Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5

by Sara Ney

  That will fix itself.

  “…kick everyone out and get the meeting started in half an hour,” Booker is saying, even as he chugs from a pint. It’s a plastic cup—something I’m still not used to—the amber liquid disappearing with each swallow.

  He licks his lips. “Jack, you can lead the freshman breakout session since you’re the same year but with loads more experience.”

  Lead the breakout session?

  Jesus H, I have to get myself out of this. I’m in no condition to lead anything, let alone a rugby strategy meeting.

  Hell no!

  “Are you blokes only calling this meeting coz you’re getting pissed?”

  Kaylee leans in. “Are they mad? They don’t seem mad.”

  “Pissed,” I say, explaining my English. “Sloshed. Drunk.”

  She nods. “Oooh! That makes more sense.”

  “No, we’re calling the meeting now because everyone seems to be here. Don’t think we’re missing anyone for a change. It’s the perfect time!”

  “Except half of you are trollied,” I remind them, eager to weasel my way out of it.

  “So?” Booker snorts. “Half of them are trollied during the games.”

  That can’t be true, can it? Is being piss-arse drunk at a match allowed?

  I have so much to learn.

  Cricket is so much more dignified than rugby—I wish I hadn’t learned to play that at school instead and had chosen rugby alongside my brother; I’d have more confidence than I’m feeling at the moment.

  “Seriously?” I squeak out. “You drink during the matches?”

  “No, dipshit—there’s no drinking during the matches. I meant they’re usually hungover. Sheesh, what were they teaching you back home? We drink the night before and after, but not during. Christ.”

  Well how the hell am I supposed to know?

  “Oh my god, Booker, be nice—he barely goes here.” Kaylee jumps to my defense, patting my arm.

  They ignore her.

  “We have lots of meetings during parties,” Levi informs me. “It’s kind of what we’re known for. We have to kick everyone out first, then the guys can set up.”

  Kick everyone out.

  Set up.

  Shite, they’re actually going to have a meeting tonight. One where they want me to lead a group of freshman players, who probably know more about the sport than I ever will.

  “I can’t lead the freshmen,” I blurt out. “I…don’t have a notebook.”

  The guys stare.

  “Don’t have a notebook?” Booker’s face is cocked up. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I just like to have notebooks when I attend meetings. For notetaking?”

  Levi jabs Booker with his elbow. “These British dudes and their crazy ways, acting like it’s the year 2000.” They laugh. “Technology, man—all you need is your phone!”

  Right.

  My mobile.

  “Come on, send your lady on her way so we can get everyone rounded up and get started.” Booker belches loudly and laughs. “Night’s not getting any younger.”

  “Are you sure we can’t do this in the morning? Before practice? I can bring bagels.”

  Everyone stares at me as if I’ve lost my damn mind.

  “Bagels?” Booker asks. “Since when do you eat bagels?”

  Since never, but I’m willing to cater a picnic if it’ll spare me from this catastrophe.

  “Ha, I was kidding.”

  The guys relax.

  Levi gives me a pointed look, holding his beer cup high and extending his index finger. “You got this, bro. Don’t be nervous. We all love you.”

  Lord, these blokes and their bromances. Levi and Booker and the rest of them love hugs and words of encouragement and cheerleading from the sidelines.

  It’s so strange to me.

  My mates back home couldn’t have cared less how I was feeling, or that I was nervous or…

  “I’m not nervous.” I force out a laugh. “It’s just I promised Kaylee here I would drive her home, with it raining and all.”

  Heads crane toward the front porch.

  “It’s raining? When did it start raining?”

  Since never, but I continue adding to the lie. “Where I come from, a gentleman never lets a woman get home on her own.”

  Some nods of agreement, especially from the girls.

  “Love that!” Kaylee agrees. “Yes! Love that—he has to drive me home. I’m terrified.” She shivers, playing to the crowd, squeezing my arse with a grip from behind, all the while keeping a somber expression. “I hate the dark.”

  I’m liking her more and more.

  “Dude, you can’t miss the meeting. Levi has raffle prizes…” Booker’s face is morose.

  “It’s true,” Levi says. “I have a few candles and some chocolate chip cookies my aunt Donna made.”

  What the actual fu…

  Kaylee makes an ‘awww’ sound. “That does sound wonderful, but our boy here doesn’t need to sit in on the meeting—he knows everything he has to know.”

  Booker scowls at her, not liking her opinion. “It’s team building.”

  Levi sighs. “She’s not wrong, though—our buddy from across the pond doesn’t need to stay. There isn’t anything we can tell him tonight he can’t teach us tomorrow.”

  They nod as if Levi’s words are gospel truth.

  Wait.

  Did he even make sense?

  “All right, but come back as soon as you drop her off. We’ll probably be here awhile.”

  My shoulders relax as I’m let off the hook. “Absolutely. Won’t take me but a few minutes.”

  Kaylee pokes me. “Come on, babe—let’s get going. I’ll tell the girls we’re ready to leave and you can drop them off on the way, ’kay?”

  At this point I’ll agree to anything, including shuffling a truck full of giggling cheerleaders around town like I’m their taxi service.

