Jock Row (Jock Hard Book 1)

by Sara Ney

  “You want my number?” She sounds positively giddy. “Why didn’t you just say so, silly?” She plucks the phone out of his hands, tapping her digits into the contacts as he shoots another distrustful glance in my direction.

  Looks down his nose at me.

  I clutch my cup tighter; it wasn’t my intention to offend or piss anyone off. All I want to do is have a good time and laugh a little after being sick for so long—is that a crime?

  He’s certainly staring at me like it is.

  “You know what you could do, Stacey?” Derek intentionally butchers my name; I can see in his steely gaze that he’s trying to belittle me, the dickhead. “Run along and get yourself another beer.” He’s on his tiptoes, pretending to stare down into my red cup. “Looks like yours is half empty.”

  Ben nods, drinking from his cup. “We’d hate for our guests to be thirsty, especially the ones who need booze the most.”

  “You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you?” My laugh is nervous.

  “Us?” He manages to look affronted. “No, babe, I live here. It’s my job to make sure everyone is having a good time, and you definitely don’t seem like a good time. Ha. Ha.”

  I catch his dig. Try not to let it sting.

  “I’m good, but thank you for the offer.” I swirl the contents of my cup, peering into it with one eye closed. “Besides, this isn’t beer. It’s water with a little lemon and it’s still pretty cold.”

  “Water?”

  I scrunch up my nose. “Yeah, I’m not really much of a drinker, and I’ve been sick, so is it really a smart idea to get drunk?” My chin goes up a notch. “I don’t think so.”

  Derek’s face contorts. “Where’d you find water around here?”

  “Uh, the kitchen?”

  “Where in the kitchen?”

  Is this a trick question? “Uh…the fridge?”

  His eyes narrow. “We keep the fridge locked during parties.”

  My brows rise into my hairline. “You do?”

  “Yeah. So no one takes shit.” Like you just did. “Did you miss the big sign that says OFF LIMITS?”

  My cheeks are on fire. No way is he accusing me of stealing from the house; it’s just a bottle of water, from a fridge that was open. Sure, it had a lock on it, and sure, there might have been a sign, but the fridge was open nonetheless.

  Crap.

  “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be locked. It opened right up.” All I had to do was fiddle with the handle a few seconds, and presto—all the drinks for me!

  He glances down his nose at me for the second time tonight, silently judging me. “Maybe instead of sucking down that stolen water, you should have a beer—or five, since—”

  “You seem so uptight,” Ben finishes.

  “Thanks, I’m good,” I insist, pulling at my sweater, peeling it away from my scorching skin, needing room to breathe. The room seems to be getting hotter by the second—or it it just me? Normally, guys like this wouldn’t bother me—I can handle a little unease like a champ—but coupled with how warm I am, and the heat these guys are throwing off…

  I’ll admit to being more than a little uncomfortable, and not just from the sweater.

  Cameron pipes up then, unwittingly rescuing me, resting her hand on his meaty bicep, displayed beneath a black, short sleeve shirt. Changes the topic. “Before when you were getting water, Derek was telling us before how the baseball team won the College World Series last year. That’s the World Series of Baseball, but for college.”

  My brows go up, holding back a look of disbelief. “Yes, I know what the CWS is, Cameron, and Iowa didn’t win it.”

  “Yes they did!” She laughs. “Derek threw the winning pitch—he’s seriously amazing. Scarlett, you should hear the story.” She has her entire arm wrapped around his, giving him an encouraging squeeze. “Tell her the story Derek.”

  I look at Ben. Glance at Derek. Back at these two naïve girls, and shake my head, dismayed. Literally can no longer handle their amount of bullshit.

  “You realize these two are…teasing you, right?” The red cup hits my lips and I take a swig, readjusting the jacket and scarf I’ve been holding in my other hand. “USC won the College World Series last year—they win it almost every year.” The water tastes warm now, tepid at best, as it flows down my throat.

  “How the hell would you know that, Miss Know-It-All?” Ben, challenges me.

