have to lift a finger growing up. We had cooks and gardeners and maintenance crew to do those things for us. We had a cleaning staff, tutors, and…

  In a nutshell, my parents weren’t doing my sister or me any favors preparing us for the real world—something I’ve grown to resent. I can’t even fucking fix a furnace, or unclog a toilet at two in the morning (another thing I had to google), or use a Skilsaw when I wanted to build a shelf in the spare room I use as an office.

  I stand, crossing my arms, affronted. “Based on what?”

  Her eyes dart around the room then land on the expensive faux fur throw blankets draped over the back of my couch. My mother bought them for me.

  “Um…” Teddy bites her bottom lip. “Based on the fact that you probably have a cleaning lady. I bet someone does your laundry and grocery shopping.”

  “I do my own grocery shopping.” Most of the time.

  “But you have a cleaning lady?”

  My lips pull into a tight line.

  “Oh my god, stop it. You do not!” Teddy practically shouts into the otherwise silent room. “Do you? Stop. Do you?”

  My cheeks flush; I can feel the heat rising up my neck, suddenly embarrassed by my privilege.

  “Yes,” I grind out. “Can we not talk about it?”

  Another long stretch of silence follows—and for a bit, I think she is going to say something more about it. Am pleasantly surprised when she doesn’t. Relieved, actually, when instead she laughs and says, “That would explain why there is no pee around your toilet bowl.”

  I pee mostly in the toilet, thank you very much miss know-it- all.

  I walk farther into the living room, knowing she’s going to trail behind after me. “I can totally take you home if you don’t think you can hack it in this cold house.”

  She glances down at the leggings and hooded sweatshirt she changed into when we got home. Pulls at the thick material and huffs. “I don’t have anything on underneath—no layers, and these leggings are thin. I think I might actually die.”

  “It’s called a blanket.” I lean forward, nabbing one of the fancy throws from the end of the couch, toss it at her. “Use it.”

  Teddy huffs again when it pelts her in the face, throwing herself into the corner of the couch. “Fine, I’ll stay.”

  “I can take you home if it’s going to be a problem,” I say firmly, repeating the offer.

  “No, no, I’ll get over it. Just let me be super dramatic about it for a few more seconds—then I’ll drop the subject.”

  I plop down next to her and palm the remote control, pointing it at the television while she sighs and squirms on the cushions next to me, making a bit of a racket, trying to get comfortable. Makes one or two brrr sounds.

  Shivers, finally settling on her ass, arms wrapped around her legs.

  The look I shoot her is one of exasperation. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “I have a few more seconds, remember? Let me be.”

  I grin, shaking my head. Fuck she’s sweet.

  I jump when she uncurls, her feet sliding across the couch cushions in my direction, moving under the blankets like a snake, icy skin grazing mine and making me yelp.

  “Get your cold feet off of me! Warn a person, Christ.”

  Teddy laughs. “Let me stick them under your thighs. Please? They’re frozen.”

  I can feel her wiggling them before she pokes my thigh with her big toe.

  “Jesus, you should go to the doctor and have that checked out.”

  “Shut up.” She laughs. “They’re not that bad.”

  “Yes they are.” They really are—cold, that is, and they’re cooling down my mesh athletic pants where she’s brazenly slid them under my leg. “You clearly have poor circulation.”

  “I do not.” She doesn’t sound concerned, not one bit.

  “First thing Monday morning, I’m taking you to the clinic.”

  I love hearing her laugh. I love the way her feet are tucked under my legs, body stretched out next to mine, our size difference conspicuous. But nice.

  I might be a goddamn giant compared to her, but hell if I don’t feel protective because of it.

  We stay like this for over an hour, wrapped up in furry blankets, talking through the movie, chatting and laughing until we’re both yawning.

  “I don’t know if I’m tired or suffering from hypothermia,” she quips, dragging the blanket to her chin.