  “’Kay.”

  “So this is where I live.”

  The pronouncement comes as we arrive in front of a little white house on the edge of campus—literally on the edge of campus, straight across from the administration building, so lit up and prominent I wonder if the house is actually part of the university grounds, like the dean’s house.

  “You’re right here.”

  It took no time at all to get her here once her three drunk friends were left off at their apartments.

  “I’m right here.” She giggles.

  “Here here. Like—on campus?”

  “Not quite.” She’s laughing as she unbuckles the seat belt of my truck—which used to be my brother’s truck—shooting me a glance over her shoulder as she shoves the passenger side door open. “Are you coming or not?”

  Am I?

  I am. Have to if I’m going to kill time and avoid going back to the rugby house, shirking all my responsibilities before they’ve begun. I simply cannot let them know yet how horrible I am at the game.

  “Oh, right.”

  I trail along after Kaylee, and there are already lights on inside the place, glowing from what’s probably the sitting room with the telly in it.

  “Do you have flatmates?”

  “Two.”

  She doesn’t need a key to let herself in; either that, or they’re terrible about locking up.

  She leads me up to a side door and we go in through the kitchen, a tiny little room with only the necessities. It’s small but really nice—well-appointed, if I must admit, and not so stereotypical as all the rest. A bit like my place though not as large, and I really do have to wonder who owns this house because it’s not typical of anything I have seen.

  The counters are stone, and not Formica. The floors? Hardwood. The appliances? Stainless.

  I remove my shoes from force of habit and mentally give myself a face palm; I have no idea if I’m staying, let alone leaving the kitchen—is it necessary to remove them? A tad presumptuous if I do say so myself.

 
“Kaylee?” A voice calls from a room off the kitchen—I presume it to be the sitting room, a soft glow spilling out along with the sounds of the telly.

  “Hey!” the blonde calls. “Just got back—I have a guest.” She giggles.

  “What kind of guest?” the voice volleys back.

  A female voice.

  Pleasant.

  She’s chewing something.

  Kaylee laughs, unbuckling the heels tethered to her ankles. “The male kind of guest.”

  The pronouncement is followed by silence.

  My stomach growls, and I wonder what the girl in the sitting room is munching on.

  Kaylee tugs me along by the sleeve, and I’m about to find out.

  Rounding the corner, we enter a quaint little room with a leather sofa, oriental rug, two occasional chairs, and a coffee table. There’s also a brick fireplace, telly hanging above it.

  Nice.

  Real nice.

  “Eliza, this is Jack—Jack, my roommate Eliza.”

  It’s then that I take in the girl—no, she’s a young woman—resting in the corner of the leather davenport, legs tucked beneath her, what appears to be a sketch pad in her lap.

  She’s writing…or sketching, pencil pinched between her thumb and forefinger.

  It gives a jaunty twirl. “Hi.”

  She’s uninterested in me. Not the least bit impressed by my presence.

  Droll, even.

  The differences between Kaylee and the roommate are like comparing apples to oranges.

  One is blonde, the other has dark hair.

  One is dolled up and coifed to the extreme, the other…is wearing casual joggers and has bare feet, hair swept up and piled high on her head, strands falling out everywhere errantly.

  A pair of black-rimmed glasses perch on the bridge of her nose.

  Her university sweatshirt looks as if she’s had it for years, ripped at the sleeve, faded.

  She looks decidedly comfortable, at ease.

  At least—until I walked into the room.

  “Give me a few minutes, I’m going to change,” Kaylee tells me, giving my forearm a squeeze, and I take my attention off the girl seated in the corner of the room.

  It’s not good manners nor wise to ogle a woman in her own home.

  I nod to the blonde—why I keep calling her that, I have no idea—not really giving a care what she’s going to do once she leaves the room, only caring that I waste as much time here as possible lest I have to go back to the rugby house for that blasted meeting.

  “What are you working on?” I inquire, one part curiosity, one part polite.

  Eliza is silent for a few seconds before responding, which I understand; I’m a stranger and a bloke, invading her space and now asking personal questions. Plus, it’s late and well past a time for polite company.

  How stodgy does that sound? Ugh.

  “Just dabbling.”

  Well that gives nothing away, does it? “Are you writing something or sketching something?”

  Eliza heaves a sigh.

  I’m inconveniencing her. “Both.”

  Both.

  “Which means what exactly?”

  She gives me the side-eye. “What do you care? In two seconds, Kay is going to come traipsing back into the room and the two of you can be on your merry way, and you won’t ever see me again, will you.”

  Whoa.

  Down girl, I was just making conversation.

  Although, she is speaking matter-of-factly and not bitterly, expression well-schooled.

  Hmm.

  What is this girl’s story, and what is she working on?

  On the telly, a green-skinned, muscular humanoid skulks around, a gamma ray transforming Dr. Banner into the Hulk, his shirt tearing away from his body and lying in tatters on the ground.

  It’s not one of the recent movies; it’s the original show that probably aired thirty or forty years ago.

  I rest my arse on the arm of the sofa. “You’re into comics?”

  Eliza nods faintly.

