Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5

by Sara Ney

  Besides, he’s terrifying, and I doubt he even knows my name.

  Well, sure he does—I’m on the roster—but a lad can hope. I never want my name passing that man’s lips.

  Shudder.

  I made it out alive.

  Home free for another day, I collapse into a booth at the one shop in town where they advert scones on the internet, a quaint coffee shop on the edge of town.

  Took me a bit to find the blasted place, but now I have, I’m eager to order and bring my blood pressure back to normal by eating a few things that remind me of home.

  Scone. Biscuit.

  Tea.

  They don’t have the clotted cream, but I don’t give a fig, body strung full of tension from all of Coach’s shouting, the added anxiety of being put in at the last minute.

  “Jones, get your ass in there.”

  “In where?” I blurted out like an idiot.

  Coach stared, then lifted his arm, clipboard and all, and pointed it toward the field. “Out fucking there!” he bellowed, none too helpfully.

  “Right then.” I nodded.

  “And where are your goddamn shoes?” he added as I shuffled forward, staring down at my trainers.

  “Uh.” I hadn’t gotten around to ordering them online, and I vowed it would be the first thing I did when I sat down for tea after this mess was over.

  Too late to sneak off now, you cockwaffle.

  I’d lost my chance, and now I was fucked.

  “Sit your ass back down,” he grumbled, pointing at Grant. “Pepper, you’re up.”

  Grant shoved in his mouthguard with a nod and a smile, eager to get into the muddle and impress our coaching staff, and I watched as he raced into the fray like a warrior going to battle.

  Those blokes were nothing like I was picturing and nothing like Ashley had described.

  Jolly good fun! he said. Fun lads, easiest game to join on campus—all my mates were the real deal.

  Jolly good fun my arse.

  I was lucky enough to find a booth to slide into—this place is surprisingly packed considering I had no idea it existed—after ordering one of every flavor scone (one for now and the rest for later), peeling open the small packets of butter the barista put on a plate for me.

  The pats are wrapped in silver and not nearly enough to keep me satisfied, so I asked for eight.

  Wish I’d worked off some of the calories I’m about to stuff down my gullet…

  Patiently I wait for my carb overload—er, I mean, food—stomach as impatient as I am. When it finally arrives, I moan as it’s set down in front of me, anxiously waiting to pounce on the warm pastry. It’s been far too long since I’ve had one of these lemon scones, not taking the time to locate them, not taking the time to do what I’ve traditionally done my entire life: partake in tea time.

  Even in boarding school, we had tea at least once a day, usually in the late afternoon before supper time, always dressed in slacks and a nice shirt with a tie.

  I hated those ties…

  And of course, Mum always does tea at home when Ashley and I are there on holiday, his new wife Georgia usually in tow.

  Lovely sister-in-law I have.

  She and my brother were roommates at university, living in the same house I’m living now. They got off to a rocky start. According to my brother, Georgia approached him because of a bogus dare her mates challenged her to and that she did, despite it being dodgy and somewhat meanspirited.

  Anyhow, they fucked in Vegas, got hitched after too much booze, and here we are.

  I bite into the warm bread after smothering it with butter—a lackluster replacement for my beloved clotted cream—eyes roaming the establishment, searching all the faces and finding none I recognize.

  Too far from campus, I suppose.

  My eyes then stray to the door.

  No sooner do I peel them away than the thing swings open and a familiar form materializes.

  Eliza.

  That blonde’s roommate—the one who was watching the Hulk.

  Never one to shy away, I raise a hand and gesture to her before she even sees me, her gaze scanning the room and finding nowhere to sit. I’ve taken the last decent booth, and if her intention is to stay awhile, she’s in for a wait.

  Eliza spots me.

  Hesitates.

  Looks left, looks right.

  Even looks behind her?

  “Um,” her lips seem to say, unsure.

  Instead of coming toward me, she seems to retreat to the door, still hoping to find an empty table among the crowd.

  Zero to be had, love.

  Her options are my table or the ground, and she is toting a book bag—one that looks heavy and full of what I can only assume are textbooks, or maybe drawing pads.

  Still, she won’t come over.

  I lift a scone as an invitation. There’s a party over here, and she’s invited!

  Eliza smiles despite herself, shifting the bag on her shoulders and biting down on her bottom lip, hair getting brushed behind her ear as well.

  Fussy little thing.

  And she is little.

  I didn’t notice that when I was at her house; she was ensconced at the end of the sofa and didn’t get up the entire time the movie played, not to pee, not to stretch.

  Well, I’m noticing her now, and she’s a petite little thing.

  Eliza has leggings on, but they’re not the hideous kind most girls wear. They look like leather, and she’s got them tucked into a cute pair of moto boots. White T-shirt. Gold bracelets on her wrist. Large hoops in her ears.

  Her hair is down and I’m shocked I even recognize her based on the last time I saw her—the one and only time I saw her—when it was a jumbled, moppy mess on top of her head.

  Long.

  Wavy.

  Streaks of golden highlights I notice because of the light streaming through the glass door behind her.

  She takes a step forward, and I can see her clearing her throat.