  “Both. Definitely both,” I tease, admiring the bridge of her nose backlit by the kitchen light. It slopes gently, the tip of it pert. Cute.

  The bow of her lips, bottom one full.

  Wisps of hair, gathered up into a topknot just like mine—yeah, we fucking match—some falling out in messy disarray.

  She doesn’t give a shit what she looks like in front of me, doesn’t care because she’s comfortable.

  When her head tips back onto the couch, her cheek hits my shoulder and I catch her giving me a sniff. Catch her biting down on her bottom lip, head lifting and turning away.

  Busted.

  Okay, maybe not so comfortable with me after all. No fucking way is she attracted to me; I would know. Wouldn’t I?

  Guys know this shit, and she’s definitely not interested. Her speed is more the science dorks and history geeks, lab rats and guys with middle-class parents who fish and play kickball on the weekends.

  I don’t do any of that shit.

  Teddy would shit a solid gold brick if she knew where I grew up and what we did for fun on the weekends, and it sure as hell wasn’t kickball.

  Still…

  I can’t help imagining what dating her would be like. Nice.

  Normal.

  God, normal—what’s that even like?

  I’ve been trying to figure that shit out for the past couple years, starting with my move from Notre Dame back to Bumblefuck, Iowa. This house I could do nothing about; my parents insisted on a place where they could install a security system in a safe, discreet neighborhood, a place where reporters and all that other bullshit weren’t likely to look for me.

  For a story.

  My sister has managed some normalcy in her personal life, marrying a dude she met on a dating app instead of one of the men my parents tried setting her up with—guys they’d hoped would help expand their empire.

  Ronnie moved clear across the country to a small town, population three thousand. Bought a house on a lake, doing it all herself. Raising her own kids, doing her own laundry. Regular shit.

  Normal shit.

  The shit that I want, if even for a while.

  I pluck at a strand of Teddy’s hair—the curly tendril falling to her shoulder, rubbing it between my thumb and middle finger.

  I expect her to pull away and ask what the hell it is I think I’m doing, but for whatever reason, she lets me play with her hair. Watches me, a sleepy half-smile on her face.

  Man she’s pretty.

  * * *

  “Teddy…you awake?”

  A loud gasp comes out of the dark, from the general area of the bed, and when I flip the hall light on, I find Teddy sitting straight up, squinting toward the hallway, shielding her eyes.

  “Dammit, Kip! Did you have to sneak up on me like that? You scared me half to death and jeez, turn the damn light off! You’re freaking blinding me!”

  She sure is feisty when she’s woken up.

  I lean against the doorjamb. “I’m six foot four—it’s humanly impossible for me to sneak up on anyone.”

  “Bigfoot can sneak up on anyone he wants to sneak up on,” she grumbles, trying to burrow deeper into the pillows. “No one has caught him yet.”

  “He’s not real.”

  A finger flies into the air, pointed in my general direction. “Do not start that crap with me right now or I will kill you.
”

  “Just sayin’, I prefer the name Sasquatch if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Why are you like th—” Her words cut off. “God, listen to us. It’s…what the hell time is it?” She leans toward the table next to the bed, fumbling for her phone. “One o’clock. We’ve only been in bed for half an hour—what’s going on? Why are you in here? Is the house on fire? Is the heat working again?”

  “No.”

  “Well—what then?” The blanket clutched to her chest gets pulled to her chin.

  “Are you doin’ okay?”

  “No, Kip. I’m f-freezing my ass off is what I’m doin’.” She mimics my tone. Far be it from me to point out: that is not how I sound.

  “I can’t sleep either. You want me to take you home so you can sleep?”

  She squints at me impatiently, shielding the light from her eyes with one hand. “Kip, it is one o’clock in the morning. By the time I get home and settle in, it’ll be two. I’ll tough it out—I’ve been camping in colder weather than this.”

  “Camping in a tent?”

