Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  The gash on his mouth seems to have healed, along with the bruising on his face, dark blotches fading.

  He still needs a shave.

  “Did you just call this a fairy cake?” Jamal holds his up for inspection, eyeing it this way and that.

  “That’s what it’s called, innit?”

  “We call them cupcakes,” Jamal tells him, licking the frosting from the side. “Dang girl, this is good.”

  I sit up straighter under his praise, three cupcakes left in the box.

  Priya took a pass, I’m not eating one, and I haven’t let Ashley take one yet; granted, they’re all technically for him, but…

  He stares at me.

  I stare back.

  “You’re right. These were for you.” I hold the entire box out to him and he takes it, setting it on the floor next to his feet.

  “What the hell is going on right now? Do you two know each other from outside of class?”

  “We’ve met,” Ashley confesses, but with zero explanation or further detail.

  “Soo,” Nalla says, “is this some messed-up foreplay?”

  Ashley presses his lips together.

  Nalla laughs. “Guess that answers that question.”

  “We should keep moving,” Brian tells everyone, taking the role of leader. “We’re going to run out of time before she starts calling on groups.”

  He’s right, so we hustle, coming up with a few more answers before our time is up.

  Four

  Ashley

  “Hey Jones, you going to be at the house this weekend?” One of my teammates jogs up beside me on the field, his face streaked with mud from practically getting beaten into the ground during our game.

  We’re both covered in a ruthless cocktail of dirt and blood, our hard-fought victory just minutes behind us.

  “It’s Wednesday, Stewart—piss off.” Does anyone know what they’re doing this far in advance?

  “I have someone I want you to meet.”

  For some reason, the guy is always trying to set me up with his girlfriend’s mates—don’t know if that means we’re best mates or what, but he needs to stop.

  I don’t need a girlfriend.

  I won’t be here after the semester ends; I’ll be heading home to Surrey to work for my father, a goal I’ve always had. The last thing I need is some American girl getting attached and being left behind when I leave.

  When my visa expires.

  “Mate, stop trying to find me a bird. If I wanted to date, I’d find one myself.”

  He trudges along next to me as we walk to the rented school shuttle; it was an away game and will take three hours to get home.

  We toss our duffles in a pile next to the cargo doors then head for the steps.

  “I know, but Allie wants to find a couple to double date with, and her friend Ariel thinks you’re cute.”

  I glance at him over my shoulder. Some girl named Ariel thinks I’m cute? That’s a brilliant change considering Georgie would prefer a paper bag over my head.

  I’m tempted to text Georgie and share the news—rub it in her face; too bad I don’t have her phone number, nor will I go hunting for it.

  Not.

  Bloody.

  Likely.

  Tossing my backpack into a seat near the back of the shuttle, I plop down and let my body relax, though it’s still covered in grime. We weren’t playing at a university or college stadium as we do on our campus—this school didn’t have a rugby field, so our match was at a big park.

  No stadium, no showers.

  It feels like I’m spending the entire ride in a soiled nappy.

  My mobile rings. It’s my mum.

  I swipe to accept the call and hold the mobile to my ear. “Mum, why are you awake? It’s one in the morning.”

  She’s in Great Britain (obviously), and there’s a six-hour time difference.

  “Couldn’t sleep, love. Dad was up making calls with the partners in Beijing and I could hear him from the study. He talks too loud.” Mum yawns. “Wide awake so I thought I’d call. How’s my boy?”

  I hate when she calls me her boy; makes me feel like a tot.

  “I’m good.” I glance out the window as the bus pulls away from the park. “Just finished a match so I’m bloody whelped.”

  “Language,” she scolds, though I can hear her smiling. Mum is classy and sophisticated, and I’ve never heard her curse a day in my life.

  “Sorry.”

  She doesn’t have these problems with my younger brother Jack. Serious, studious, does what both my parents expect. Attending uni where he was supposed to—University of St. Andrews—and has had the same steady girlfriend he’s had since secondary school.

  Lady Caroline Standish-Biddles, hailing from London and a real stiff—what do I care, though? I’m not the one shagging her.

  Mum yawns again, which makes me yawn.

  “Do you suppose you could check in more often?” she asks me. “And would it be a terrible burden to pop home for a long weekend? We’ve forgotten what you look like.”

  That’s a lie; she and I video-chat plenty. She always calls ghastly early or ridiculously late. I’ve been in the States four years and we still haven’t managed to coordinate the time difference.

  “Pop home?” I give it some thought, head resting on the window of the bus. “I’ll think about it. Maybe.”

  I guess it wouldn’t hurt to grace them with my presence sometime soon.

  “What else have you been up to, darling?” I hear sheets rustling. “Oh—Elizabeth Townsend is still single.”

  I roll my eyes. Stewart and his girlfriend aren’t the only pair trying to match me off. Mum is the worst yet, always bringing up girls I’ve known since primary school, none of them my type.

  City girls whose goal is living in a swank London flat, raising babies and lunching.

  So insipidly English.

