Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  She bites her lower lip, thinking. We both know if she truly wants to make this right, she has to walk back to the rugby house with me tonight and do it all over again.

  “Sans your bitchy friends from the track team, of course.” I smirk. “You game?”

  Her spine straightens. “Lead the way.”

  Seven

  Georgia

  This time when I spot Ashley in the living room of the party house, I have a chance to really study him, in no hurry to rush over and pantomime my way through this charade he’s asked me to play.

  Still a giant mountain of a guy, he engulfs the bulk of the space surrounding him with a commanding presence I didn’t have the peace of mind to notice the first time we met.

  A plastic beer cup has materialized as if by magic, suspended halfway to his lips.

  Ashley’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he’s grinning at something another guy is saying, and I catch sight of the gap between his front teeth I’d forgotten was there.

  His dark, shaggy hair could still use a trim, but it’s endearing just the same, having been kissed by the sun. Makes him look younger, more approachable, although he still needs to shave.

  The bruises from the last party have long faded, replaced by fresh ones; he must have had a game recently, and I briefly wonder if our team won.

  His team.

  Ashley is very popular. Our peers are gathered around him, everyone seeming to want his attention.

  I don’t know if it’s the British accent people love or the rugged, rogue-like appearance. Maybe how big and bearlike he is.

  Mustering up my courage is a challenge; putting one foot in front of the other to approach him again somehow feels harder than the first time because I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say.

  The last time I had a game plan.

  Get in, get out, get on with it.

  This time, I have to be myself. I have to be honest. I have to…

  What do I want from him? How would I have reacted to him if I’d met him the normal way, heard him speak, seen the gap between his teeth?

  Would I have flirted? Been shy?

  Would he have given me the butterflies I’m feeling now, from nerves?

  My palms are sweaty.

  My heart is beating wildly enough that I feel it in my throat.

  As I approach, he lifts his head, gazing in my direction, small smile bending the corners of his mouth.

  White teeth peeking from behind his lips.

  He’s…

  Cute.

  Really cute, and how am I just now noticing?

  Dummy, you noticed the second you met him. You just wouldn’t admit it.

  I don’t have time for a relationship—I’m here to work.

  Get in, get out, move on with my life.

  I don’t belong at this school any more than Ashley Dryden-Jones does, and it’s beginning to show.

  Our eyes meet.

  One of his brows goes up.

  He’s teasing me, the wretch—ugh!

  I tilt my chin and smile. The beer I swiped off the bar top (that was obviously poured for someone else) meets my lips and I swallow, relishing the cold liquid courage and wishing it would work its way through my system sooner.

  Another sip.

  Another step.

  His friend Stewart is nowhere in sight, nor is Allie or her best friend, and my body relaxes with relief. Phew—I do not need to be dealing with them on top of him tonight. This is stressful enough.

  “Hey,” I say by way of greeting. Groan inwardly because it sounds sophomoric and lame.

  He thinks so too, rolling his eyes. “Hi.”

  Is that the best you’ve got? His face says it all.

  Dammit!

  Yes, that is all I have.

  The group around him waits. One of the guys is not-so-subtly checking me out, and maybe it’s my imagination but I notice Ash scowling.

  It lasts a brief moment, but the expression was there, I’m certain of it.

  Well, well, well, if this isn’t an interesting development.

  He’d only scowl if…

  No.

  Stop that, Georgia. He isn’t into you.

  How would you know? You ruined it, so even if he did, do you think he’d admit it? Guys hate rejection, and I…

  Well, we know what a doozy I committed.

  “Who are you?” asks the guy checking me out.

  Shorter than Ashley by far, he’s openly studying me with interest. Scarred cheek, missing tooth on the bottom, bloody lip.

  Either he got into a fight recently and lost, or he plays a sport.

  Hockey maybe?

  Rugby?

  Seems likely.

  “I’m Georgia,” I say.

  “Can we get you a drink?” the boy asks, though it’s evident I already have one in my hand. He’s being polite, and I appreciate it. “I’m Tyler.”

  “Thank you, I—”

  “She doesn’t accept drinks from random strangers.” Ashley interrupts us before I have a chance to reply.

  “She doesn’t?” Tyler isn’t the only one who appears baffled. “How do you know? We only just met her.”

  So true.

  “It’s common sense, and she looks like a girl with loads of it.”

  A reasonable explanation and quick-witted. I’m impressed by how fast on his feet he is.

  Bravo!

  Or wait, don’t they say brilliant in London? Though I’ve never been.

  “I’ve got a beer, Tyler, but thank you for asking.” I hold it higher so it’s eye level.

  Tyler is pretty cute, and based on our limited interaction, polite.

  But I’m not here to flirt with anyone. I’m here to start over on the right foot with Ashley.

  A few people wander off, bored with the conversation, and the small gathering around Ashley thins, bodies shifting away until I find myself standing next to my mark.

  I hadn’t noticed before, but when he moves, the cotton of his shirt exposes an inked collarbone, a surprise to my wandering eyes.

  “Do you have tattoos?” I blurt out.

  “Yes.”

  “Um…aren’t you going to show me?”