  Miss Know-It-All? Wow. I don’t think anyone has ever called me that a day in my life.

  “My dad. He’s not a huge fan of major league baseball, but he loves watching college ball—loves it.” I tap my chin with a forefinger. “I remember last summer, he had the damn finals on for an entire week, on every TV in the house. We all had to watch that dumb game—no offense. The College World series is in June, right? I think I’m remembering that right…”

  When my sentence trails off, Derek jerks his head in a terse nod at Ben, crossing his arms and spreading his legs in a defensive pose.

  Raises his brows. Nods toward the kitchen.

  “Anyway,” I chatter in an attempt to redeem myself, filling the silence with my babble. “I just remember being home and my dad watching that game. The highlights would be on when I left for work, and the game would be on when I got home from work. USC won that tournament, I’m sure of it.”

  Both Cam and Tessa are having a hard time following the conversation. “Why would you say you won?”

  I blow out a puff of air, gently tugging the sweater from my skin and giving it a few shakes to let the cooler air get in. “They lied because they’re trying to impress you, Tessa—kind of ridiculous if you ask me. I mean, honestly, you guys are really good-looking, you shouldn’t have to make shit up.” I push out a laugh—it comes out sounding strangled. “Weak. So. Weak.”

  I push out another one, hoping to smooth things over, hoping they’ll be amused by the teasing tone of my voice and take pity on me.

  “You’re not going to stand here with us all night, are you?” one of the guys asks.

  “What else would I do?”

  “I can call one of the rookies to take you home so you don’t have to keep standing here.” Ben drapes his arm around Tessa’s shoulders. “Besides, I want to get to know your friend better, and you’re making it impossible.” He tilts her chin up with his thumb, staring down into her eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to get to know me better, babe?”

  Tessa nods, dumbly. Damn her!

  I swallow the lump in my throat.

  “We’ll take real good care of your friends.” He tries to back away with her, but I stop him. “You can walk away knowing they’re in good hands, babe.”

  Not so fast, you bull hunk.

  “I have no doubt about that.” I grip his forearm as he grins wolfishly down at Tessa and holy shit is it solid. Built like a tank, his forearm is a firm mass of muscle. I give my head a shake. “Are you sure it’s wise to go off with them? I mean…they’re strangers.”

  “Strangers? What are you, fucking five?” He glares down at me. “What’s in that water that’s making you so goddamn bitchy?”

  Tessa and Cameron volley back and forth between us, eyes wide as saucers. A little horrified, a little tipsy, a lot excited, and gorgeously clueless. I can hardly believe these two Neanderthals are turning my friends on! But they are—I can tell by the looks on both their enthralled faces.

  Shit.

  My friendship is no match for an athletic pedigree, great body, and handsome face.

  So, I stand my ground, having nothing to lose; these girls are not leaving with me when I go.

  “You did not just call me bitchy.” No one has ever called me that—not once—and if I wasn’t so pissed off, I might be embarrassed. All I’m trying to do is enjoy my night out, but these assholes are making it impossible. All because in some sick way, they see me as ruining their chances.

  “Don’t call her bitchy, Ben, it’s mean!” Tessa scolds, narrowing her ey
es and smacking at his arm. Her palms rests there, fingers doing a thorough pat-down of his skin. “You should apologize.”

  He rolls his neck, getting the kinks out, his big, brown eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “If it’s not the sobriety making her act this way, it must be that butt ugly sweater.”

  I glance down at my beige mohair garment, affronted. “I was cold, and I-I was sick!”

  “Aren’t you fucking hot? Is that what’s making you run your mouth?”

  “Yeah,” I admit begrudgingly, shoulders slouching. “Maybe.”

  “You should go outside then and get some fresh air.”

  Fresh air does sound better than standing in front of these idiots, putting up with their insults.

  Ben casually arches a brow and the guys exchange another glance—so damn shady. I watch as he casually eases out of the conversation and disappears into the crowd, causing Cameron’s bottom lip to jut out in a pout. Arms cross. Boobs rise above the low neckline of her shirt.