  I’m suddenly insatiably curious. What young woman sits around on a weekend with a notebook in her lap at nearly midnight, watching comic book telly rather than spending the evening with her friends?

  Her eyes are half on the screen, half on the book in her lap, pencil poised.

  She’s sketching.

  Glancing up at the telly, then down at her pad.

  Telly.

  Pad.

  “Are you drawing the Hulk?”

  Eliza shakes her head. “No.”

  “Then what are you drawing?”

  I’m like a nagging child pestering its mum.

  The pad gets set down and she lifts her head, eyes focusing on my face. Patiently waits for me to be done being curious. Are you done now? her intelligent gaze seems to say.

  I nod, feeling like a chastised pup.

  I train my gaze back to the telly above the fireplace, and we sit in companionable silence and watch the scenes unfolding, Eliza tipping her head down every so often to doodle in that pad of hers, then looking up at the screen.

  “Is this the original?” I ask her.

  “Yes.”

  “How are you watching this?”

  “I paid for it.”

  “You paid for it?”

  She heaves a sigh. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I’ve never met another person into vintage comics before, let alone a female who was into them. Or perhaps I’m mistaken and she isn’t.

  She’s paying to watch a vintage series set in the seventies, you bloody idiot—no one does that unless they love this shite.

  “Have you watched any others?”

  Once again, Eliza stops fiddling with her pad, fishing around above the couch cushions and producing the remote control. Points it at the screen and pauses the program.

  Stares at me pointedly.

  Right.

  Stop talking, Jack.

  I stop talking.

  She un-pauses the Hulk and it springs back to life, action-packed and old school, all coming to life on the large, flat screen above the fireplace.

  I sink down onto the couch beside her and lose myself in the show.

  Two

  Eliza

  Well.

  This guy is interesting.

  Not a complete departure from Kaylee’s norm, but close enough to set him apart from the usual herd of would-be admirers.

  It’s not uncommon for her to have them.

  Admirers, I mean.

  My roommate is blonde, petite, perky, and sweet as apple pie. It’s a sincere sweetness one cannot fake; I wouldn’t be living with her—with either of them—if it were a front.

  Kaylee and Lilly often get stereotyped based on their looks, extracurricular activities, and the way they talk. Flirty, flighty, and bubbly, they are mirror images of each other and completely misunderstood.

  Whip smart.

  Clever.

  Almost always underestimated.

  I watch Jack from the corner of my eye, pretending to be enthralled by what’s on the television but cautiously maintaining my distance from this dude.

  I don’t know him from Adam.

  He could be a murderer.

  Relax, Eliza, he would have murdered Kaylee in the car on the way over if he were a villain.

  Girl, you’ve been watching too much sci-fi…

  It’s not as if there haven’t been plenty of guys in and out of the house before. Both Kaylee and Lilly have active social lives and are always looking for romance—sometimes in all the wrong places, if you want my opinion.

  I keep telling them they’re not going to find true love at a frat party or on Jock Row, but that doesn’t stop them from looking.

  They’re both hopelessly romantic.

  I wish I could be the same way, carefree and willing to kiss a world full of douchebags to find a guy who isn’t one—but I haven’t come across a single guy in my age range that has swept me off my feet yet.


  Not even close.

  Not even a little.

  Jack is British—something I was absolutely not expecting when he opened his mouth. His attractive, full mouth.

  Guh.

  Kaylee has good taste in men, I’ll give her that.

  And this one…?

  Ugh.

  I try not to stare or look directly at him as he plops down on the couch, settling in to watch the show with me, oblivious to the fact that my roommate will eventually emerge from her room dressed down and ready to do…whatever she’s going to want to do with Jack when she gets back.

  Make out.

  Talk.

  Eat.

  Who knows—I don’t flirt the same way she and Lilly do.

  Athletes are out of my wheelhouse; I may be best friends and roommates with two cheerleaders, but I know nothing about sports. I have little to no interest in any game, unless there is a party involved with platters of chips, hot dogs, and taco dip.

  Yup.

  Sign me up for all the stadium and Super Bowl party chow!

  But I digress…

  Jack must be an athlete—wasn’t Kaylee headed to the rugby house tonight? She loves that hangout. Loves how rugged those guys are compared to the rest of the bunch. Loves how big most of them are.

  Oh, and bearded (though Jack appears to be clean shaven and, dare I say…proper). Proper for a rugby player, I mean.

  No scars.

  No cuts.

  No missing teeth.

  Not a hair out of place and a tad preppy, although he is huge. Strapping, some might say. Broad-chested and fit.

  I’m not quite sure what to make of him, this boy sitting on the end of the couch, enthralled by the Hulk. He seems to know what it is and when it was filmed, making comments every so often about the artwork from the original comic books.

  Kaylee still hasn’t emerged from her bedroom, and I wonder what on earth she could be doing in there. Changing, yes, but…what else is there? What else could she possibly be doing?

  I’m not keeping track of the time, but another few minutes go by before she reappears, prancing into the living room and announcing, “I’m back!”

  I glance up and over at her.

  She’s removed her skintight dress and party heels (as she calls them) and replaced them with equally uncomfortable-looking leggings and a crop top workout shirt.