  “Show you?” he says. “Ma’am, I don’t even know you.”

  That’s right—we’re role-playing, but I suck at it.

  “You’re wretched at this.” He laughs. “So horribly bad—it’s like you’re trying to fuck it up.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “I’m not though!” Pause. “Okay I am bad, but it’s hard just walking up to random guys and being all casual and cool.”

  “Fail.”

  Tyler—who’s still standing there—watches us.

  I clear my throat. “Is that a tat I see on your neck?” Jeez, I’m so redundant.

  “Yes.” Where are you going with this? his gaze asks.

  “Do you have tattoos anywhere else?”

  “Yes.” He pulls at one of the long sleeves of his polo shirt, tugging it up to reveal a colorful forearm.

  “Both arms or just the one?”

  “Both.” Ashley hesitates. “Do you like it or not?”

  Yes—oh yes I like it.

  A lot.

  “I don’t mind it.” Nonchalantly, I shrug, noting with satisfaction that Tyler has given up too and faded away, and now it’s just the two of us standing alone in a room full of people.

  “I’m Georgia,” I tell him, as if introducing myself for the first time.

  “You mentioned that earlier.”

  I did? I feel my nostrils flare. He’s intentionally being difficult. “My friends all call me Georgie. Or George.”

  That causes his brows to rise. “Are you saying you want us to be friends? Or are you just pointing out a fun fact?”

  “Both.” I laugh. “Unless you don’t find that fact to be fun.”

  “Georgie. That’s…” He searches for a word. “Cute.”

  Cute.

  Ordinarily, cute is the last d
escriptive word I’d want to be called, but considering this is Ashley we’re talking about and this is me, and he thinks I’m ugly on the inside…

  Butterflies flutter in my stomach.

  He wasn’t calling me cute—he said my nickname was cute, yet somehow it feels the same.

  A compliment.

  “Do you…” I struggle with another question. “Come here often?”

  Ashley blinks. “Eh? I go here.”

  He doesn’t understand, and it dawns on me that they probably don’t use that idiot pick-up line in Britain.

  “Um—that’s a cheesy pick-up line, sorry.”

  He blinks again. “Are you…trying to pick me up? I’m really heavy.”

  My eyes roll.

  “But are you?” he presses.

  He’s watching me now with renewed interest, and I can feel my cheeks getting warm. No doubt they’re a glorious bright red.

  “Do you want me to?”

  “You can’t answer my question with another question. It’s called evasion.”

  Well, duh.

  Being honest is being vulnerable, and the truth is, I’m not sure what it would mean to want to ‘pick him up.’

  I’m too busy for a boyfriend.

  Too…

  Scared.

  He’s leaving at the end of the year and so am I, so getting involved would be so, so stupid.

  “Judging by your enthusiastic silence, I’m going with a big, fat no.”

  He chugs down his beer, avoiding my gaze, but he can’t hide the dejection in his eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  Again.

  This isn’t why we walked back to the rugby house!

  “Please,” I scoff. “You’re not interested anyway, even if I was.”

  Ashley lowers his cup.

  Licks the beer off his lips.

  Shrugs.

  Shrugs?

  Are you kidding me? I want to shout.

  “Ugh!” I let out, frustrated, conversation going nowhere. Setting my beer cup down on the nearest surface, I roll my eyes again at Ashley before stalking away in the direction of the front door.

  Push through it in a huff, as only a girl can do, letting the cool air soothe me when I’m outside on the porch.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  The door slams a second time, and I turn, Ashley’s behemoth body silhouetted by the light pouring out from inside.

  “You’re just going to walk out?”

  Yes.

  No.

  “I need to think.”

  He’s silent. Watches as I walk to the far end of the porch and lean against the railing, butt perched.

  Slowly, he approaches.

  “It was just a simple question, Georgie.”

  Georgie.

  And in that accent, too.

  It has me wondering…

  …what would it be like to date a guy like him?

  He takes up the space next to me, shoulder brushing against mine as he mimics my stance against the banister.

  Our hands, braced on the wood for support, touch.

  What is he doing?

  Surely he doesn’t…

  Isn’t…

  Why is he touching me?

  Why this self-doubt, Georgia? Why are you like this?

  “Do you want a ride home?” comes his low British rumble.

  “Ride? What are you going to do, give me a piggyback ride all the way down the block?” I force out a laugh.

  “See that black truck down there?”

  I crane my neck, turning my head to peer down the street.

  A sleek back pickup is parked behind a white Jeep.

  “Yeah I see it.”

  “That’s mine.”

  It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in.

  “You just walked me home!” I damn near shout. “You had a truck here this entire time?”

  He laughs, a pleasant sound that makes the butterflies waken from their spot in my stomach.

  “Come on. I think it’s fair to say this isn’t going the way we thought it would.”

  Understatement.

  “Nothing is going the way I thought it would,” I grumble, following him across the porch, down the steps, and to his truck.

  The locks automatically beep, echoing in the night, and I pull open the passenger side door.

  “If you’re British, how did you get a truck here?”