  “What did you say your name was?” Derek asks me.

  My arms cross defensively. “Stacy.”

  His face is a blank canvas, impassive, stony, and directed at me. “Are you going to tell me your name again or not, because if you don’t I’ll just give you a nickname—I have a pretty good one already, right up here.”

  He taps his skull.

  I make a hmph sound they probably can’t hear over the noise. “Scarlett.”

  His mouth curves. “Sober Scarlett.”

  “Oh so you think you’re clever now cause you can alliterate?” I hold up my red plastic cup, not bothering to hold back the biting comment on my tongue. “Got any other set of skills?”

  I wish I didn’t sound so defensive, but these guys are bringing out the worst in me.

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with my other set of skills.” He chuckles, pleased with his innuendo, thinks he’s being clever. Tessa must agree because the cheesy line throws her into a giggle fit.

  Gross, Tessa. Just…no.

  Get better taste in men!

  Honestly, what is it with these guys?

  Bunch of douchey jockholes congregating in one small space. The room lacks oxygen—that must be why they’re acting like assholes.

  I smirk at my own joke but am still unable to figure out why Tessa and Cam find these idiots so damn charming, especially with how rude they are. Crude and unoriginal, Ben and Derek have one modicum of sense between them. I can tell by the cold glint in Derek’s eye that he’s a colossal asshole and is reining it in for my friend’s benefit.

  Never have I ever met a bigger pair of douchebags.

  I sigh into my water cup. What a shame. God wasted all that talent and those incredible bodies on these two creeps.

  Amazing bodies, average personalities.

  What dicks.

  Derek’s face goes from a scowl to a megawatt smile when his buddy Ben reappears. “Heads up, Cock Blocker, the cavalry has arrived.”

  Cavalry? Cock Blocker?

  I glance around—is he talking to me?

  He must be drunk.

  From behind, I feel a large hand gently gripping my shoulder, the sizzling weight of a heavy palm and splayed fingers reheating my upper torso. Surprised that someone is touching me from behind, my head swerves, gaze settling on a large, tan hand with square-tipped fingers covering my shoulder.

  Short nails. Rough pads.

  Manly.

  My eyes trail up, following the arm attached to that hand. Travel upward, over a muscular, bare forearm. Lift their way to a set of wide shoulders. Meet an unsettling pair of curious green eyes, a strong, straight nose.

  Full, downturned mouth.

  Five o’clock shadow.

  The human attached to the massive paw is just as handsome as the others, not in a beautiful way, like some athletes tend to be, but good-looking just the same. Add in the the fact that he’s the only other human here not wearing a ridiculous Halloween costume?

  Major points.

  Imposing and intense, his gaze beams down as his fingers give my shoulder a light squeeze, refocusing my attention on his face.

  His eyes are a diluted green, crinkled at the corners with laugh lines, like he smiles easily when he’s not glowering at people.

  Pillow-soft lips set in an unreadable, unhappy line, he’s irritated, but not in the same way his friends are. I can tell immediately that he’s friendlier, but right now he definitely means business.

  Holy crap is he intense.

  Broody, I wonder what his problem is and why he’s got my shoulder in a vice. What is it with these damn baseball guys? Why are they so grumpy? Did someone piss on their third place trophies?

  My eyes widen when he dips his torso to get closer, warm breath brushing the outer shell of my ear. Leans down, broad chest grazing my back as that exquisite, pouty mouth speaks slowly into my cerebellum. Reverberates down my spine.

  “Can you follow me for a quick second? I gotta talk to you.”

  I shiver.

  Inhale—of course I do—because he’s wearing cologne and it smells good and I can’t stop myself.

  It’s what I do.

  “Where do you want to talk?” My eyes stray to the front door, to the staircase leading to the second floor. To the kitchen, where I filched the water inside my cup and the bottle inside my bag. To the screened porch out back.

  Cameron watches the exchange with rapid interest, eyes wide as mine, mouth twitching. She’s practically drooling, licking her lips.

