Jock Rule

by Sara Ney

  Not this chick.

  She’s rooted to the floor like it’s her fucking job to stand in that one spot.

  Another swig from my bottle has me settling against the wall behind me, my massive shoulder slouched against the drywall. Bored.

  At six foot four, I have a bird’s-eye view of the entire living room. I’m a head taller than most people here, definitely taller than all the chicks. A few of my teammates come close to my height, but not many.

  Brawny.

  My scowl keeps the girls at bay, and I arch my brows when an errant female partygoer mistakes me for someone who wants to talk.

  I don’t.

  Not to her.

  And not to the blonde in the low-cut black dress. Or the one in the midriff-baring top and low-rise jeans. Or the one flipping her hair in ten different directions as she looks me up and down, blue gaze landing on my junk.

  Jesus, these girls.

  No class. No shame.

  I have one semester and summer classes left before I can go through commencement; I’m not going to spend the time chained to some needy cleat chaser or a gold digger who’s only after my family’s money.

  Not even one as pretty as the girl in the middle of the room.

  I don’t know why I’m freaking staring at her. She’s not “hot,” or drunk, or the type that typically shows up when we have parties.

  She looks more conservative, self-conscious and…out of place.

  Long, straight hair. Black shirt. Jeans. Barely any makeup from what I can see from here, and she’s pushed the strands of her hair away from her face no less than four times already.

  Yup, I’m counting.

  Watching as Smith Jackson approaches her, I barely contain an eye roll when his blaring smile aims in her direction as he swipes one of his tan hands through his jet black hair.

  Flirting.

  Smith is on the soccer team and a giant douchebag.

  Does hard drugs recreationally—shit like coke. Treats girls like crap, from what I’ve heard. Takes advantage of the services offered to athletes, like preferred class selection, then skips those classes.

  Basically, Smith Jackson is a real cunt.

  I have no fucking idea why girls drop their panties for him.

  Oh—yeah I do: he’s an athlete and he’s good-looking. But who the fuck names their kid Smith? Who?

  He’s sizing up the girl by the keg, but with a familiar air surrounding the approach that makes me think they’ve met. He taps her on the elbow. Smiles again. She nods.

  Yup, they definitely know each other from somewhere. Class maybe? Definitely haven’t fucked or he never would have approached her; he’s not the double-dipping type, not from what I’ve seen.

  The kid is well and truly a total dipshit.

  I lean back, get comfortable, and watch.

  The girl isn’t bothered by him or overly charmed, but she’s blushing—I can see the tint on her cheeks from here, damn near across the room, and I can see the brightness of her face. Her high cheekbones shine. Her teeth are white and blinding.

  She’s nervous but trying to be nonchalant, as if she gets approached all the time, when it’s obvious to me that she doesn’t.

  I wonder what Smith wants from her. Why he walked over.

  He grabs the hose to the keg and holds it up, demonstrating to her that it’s tapped out.

  “See?” He laughs, tipping his head back. Mocking her a little until her head bows a bit.

  Fucker.

  He gives her a nudge, dropping the black line to the beer. It falls to the carpet and he sets it on the metal barrel, crossing his arms and looking up at her. Puppy dog eyes? Really, Smith?

  I can’t see the girl’s face anymore—just her back and the long brown hair spilling down it—but her arms eventually come uncrossed and her posture relaxes. Whatever it is Smith is saying, it’s easing her tension. It’s probably garbage, but she seems comfortable.

  And another one bites the dust.

  They always fall for his shit.

  Content to watch the party from the corner of the room, I slouch so I’m not standing at my full height, scratching at the full beard growing on my face. It’s been about two years since I shaved the hair on my chin, cheeks, and jawline, and I have no intention of doing so any time soon.

  I wouldn’t call it bushy, but it’s pretty damn close. Unkempt. Scratchy.

  My mother hates it. My sister hates it.

  Girls on campus hate it.

  The beard serves its purpose perfectly.

  Despite my size, build, and status on campus, I’m left alone all night. Not a single female approaches me, if you don’t count the girls in the kitchen who needed cups taken down off the top of the fridge earlier in the evening.

  The mop of man bun on top of my head wobbles when I give it an agitated toss. For a hot minute, when I first transferred to Iowa, I’d actually thought about living in this dump.

  Fortunately, I learned a few general rules quickly enough from spending time with my teammates:

  Nothing is sacred if you’re a member of the team, so anyone living here better get a goddamn lock on their bedroom door.

  It’s loud every damn weekend, whether a party is happening or not.

  Guys are slobs when there is no one cleaning up after them. And no one is.

  Even with a lock on your bedroom door, there is still no peace in this place.

  Everyone is in everyone’s business.

  Whatever.

  Anyway.

  I swipe at the hair in my eyes.

  Bend at the waist, setting my half-empty beer bottle on the ground, resting it between my feet so it doesn’t spill. Pull the rubber band out of my hair and shake my entire head, dipping over to gather it in my hands. Yank it into a top knot and wrap the black elastic band around it.

  “Looking good, Sasquatch. You really shouldn’t have gotten all fancy for us,” one of my teammates goads from a few feet away, having caught me doing my hair. “Want to blow me later?”