  The look she shoots me is one of pure disgust. “What other kind of camping is there?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She sits up. “You’ve never been camping? Wow. Considering you look like a yeti, I am somewhat shocked by this news. What else haven’t you done?”

  “Can we have this conversation in my room? I’m fucking cold.”

  “Like…in your bed?” Pause. “Why?”

  “It has a better mattress and a thicker comforter.” Do I really need to explain this? “Come on, I’m freezing. The body heat will keep us warm.”

  “Did you read that somewhere in a survival guide? ’Cause we know you’re not outdoorsy. You only wear plaid to throw people off.”

  “Very funny, smartass.” But also true. “Get up—come on.” I give the blanket on her bed a hard yank so it flies off, landing in a heap at my feet, forcing her out of the bed. Haul her covers down the hallway toward my room, the sound of her screeching echoing after me.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Give me back that blanket—I’m not wearing any pants!”

  Now I’m the one who’s disgruntled. “You’re cold so you took off your leggings? Where’s the logic in that?”

  “Stop talking before I murder you!”

  She is so loud when she’s fired up. “I don’t feel sorry for you anymore. Throw your leggings back on and come warm me up.”

  “I hate you right now.”

  “No you don’t—admit it, you’re relieved I came to rescue you.”

  “This is stupid,” she bickers, dragging her feet across the threshold to my room. “We could have gone to my apartment and actually had a decent night’s sleep.”

  Pfft. “And risk the chance of molestation by Mariah? No thanks. I’d rather freeze my testicles off.”

  Besides, no way would I fit in her bed. Or on her couch.

  Her laughter rings out, accenting the sound of her bare feet padding toward my room across the carpet. “That sounds like a definite possibility.”

  I toss the extra comforter atop mine and whip back the covers, climbing into my side while she hobbles down the hallway corridor, hopping into her tight bottoms.

  Struggle bus, jeez. “Hurry up, dude.”

  I’m almost positive she’s glaring daggers in my direction. “You did not just call me dude.”

  “I did. Climb in, slowpoke.”

  “Hold your horses—your bed is like, five feet off the ground. I can’t deal with this at one in the morning.” I watch in the shadows, across the mattress, as Teddy attempts to hoist herself off the ground, up onto my California king. “This is way too much work.”

  “I’m tall—what did you expect? A mini twin?”

  “No, but…maybe. I don’t know anyone with a bed like this.”

  “Then you should get out more.”

  She finally makes it up, sliding in under the covers and pulls them over her body, leggings back in place, toes rooting their way around underneath the sheets.

  In my direction.

  “Please don’t touch me with those,” I warn.

  “Why?” She sounds whiney. “You let me do it before on the couch.”

  “Because you’re a brute and made me let you.”

  “They’ll warm up in no time if you let me just…” I feel her toes hit the side of my calf muscle.

  I pull it back. “This isn’t a slumber party, Theodora.”

  “You think this is what girls do at slumber parties? Tickle each other with their toes?” She laughs. “You are so far off. Besides, I wouldn’t be in here if you had heat. So this is your fault.”

  True. “What do girls do at slumber parties?”

  “Uh…talk about boys, eat, and watch chick flicks, mostly.”

  “That sounds really fucking boring.”

  Another musical little laugh comes trilling out of the dark.

  “Whatever, Kip. Let me stick my feet under you.”

  “No way. Get away.” My protests are getting weak, mostly because it’s her, and I find her pretty fucking adorable.

  “Well then move closer—you said you were going to share body heat with me. Don’t be a liar, Kipling.”

  I haven’t been in bed with or lain next to a girl in—I do a mental tally of the weeks, months—years. A long fucking time is what it adds up to, and I can’t stop my body from reacting to Teddy being under my covers. Smelling her perfume. Breathing the same air. Wanting to share heat.

  Body heat.

  Shit, this was my dumb idea—what the hell was I thinking?

  I wasn’t.

  I didn’t expect this to be a big deal. Share blankets, stay warm—simple, easy. Any idiot could do this without a problem.