  “Over by the front door? This won’t take more than a few seconds. It’s too loud near the speakers to say what I have to say.”

  What the hell could he possibly want?

  And why is he so damn handsome?

  I stare at the pronounced bow curving the top of his lip.

  God, his voice. It’s deep and clear. Even with the pumping bass in the background, I can hear every syllable, the timbre sending an extra shiver of exhilaration down my spine.

  “Just so you know, I’m fluent in karate.”

  “Fluent in karate,” he deadpans, knowing I’m totally full of shit. “You don’t say?”

  I slice through the air with my hands for good measure. “Yes, so make this quick.”

  Warning bells go off inside my head, niggling at me, yet I trail along, curiosity and attraction getting the best of me. What could this guy possibly want?

  God, what kind of idiot is persuaded so easily by a handsome face and sexy voice? Me—that’s what kind of idiot!

  Me. I am.

  I want to see what this cute guy wants and what’s going to come out of that pretty, perfect mouth of his. What’s the harm in following him to the corner of the room?

  I mean—it’s the corner of the room. We’re not going outside, and he’s not taking me to one of the bedrooms. He can’t try anything in a room full of people. Plus, I took self-defense last semester, so I know where to knee a man to knock his ass down: right in the balls.

  Grinning, I glance over my shoulder at Derek, at Ben.

  Roll my eyes at them both. “I’ll hear you out, but no funny business or I’ll scream.”

  “Funny business?” His tone is bored.

  “Yeah—you know, assault.”

  “Jesus, I’m not going to assault you. Could you lower your voice?” He glances around us to make sure no one heard, gauging the distance between the crowd and us. “Stay close, yeah?”

  Yeah, yeah, whatever.

  I nod, giving Tessa and Cam one last sidelong glance before prancing off after this stranger. They nod enthusiastically, encouraging me. Ogling him. Giggling.

  The guy I’m following is big.

  Bigger than the others, his presence parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea as we wade through, students evaporating so he can get by.

  Who the hell is this guy?

  I follow, gaze trained on his broad back. His muscles are unmistakably defined beneath his t-shirt, straining with every step he takes, every fluid mov
ement, the cords of his neck visibly tense.

  He has rich brown hair, lightened by the sun at the top, the back recently trimmed, lines precise. Short on the sides, slightly longer at the top, it’s a mop top I could easily imagine a girl running her fingers through.

  He glances back at me again when he reaches the front door, yanks the handle, pushes the screen open to the porch.

  I come up short. “You said this would only take a few seconds—why are we going outside?”

  “It’s loud in here.” He yells to illustrate his point, pointing to his mouth like I can read lips.

  I hesitate.

  Poise my foot on the threshold, toe of my boot on the step before striding all the way out, cool air hitting me like a welcome force.

  I breathe it in then out with a sigh of relief. God it feels so good.

  “So…we’re outside.” I take the jacket out of my tote and slide both arms into it, zipping the front with a satisfying whirr. “And doesn’t this feel amazing? I was dying in there.”

  He studies me under the porch lights, silently crossing his arms, a beer clutched in one huge hand.

  No jacket, short sleeves, and a scowl.

  I raise one brow, waiting.

  He continues staring me down, wordlessly.

  This guy is tall—good and tall—legs spread slightly, bulky arms crossed defensively. What I imagine a powerful baseball player stance to be, except without the uniform or glove.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  “What’s up? Did you see me across the room and decided I was irresistible? You just had to talk to me?” Haha. “Don’t tell me—you can’t resist a fuzzy brown sweater?” I try for brave and nonchalant, but my nerves betray me and my voice quivers.

  His nose dips down, those brawny arms uncrossing, the cords in his forearms stretching. Claps his hands together like two giant cymbals, the noise echoing in the quiet yard.

  “So, I’m just going to throw it down, all right? It’s nothing personal.”

  Nothing good comes from sentences that begin with, ‘It’s nothing personal’, which is just a generic form of ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

  “It’s like this,” he continues. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed back in the house.”