  My hands are now free, so I flip him off. “Fuck the fuck off, Winkowski.”

  “But you’re such a pretty girl.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ha ha. Jesus, these guys. Constantly giving me shit about my appearance—as if I give a crap what they think about my hair. Nothing I haven’t been hearing the two years since I decided to let it all grow out.

  It’s easier this way.

  Less distraction.

  Less of a pain in the ass.

  The hair and the beard work because I’m not getting approached constantly, and no girls are trying to get themselves knocked up.

  I’m no one’s sugar daddy and no chick’s meal ticket.

  So, here’s the thing: my parents are…wealthy. And not the millionaire-next-door kind of rich. No. They’re the You want to have dinner in Vegas tonight? Let’s take the leer jet. kind of rich. Hilton rich. Rockefeller rich.

  Sometimes it blows dick that Dad is one of the biggest employers in the state and owns one of the largest manufacturing plants in the country, located right here in Iowa. It’s like wearing a big, red target on my back, and eventually…I got sick and tired of it.

  Don’t get me wrong—I love them like crazy. Our family is really close. But along with my parents, come the people; the assistants. The users. The ass-kissing employees.

  It was time to distance myself from it all, at least for the time being—while I have the chance.

  My sister got to change her last name when she got married; she didn’t even hyphenate like most socialites tend to do. Nope. Not Veronica. Lost the Carmichael name entirely, moved to Bumblefuck, USA, and only comes back for the holidays and big charity events—and even then, she digs her heels in.

  Stiletto heels, but still.

  My sister has a giant set of lady balls, and I’m trying to follow in her footsteps by becoming my own man—not the obedient scion my father expects me to be.

  So.

  The first middle finger to my lifestyle was m
e dropping out of Notre Dame—Dad’s alma mater—after one year and transferring to Iowa.

  My parents have actually been pretty damn cool about it, albeit a little uptight from lack of understanding. They’re really regimented from habit and set in their ways, getting everything and anything they want. Their expectations of people can be ridiculous and often times impossible to meet. But, they worked their asses off to get where they are, building a company—actually, an empire—over the course of thirty years.

  You get the picture; I don’t have to paint it for you.

  The point is: I do what I want.

  And when the time comes, when I feel ready, I’ll take my place at my dad’s company—and not a day before.

  I asserted my independence and hid out, growing out my hair and beard and not giving a shit what I looked like.

  Sometimes, no matter how rich a guy is, girls just aren’t willing to put up with all the unruly hair.

  It’s the perfect fucking disguise.

  Genius, really.

  Smith Jackson is a trust fund baby too. Not like I am, of course—very few people are—but the difference between us is that I’m not a self-centered, narcissistic prick. I’m no shrink and haven’t diagnosed him, but because of how I grew up, I know a self-serving asshole when I meet one.

  Jesus, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to think about it, but any time I see him with a girl, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  The girl seems to be warming up to him, slowly but surely, her shoulders relaxing in a way they weren’t when he first walked up. Her laugh looks like it’s coming easier, less forced. She’s not touching her face anymore or fidgeting with her long hair.

  I watch.

  I watch as three more girls approach, shouldering their way into the conversation, the one with dark hair planting herself firmly in front of Smith. Flipping her hair and laughing so loud I can hear it from here, and believe me—nothing that jackass is saying could possibly be that funny.

  There is no fucking way.

  The blonde one in the group throws her arm over the quiet girl’s shoulders. Gives it a squeeze.

  Ah, so they know her.

  She gives a weak smile, her eyes darting to Smith, that smile eventually fading until it’s nothing but a flat line of confusion. Resignation.

  I see her body sigh, and she’s back to brushing her hair to the side, out of her pretty face.

  Smith touches one of the friends, fingering the strap of her skimpy tank top, earning himself yet another loud, fake laugh. He smiles.

  She smiles, and…

  I’m instantly irritated.

  Her friends are jock-blocking—so fucking typical. I recognize their type: jersey chasers. Gold diggers. Here for the MRS degree and not for an actual education because there are so many athletes running around this university who will end up in the pros.

  And these girls reek of desperation: while their pretty, shy friend was chatting Jackson up, instead of leaving her to it and letting her enjoy the moment, they swoop in and flirt with him instead. Like vultures. How fucking shitty is that?

  I’ve seen it over and over and over, and it pisses me off every fucking time. Why are chicks like this? Why are they such backstabbing bitches?

  I can’t hide my scowl.

  That right there is the reason for the long hair and the beard, and for the I gave up giving a shit attitude toward women. That right there.

  No loyalty with these girls when they see something they want.

  Man, if I had friends like that, I’d want to fucking cut my own balls off with a dull knife.

  That’s not true—I wouldn’t let anyone near my nuts with a dull knife, let alone have the fucking nerve to hack them off myself.

  I lift the beer bottle in my hand and take a healthy swig. Wipe at the liquid dripping from the corner of my mouth with a wry smile.

  SECOND FRIDAY

  “The Friday where she learns she needs a bigger set of lady balls.”

  Kip

  She’s back.

  And this time, she’s dolled herself up a bit more.