  I should be able to do this without a problem; I’ve been keeping people at a distance for years. I friend-zoned Teddy within seconds of meeting her, and she has no interest in me, either.

  Except…

  Maybe I’ve been fooling myself.

  Maybe I’m not as immune to women as I thought I was. Or maybe I’m just not immune to Teddy Johnson—sweet, beautiful, naïve Teddy.

  Maybe I knew as soon as I saw her at that first party that we’d end up here. Because she’s different.

  She yawns beside me, nestling her toes deeper into the crux of my bent legs, their temperature having climbed twofold.

  I don’t exactly hate it.

  “You don’t think it’s weird that we’re in bed together?” Her question comes out of nowhere.

  “Why would I think it’s weird?”

  “Uh, because it’s weird? We’re not even friends—not really. And we’re not dating, but you have this weird…” Pause. “I know you’re protective of me, and I can’t figure out why, but I also know I don’t hate it, either. It’s…nice.”

  Right.

  “I just didn’t think I’d ever be in some guy’s bed platonically, that’s all. College guys are such pigs sometimes.”

  “I’m not a pig.”

  “I know you’re not—that’s what I’m saying. Sometimes it’s confusing. You’re not gay, but you don’t date, and you’re not sleeping with anyone. You must spend a lot of time…you know.” The word she’s looking for here is masturbating.

  “Don’t you?” I’m curious.

  “Spend time doing that?”

  “No!” She’s shocked.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know how? God, Kip.” The answer—which is in the form of a both a question and a confession—comes out halted. “I can’t believe I just said that. I must be delirious.”

  The air around us crackles. Kip bolts upright, twisting his body toward me.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know how? Everyone knows how—you put your hand down your pants, move it around, and boom, orgasm.” Sounds like she needs a tutorial of Masturbating for Dummies.

  “I don’t think it’s that simple.” She giggles, patronizing me.

  “
Oh, but Teddy, it is. It really, really is that simple.”

  “Yeah, probably because you’ve been jerking off since you were like twelve, and all you really have to do is move your hand up and down on your penis. There’s barely any work involved.”

  No comment.

  Suddenly I twist my body to face her, bending my elbow and propping myself up in her direction. “So let me get this straight—you’ve never touched yourself?”

  “Of course I’ve touched myself.”

  I roll my eyes. “The shower to get clean doesn’t count.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, she says,” I tease. “You’re really missing out if you’re not rubbing one out a few times a week.”

  She groans, embarrassed. “Rubbing one out? That’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “It’s all part of self-love, Teddy.”

  “And I bet you love yourself a whole lot,” comes her low chuckle.

  She has no idea.

  “Why do you even care?” she asks.

  “I don’t. You’re the one who brought it up—I’m just the one who ran with it.”

  “Actually, I didn’t.”

  “Yes you did. You were all”—my speech gets high-pitched as I mimic her girl voice—“You must spend a lot of time blah blah blah…you know.”

  “I do not sound like that.” In the dark, I hear her eyes roll.

  “But you did say it.”

  “Fine. I’m curious, all right? Sue me. You’re this giant of a guy, who must be—”

  She stops herself.

  “Spit it out, Teddy. Stop hesitating.” It’s driving me nuts!

  “Fine! You’re this giant of a guy who must get…excited a lot. There, happy now?”

  “And by excited you mean…”

  “Horny, okay?” The words burst out of her. “Thank god it’s dark, my face is on fire.”

  Yup. I made her say the word horny, and she sounds horrified, and it’s perfect.

  “And you’re not? Horny?”

  “Uh…when would I have the time? And please stop saying that word—it’s awful. It’s worst than the word moist. Or squirt.”

  She hates the word moist? What’s wrong with the word moist?

  “You hate horny? You don’t have time to be horny?” I say it again, twice, just to embarrass her. “You’re shitting me, right? Everyone has time to be horny. What the hell is wrong with you?”