  “Is she?” Shite, why did I say that? Now she’s going to prattle on about Elizabeth bloody Townsend, and I have no interest in hearing about her. If Mum goes on and on about it, she won’t stop with me—she’ll purposely mention our conversation to a friend of Mrs. Townsend, who will tell Elizabeth I asked about her, then out of the blue Lizzie will no doubt drop into my messages.

  That’s just the way these things work.

  “She is. Elizabeth was with her mum at the flower show in Chelsea and let it slip she didn’t have a date yet for the gala at Albert Hall.” Mum clears her throat.

  I roll my eyes and glance back out the window.

  We’re still quite a ways from campus—I’d rather not spend the ride talking about some girl I have no interest in.

  “I’m not flying home so Lizzie Townsend can dig her claws into my arm and hold it like her ankles are broken.” Or like she has shackles on me. No thanks. “I’ll come home to see you and Dad, but not to date some spoiled—”

  “Ashley.”

  “Socialite. I was going to say socialite. Jeez, give me some credit.”

  “Jeez?” She repeats it as if she’s never heard the expression. “Ugh, you sound so American. What are they doing to you over there?”

  “Doing to me?” I laugh. Never ever have I felt more normal than when I finally moved here for uni. I’m not going to stay, but at least I discovered who I am.

  I am not the family I was born into. I am not stuffy and serious.

  I’m whip-smart, but money won’t be the only thing I live for at the end of the day.

  Not that Mum and Dad do, but neither of them were bred to be lower class, and it shows. I’m not calling them snotty, but…they’re posh and snotty. Mum has a kind heart and means well, but her father was knighted by the king in the late forties and she was raised a lady, whilst Dad…

  Inherited his role as Baron Talbot as a lad, grandfather having died before I was born and passing everything down to his eldest, as is the custom.

  Plenty of land, artwork, some money.

  Dad is old school, still goes to his club
s in London to rub elbows with the blue bloods of society. Still has a cigar room at the house where he shuts himself off. Still believes children are to be seen and not heard.

  Sent both us boys to prep school, aka boarding school, for a proper education and to be raised by students and faculty.

  “Are you still there, darling, or have we been cut off?”

  “I’m here, sorry. You were saying?”

  “I was asking if you’ve been dating anyone in the States. Anyone you fancy?”

  “No, there’s no one I fancy, Mum.” Not even a little, and you can’t count that pest Georgia from my business class even if I can’t get her off my mind.

  It’s only because she insulted me that she’s in my thoughts and nothing else, although the cupcakes she baked as a peace offering were fantastic. I ate one once I was home even though I’d acted like I was going to throw them all in the trash.

  No, I don’t mention that to Mum, even to complain.

  Besides, if I told her Georgia asked me out because she thought I was ugly, Mum would be on the first flight across the ocean to wring Georgia’s neck.

  She thinks I’m the most handsome devil in the world, scars and all.

  “That’s alright, you have time. And it’s best you don’t form any attachments in America.”

  She loves to remind me I’m not staying here, that this is just a whim they’ve agreed to instead of me taking a gap year.

  “I know that, Mum.”

  She yawns.

  “You should get to sleep. It’s late.”

  She sighs. “You’re right.” It sounds like she’s leaning back against her pillows and settling in. “Send me a message later, sweetheart. Mummy loves you.”

  Mummy loves you.

  “Love you too, Mum.” I smile before disconnecting the call and tuck the mobile into a pocket of my duffle bag, resting my head against the seat back and closing my eyes, too.

  Five

  Georgia

  Friday

  How have I agreed to come out again after the travesty of last weekend?

  Oh, that’s right—I did this to myself because I still feel like an asshole for insulting that poor guy to his face.

  Ashley blah blah Mr. Fancy-Pants British guy himself.

  The guy with a girl’s name.

  I’m not with the girls from the track team tonight; I’ve managed to convince Nalla and Priya to come along since they know Ash already, and also I’d love to become friends with them.

  From what I’ve already learned about them in Business Comm, they’re both right up my alley when it comes to good people: funny, nice, outgoing, and smart.

  Plus, when I casually mentioned getting together yesterday after class, both of them piped up that they were sick of being stuck at home on the weekends.

  Both are juniors, but it doesn’t sound like either of them have best friends at school, and lord knows my new teammates aren’t working out the way I planned.

  I nervously fiddle with the belt loops of my high-waisted jeans, watching up the road for both Nalla and Priya—we’ve agreed to meet in front of the rugby house and I’m early, my apprehensive nerves vibrating.

  Ashley Dryden-Jones wants nothing to do with me, and here I am about to ambush him in his own house.

  Well, not his house—but on his turf.

  I should be ashamed of myself and just leave him be, but my pride and conscience won’t allow me to.

  I hate when someone doesn’t like me.

  I have to make it right.

  It’s eating me alive that I hurt his feelings and wounded his pride. I knew it was wrong and yet I did it anyway, and now I have to live with myself.

  Worse, I have to see him twice a week in class.

  Hear that ridiculous accent.

  Watch his smug mouth as he knowingly ignores me.

  I know he ate those cupcakes; he wouldn’t have taken them home otherwise—not when he could have dumped them in the trash on his way out of the lecture hall.