  “Um. I bought it.” He buckles himself in. “What did you think I did, flew it across the ocean?”

  “Yes?” God, why am I still talking? “How can you buy a car when you’re British and not a US citizen?”

  Ashley laughs, putting the truck into gear.

  “With cash? The same way you Americans do when you go overseas to get a better deal on a foreign car?”

  People do that?

  Dang.

  “I’m sorry—I’m just not thinking straight. It seems I lost my case of the smarts.”

  And having said that just makes me sound less intelligent. A case of the smarts? Oy.

  “Your flat is up here, yeah?” He’s going the same way we walked earlier, past the administration building. “Up five blocks?”

  “Yes, I’m over on fifteenth, second place once you turn left.”

  He keeps driving. Stops at the stop sign, glancing left and right.

  “This is the dorms.”

  I unbuckle when he parks, giving him a lilting little laugh I can’t keep from escaping my lips. “I know.”

  “Why are you in the dorms? Aren’t you a senior?”

  “Yes, but I’m an out-of-state transfer and didn’t know anyone here, which made it impossible to find a roommate for a house.”

  “The dorms suck.”

  “Well no shit.” I laugh. “But it’s not like I have other options.”

  I glance over at him, the streetlights from the well-lit block illuminating the cab and casting a glow on his sun-kissed skin.

  Making him appear more…

  Rugged. And handsome.

  Larger than life.

  Sexy as hell.

  “You’re stuck here for the rest of the year?”

  “Seems that way, unless someone magically takes pity on me and lets me crash in their spare room, which doesn’t seem likely to me—does it seem likely to you?” Everyone has made their friends at this point.

  The goal when you get a house is to fill it with as many people as you can so your rent is cheaper—the odds of me finding a group who still needs a roommate are slim. And the odds of me finding a college kid living alone, with room to spare?

  My odds of winning the lottery seem better.

  “That’s bollocks.”

  Bollocks.

  Such a British way to say ‘load of crap.’

  “What’s bollocks?”

  “That you live in the dorms and you’re what, twenty-two?”

  “Almost, but not quite.” My hand is gripping the handle of the door, ready to push so I can climb out, not that I’m in a rush. I’m enjoying this. “I had a house with a few girls at the school I transferred from. It was a dump, but at least I had a kitchen and an actual living room, you know? I can’t even make mac n cheese if I want to.”

  Ash wrinkles his nose. “What’s mac and cheese?”

  I gawk at him. “You don’t know what mac n cheese is? Stop it.”

  That can’t just be an American thing, can it?

  “Haven’t heard of it. What’s it, cheese and…”

  “Pasta.” Sort of.

  Shitty pasta, but noodles just the same.

  “What kind of cheese?” he wonders.

  “Um. The powdered kind.”

  “Huh?” More confusion on his part.

  “It, uh, comes in a bag?”

  He squints. “Is that a question?”

  We both laugh.

  “I should make it for you. You can’t live in America and not have eaten mac n cheese at least once.”

  His nod is slow. “Oka
y.”

  “Okay.”

  Eight

  Georgia

  515-555-9070: I’m hungry.

  Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

  515-555-9070: It’s Ashley, from class? I got your mobile from the group info…

  Me: Ahh!!

  Me: Hi

  Me: If you’re hungry, why aren’t you eating? Why are you telling ME?

  Ashley: I’m on a bus back from a scrimmage and thought a home-cooked meal of this cheesy mac sounds pretty good right now.

  Me: First of all, lower your expectations and stop calling it a home-cooked meal. It comes in a box. It’s junk food.

  Ashley: And second?

  Me: You want me to come over and feed you?

  Ashley: Sure.

  Me: Don’t go turning this around to make it sound like I’m inviting myself over to cook for you. Just so we’re clear—YOU are asking ME to come over…?

  Ashley: It’s only 5. Are you busy?

  I glance down at the fuzzy socks on my feet and the worn afghan on my legs and grimace.

  Me: No. My new friends were busy tonight.

  Ashley: Or hungover.

  Me: Lol or hungover. I didn’t ask.

  I chew on my thumbnail, thinking.

  Me: If you actually want me to come make mac for you, I’d have to run to the store. When will you be home?

  Ashley: Home and out of the shower by six?

  Me: Okay.

  Me: What’s your address?

  Ashley: Want me to pick you up?

  Me: No, no, I can walk. It’ll still be light out.

  I throw back the blanket and rise, walking three feet to my closet and peering inside.

  Ashley: 2213 Decker Drive

  I vaguely know where Decker is.

  Me: Is that a house?

  Ashley: Indeed.

  Indeed.

  Who talks like that?

  Me: Six works.

  I try not to sound too enthused, but the fact of the matter is, I’m kind of excited.

  Ashley: It’s a date.

  It’s not though. He’s being a brat.

  Me: It’s macaroni and powdered cheese, not a date.

  * * *

  He’s not dressed yet.

  Not entirely.

  Sure, he’s wearing a shirt. And yes, he’s wearing pants—but the shirt is not buttoned and the pants are hanging perilously low on his hips, and I swallow at the sight of his damp hair.

  The smattering of hair on his chest.