  Eliza is nervous.

  Shite.

  I’m a giant teddy bear! Harmless.

  Wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Erm, that’s a fucking lie—I’d kill the bastard, especially if it were buzzing around my head while I was trying to eat. Or sleep.

  She approaches the table and her waist hits the tabletop, that’s how short she is. Quite adorable actually. And pretty, too.

  “You’re welcome to sit here if you’d like,” I tell her hospitably. “The place filled up as soon as I sat down.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” she tells me politely.

  “Intrude on what? Me stuffing my gullet?” I point to the scones on the plate in front of me and the two stuffed into a brown paper sack. “Really just getting my fix of home—you’re not intruding. And if you happen to have clotted cream somewhere, even better.”

  “Um, I do not,” she says stiffly, shifting on her heels uncomfortably while looking around. Her expression of hope falters. “Are you sure?”

  “Please.” Move my shite. “You came all this way. I could hardly find the place myself.”

  More wavering on her part. “Only if you’re sure…”

  How many times does a bloke have to ask?

  Jesus.

  “Do you come here often?”

  Eliza raises her brow as she slides into the seat across from me, setting her bag in the corner and removing the sunglasses that were perched on her head.

  She sets them on the table.

  “Actually, yeah. There’s a comic store nearby that I used to work at, and it’s kind of been my secret spot ever since.”

  Not so secret anymore. “Not exactly convenient.”

  “Nope.” She glances around, apparently not needing a menu. “How on earth did you find it?”

  I hold up a scone I’ve already smothered in butter and dipped in honey. “These.”

  It gets crammed into my mouth.

  I moan.

  “How do they compare to the real thing?” Eliza
wants to know.

  “Not bad.” I inspect it before taking another bite. “Bigger than back home, but not bad.”

  Americans do everything in excess for no apparent reason.

  Across from me, Eliza seems to get more relaxed and more comfortable in the booth, her book bag still untouched in the corner.

  “You want one?” I push my plate in her direction to offer her a late-morning breakfast.

  “No thank you—I usually get a wrap.”

  A wrap?

  Never had one of those, never want to.

  My plate remains in the center of the table as an offering on the off chance she changes her mind and wants to share.

  She is still glancing around, and I have a feeling it’s because she is still trying to find a different spot to sit—some place that is not at the same table as me. I don’t blame her; I’m a totally strange bloke and she is right to be cautious even though we’re in a public place and I was just in her house.

  Or perhaps that’s the reason she’s leery of me in the first place. Not that I have any designs on her or her roommate, though they are both friendly enough. Kaylee isn’t my type, although she was useful last night.

  In hindsight, I probably should have—and could have—gone to that meeting; I might have learned a thing or two about the game I was supposed to be playing today. I could have gained a little bit more confidence knowing I knew at least what the positions were and what they did, rather than being terrified that Coach would put me in, terrified he’d crook his head in my direction…because the entire time I was on that sideline today?

  I was basically pissing my pants like a toddler still in nappies.

  Bugger that.

  Now instead, I’m stuck googling videos and watching tutorials and reading The Idiot’s Guide to Rugby as the girl I met last night watches me idly from across the table.

  I sigh, setting my mobile down.

  “What are you looking for?” she wonders out loud, quite nosey from the outset.

  “Videos.” Am I about to admit I’m a dunce?

  No.

  “TikTok?”

  “God no.” I snort.

  “Yeah, I don’t go on there either. Too easy to get addicted.”

  I shrug. “If you say so.”

  Eliza watches me a bit longer before admitting defeat by reaching over, unzipping her book bag, and pulling out a laptop and a notebook. Pen.

  A pair of glasses.

  A server appears—one who wasn’t around when I first walked in—asking us both if we’d like to order anything else, and I quirk my eyebrow in Eliza’s direction.

  “Um, I’ll have a breakfast wrap please, with salsa.” She pauses. “And a cappuccino with soy milk.”

  “Cappuccino? That does sound delightful.” I say it out loud before realizing how dumb it sounds.

  “Do you want one, too?” the server asks, stylus hovering above the screen of a tablet.

  “Sure.” Why not. “And some sausages if you have them?”

  The server nods and pokes around on her pad. “Anything else?”

  “I’m good,” Eliza says. “Oh—water?”

  Another nod.

  “I’ll take a water, too.”

  “So, two waters, one breakfast wrap with salsa, two cappuccinos with soy milk.” She glances up at us before sticking the stylus back into the side of her pad.

  “You know what else sounds good? A sweet bun.”

  Eliza lifts her brows. “A sweet bun? What’s that?”

  Uh—a bun that’s sweet? What does she think it is? “I think you call them cinnamon rolls? Big bun smothered in butter and frosting…?”

  Why do I keep talking about food? I haven’t spoken about anything else since she sat down—she’s going to think I have a one-track mind.

  I think about other things, too, like movies and home and school. Three-dimensional as it were.

  “I figured that’s what you meant,” she says with a smile and opens her laptop.

  “Doing homework?”

  “No, not really. I’m working on a graphic project, and I’m testing this new program I just bought so that I can do it digitally instead of by hand, but I’m not sure how I feel about it yet.” She shrugs with a laugh. “You know how it is.”