  No, not a bit more—a lot more.

  Her long hair that was straight last week falls in waves down her back. Last week it looked like her eyes were free of makeup, now they’re coated with mascara and dark eye shadow. Full, pink, shiny lips. Large, gold hoop earrings hang from her ears.

  The girl is wearing a yellow sundress, sticking out like a goddamn sore thumb in this room full of provocative clothing. It’s got thick straps that are tied around the back of her neck in a bow, the waist snug and skirt flaring out around her hips.

  The outfit is conservative and sweet, and I almost feel bad for her.

  She’s on the taller side with toned, tan arms and a tentative smile curving just above the rim of her red beer cup. Eyes roam around the room but don’t make it as far as my spot in the corner—the same spot I stood in last weekend, silently judging everyone in the room.

  I sigh.

  This is fucking boring.

  I don’t understand why these assholes keep having parties; it’s not like anyone gives two shits about rugby at this school—they reserve the top spots on the totem for wrestling, football, and baseball. I don’t give a shit, but if our captains keep throwing keggers, someone at campus security is going to notice and nail us, and we won’t be able to talk our way out of any fines.

  Not like the assholes in the other houses can. And do.

  Trust me, I’ve seen squad cars come and go plenty, but they never linger out front for long.

  Lucky fucks.

  Entitled.

  I snort. Like I’m one to talk. Life at home doesn’t get any more privileged than I have it, but at least I’m not a total prick when I’m out in public, or to anyone living in the house. For all they know, my father is a mechanic and my mom is a school secretary. None of them have a clue because guys do not give a crap about that kind of thing.

  If any of them found out, I’d probably catch a rash of shit for it.

  Girls, on the other hand…

  The less they know, the better. And the only way to keep someone at arm’s length is to not get involved.

  Easy.

  I’ve managed for the past two years, and I’ll manage until I graduate in the winter.

  Speaking of girls…

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing: the chick from last weekend is down by the keg—again—and has been filling beer cups in the middle of the room for the past hour. Every so often that dark-haired friend of hers wanders over, flirting and talking to whatever guy the girl is chatting with—then walk off with him.

  Cockblocking harpie.

  I watch as Phil Blaser, a rookie hooker on the rugby team, saunters off, confident that the girl has the whole thing handled—a job he’s supposed to perform the entire night.

  Why the fuck is Phil leaving, and what the actual fuck does she think she’s doing filling beer cups?

  Wow. This girl.

  She is way too polite—it’s almost painful to watch. Jesus, she needs help, and not the kind a shrink can provide; no dude, she needs a reality check. This is the second weekend in a row I watch her get taken advantage of—not an attractive quality. First by her friends—a trio of jock-strap-pursuing jersey chasers—then tonight by Phil, a member of my team.

  I make a mental note to find him, wring his scrawny neck, and lecture him about treating women with more respect. This is our house—it’s his goddamn job to stand rooted in that spot and keep our guests happy, not hers. We fucking assigned him that spot. Then he hands the hose off to some girl?

  What the actual fuck, Phil?

  Not only that, it’s the same girl as last weekend—a girl who obviously needs to be taught how to say, Go screw yourselves and stop walking all over me.

  That’s a bit of brutal honesty she’ll only get from someone who couldn’t care less about her feelings.

  Someone like me.

  ***

  TE
DDY

  I’ve been standing in this same spot for over an hour.

  At first, it was because I had to get in line for the keg, then, when they kid at the tap finally handed me the hose to fill my own glass…

  Somehow, I never let it go.

  Or. No one took it from me?

  Somehow, without my noticing, a giant of a man-child sidles up to me, shadow looming from above, almost blocking the light.

  That’s how large he is.

  That’s how large he seems, anyway.

  Gingerly, without speaking, he plucks the tap hose out of my grip, grasping the nozzle in a giant hand, pinching it between two fingers and holding it over his cup. The hose hisses from having air in the line, so the big dude reaches down and gives the barrel a few pumps.

  Holds the nozzle down again. Fills his cup without speaking to me.

  Then, “Where’s your tip jar?” He’s still not looking at me, intent on watching the foam building over his beer. Flicks the top off onto the rug beneath the keg before meeting my eyes.

  His are big, brown, and framed by arched bushy brows, a hair-covered face, neck, and head.

  His whole appearance is startling. He’s kind of a mix between Wolverine, Teen Wolf, and Bigfoot—if Bigfoot were real. And now he’s pinning me to the floor with his question.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t all bartenders have a tip jar?”

  “I’m not the bartender.” Did he really think I was? I can’t for the life of me read his expression under that bush.

  “I know that. I was fucking with you.”

  “Oh.” Yeah, I said Oh, as if it was the best response I could come up with. Then, because I’m a genius, I follow it up with, “Why?”

  “Because you’re just standing here filling everyone’s cups like a fucking bartender, that’s why.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to squeak out a loud, I am not!

  My lips part to protest, but the words won’t come out because…my god, he’s right—I have been standing here filling cups. I don’t even know for how long. How did that happen? It’s kind of like holding a door for someone at the store. You do it for one person then more come, and before you know it, you’re stuck standing there.