  Six

  Ashley

  I notice as soon as she walks through the front door of the house—not because Georgia is overly tall, or even overly stunning, or because she’s with the two girls from our business class group.

  I notice her because…

  It’s Georgia.

  She pissed me off and got me butthurt—an American phrase I’ve latched onto—and now she’s on my radar.

  In my class.

  Up my arse.

  Needling me twenty-four seven because she’s trying to get back on my good side.

  Which, according to her, doesn’t exist as she thinks I’m fug.

  I’d be lying if I stood here and pretended I don’t find Georgia attractive. Lying if I said it didn’t sting that it’s one-sided.

  Georgia is beautiful in that pure, girl-next-door kind of way. The kind of pretty where you imagine someone with wildflowers and wind blowing through her hair, sun hitting her face in the summer, floral summer dress, and what the hell am I going on about?

  She’s done up tonight, long hair falling in a straight sheet, the same way it was that Friday we met.

  She wears it pulled back for class, I’ve noticed, probably coming straight from practice and in a mad rush.

  From my vantage point, I can see her scanning the room, searching.

  For me.

  Crossing my arms, I lean against the plywood makeshift bar a few of my teammates erected in the corner of the room, waiting for Georgia’s eyes to land on me, knowing full well she’ll be embarrassed to be caught.

  I’m not daft—I know she’s here on a mission to redeem herself; she gave that plot away when she baked me cupcakes and brought them to the lecture hall.

  Yummy, delicious cupcakes.

  They were good, but not so bloody good I’m going to forgive her for being an insensitive arsehole.

  “Yo, Britain.” I get jostled by a giant hand as Stewart calls me by the nickname he sometimes uses. “Don’t get mad, but Allie brought her friend tonight.”

  Eh? What does his girlfriend bringing a friend to a party have to do with me?

  “Isn’t America a free country?”

  “You know, so we can double.”

  “Double what?”

  Stewart—whose first name is Braeden—rolls his eyes like I’m slow on the uptake and reminds me what a double is.

  “I told you about the double date after the game, remember?”

  “What I remember is telling you I didn’t need to be set up.”

  That’s what I said, right? I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, let alone something I said to the lad a few days ago.

  Stewart drinks from the plastic cup in his hand, beer foam covering the tip of his handlebar mustache. He’s wearing aviator glasses and a khaki green flight suit, looking quite douchey as usual.

  “It’s one date, and Ariel—”

  “Are you mad? I don’t need to be set up.”

  “Bro, you have to put yourself out there.”

  “I am out there.”

  Georgia’s head bobs among the crowd, still taller than most of the girls in the room. Easy to spot and keep track of.

  If a bloke wanted to pay attention to her.

  Which I do not.

  “You’ve been here four years, dude, and I’ve never seen you on a date. You need to get a life.”

  “I have a life.” One that includes more responsibility than he could ever dream of. The duty behind a title I’ll inherit, land, which means I won’t be single forever—I’ll need to get married, have a wife and heirs.

  It’s the British aristocratic way.

  Stewart sips at his beer.

  I ignore him and signal for Pauly, the “bartender”, to pour me one from the keg, too. No sense in standing here idly, letting Stew harass me about women.

  Two girls walk up, one with bright flaming hair—some of which I’m sure is fake—and one putting her arm around Stew’s waist and going up on her tiptoes so she can kiss hi
m on the cheek.

  Shite. They were supposed to be in the bathroom; how did they find us? More importantly, how the hell am I going to disappear without coming off as a rude wanker?

  “Hi, I’m Allie. We haven’t met, but I’ve heard so many good things about you.” The blonde sticks her hand out to shake mine, and I stare down at it, wanting to be rude.

  My good breeding won’t allow me to.

  “Ash.”

  Allie separates herself from Stew long enough to thrust her red-haired friend in my direction.

  “This is my friend Ariel.”

  I have no idea what to say; it’s bizarre every time a girl is shoved on me and I know I’m supposed to act interested. That’s the intention, but this isn’t the outcome.

  One, Ariel isn’t my type.

  Too much makeup, too much lipstick, too much hair.

  Fine, I’m a shallow bastard, sue me—but I like a woman I can take shooting in the country or lie around casually with, who feels comfortable enough in her own body that she doesn’t have to hide behind layers.

  Two, Ariel looks like the goddamn Little Mermaid. Yes, I know what that is—I wasn’t born living under a bloody rock—and no, I’m not interested in dating a cartoon character.

  Clearly she dyes her hair red, and it’s a shade too bright.

  Too, too, too.

  Much too everything.

  My mother would have a fit.

  Not that it’s Mum’s choice, but you don’t waltz a girl into a family like mine without a care for their opinion, not when you care about their opinion.

  And I do.

  Luckily, Ariel does not try to shake my hand. “Hi, Ariel.”

  I’m not a conversationalist, and no one says anything, which makes this entire thing awkward. Not even Stewart, who hasn’t been able to shut up about setting me up.

  “You know what would be fun?” Allie finally chimes in, bubbling with the idea I know she’s had brewing for weeks. “Stewart and I thought it would be so fun if we all went on a date. You, me, him, and Ariel.”