  Do I?

  I’ll have to take her word for it. Digitally doing anything isn’t in my wheelhouse—numbers and math are more my forte.

  “I’m old school myself,” I admit. “I think I’d rather freehand something than try to learn a program.”

  I’m utter shite at retention, which is one of the reasons I haven’t learned the bloody rules of rugby.

  Four

  Eliza

  It feels weird to be sitting here with Jack, the same guy my roommate brought home last night. The same guy my roommate wanted to drag into her bedroom and make out with—and who knows what else.

  The same guy who went home instead.

  He’s still as good-looking as I remember him being, and polite too. Jack was kind enough to offer me a spot at his table when there were no other spots to be had, something he did not have to do. Then, he offered me some of his food. Still has it sitting in the center of the table should I change my mind and want to nibble on a scone.

  I won’t lie—they do look awfully tempting…

  I leave the plate be. Besides, I don’t need crumbs and butter on my laptop keys.

  He sits across from me as I stare at my glowing computer screen, drawing a blank—no inspiration forthcoming—and I’m not sure how to proceed. Normally when I’m working on graphics, I do them on paper.

  To do them modernly, I would also need a tablet and a stylus (similar to the one the waitress had to take our order on), except I don’t have the money for both.

  It was either the fancy new laptop or a fancy new tablet—not both.

  See, I’m working on a comic book—or rather, a graphic novel. One I don’t ever expect to finish, but it’s been a bucket list dream of mine forever, and I am determined to at least try.

  I can feel his eyes watching me as I busy myself, trying to pretend I’m alone at this table.

  It’s practically impossible.

  Jack is big and imposing and larger than life, and it feels like he is occupying the entire room, let alone this entire table.

  He picks up a scone from his plate and tears off the end, popping it in his mouth and chewing. Watching and chewing, watching and chewing.

  It’s unsettling.

  I don’t know why it’s bothering me so bad to have him stare—I don’t feel like he’s necessarily being rude, it’s just…weird? Disconcerting for sure. It’s as if he’s studying me. Like he’s trying to figure me out or something, but that can’t be, can it?

  I want to say something, call him out or point out the staring, but I myself don’t want to be rude to this person I’ve only just met, even though I’m hogging most of his table. As if it were my table and he’s the one joining me for a late breakfast instead of the other way around.

  Chew.

  Stare.

  He bites off another hunk of blueberry scone, and I notice he’s eaten several; then again, he is a big boy and probably could eat a dozen of them all by himself for one meal and still be hungry—which would explain why he added sausage when the server was taking our order.

  Another thing I notice? Jack has a napkin in his lap. He has unrolled the silverware and placed the paper napkin it comes with on his lap, in its proper place. The thing is, I’ve never actually seen a young man do this in public without being told.

  I have a brother. The only times I’ve ever seen him use manners is when he’s being scolded or reminded by our mother to do so.

  I try not to gawk in awe, but I’m impressed.

  Relax, Eliza—he’s British, he can’t help himself.

  Still, a flush heats my face and I feel my cheeks get hot because I have not put my napkin on my own lap, my own manners lagging. Taking my utensils in hand, I tear off the little paper
collar that’s holding everything together and unroll it to expose the fork and knife.

  Set those aside and unfold the white paper napkin to lay across my knee.

  There.

  Now I don’t feel so impolite.

  It doesn’t take long for the server to return with the waters and the cappuccinos before going back into the kitchen and returning with the food.

  Excellent. I’m starving.

  Jack immediately plows into the sausage, using his fork to stab two and then jam them in his mouth, tearing off the ends like a savage. He holds out his fork in my direction.

  “You wanna bite?”

  “Um. No thanks.” I laugh—actually laugh, because he looks hopeful for some reason. Like a cat bringing home a mouse, he wants to feed me.

  I don’t even know you, pal. Slow your roll with the gestures.

  Is he always like this?

  So giving?

  So…

  Kind?

  I’m not trying to be skeptical of someone who seems nice, but it’s strange. Foreign.

  New.

  Guys aren’t normally like this—not the ones I’ve been out with…not that that list is long.

  I gingerly pick up my breakfast wrap and take a bite off one end, careful not to tip it in a way that has the eggs, peppers, and mushrooms falling out the other side. I hate when that happens. Hate having to put the thing back together when all I’m trying to do is enjoy it. Ha ha.

  “How is it?” Jack asks curiously.

  I’ve barely taken one bite. “So far so good.”

  “Do you mind if I have a bite?”

  He wants a bite? “We’re sharing food now?”

  I don’t even know him.

  Not really.

  I know his name, I know he has a British accent, and I know he wanted to watch a Marvel show with me last night instead of banging my beautiful roommate.

  Interesting to say the least.

  “I won’t like, eat the whole thing. Just a bite.” He holds up a hand. “Promise.”

  “Uh—I’m not worried you’re going to eat the entire thing. I’m…worried about germs, you weirdo.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Everyone has germs.”

  “Okay, right, but mine won’t give you gonorrhea or anything.”

  Oh my god.