Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(14)

Yes.

All week, all I’ve been able to think about is the guy on the porch—Rowdy, as I noticed he called himself. All week long, I’ve looked for him on campus. In the quad and in the cafeteria. The library the one night I went to study. Stared a little too long at the entrance of the workout facility, hoping for a glimpse.

All week long, I’ve been looking forward to Friday.

Me: The porch wasn’t the worst.

Tessa: Um, if I had to stand outside with that hot guy, I’d go back too. Like, twist my arm why don’t you, haha.

Me: So you don’t think it’s insane if I go back? I won’t look desperate?

Tessa: You’re the only SANE one between the three of us, Scarlett. Of course you should come. But maybe…

Me: Maybe what?

Tessa: Maybe dress warm? JUST in case, if you know what I mean? lol

Me: TESSA! lol. Do you really think they’ll keep me outside again?

Tessa: Do you care? Will it matter?

No. It wouldn’t matter if I had to stand outside again—that boy is worth the cold and suffering.

But god, the thought does makes me nervous.

Me: I want to see him.

There, I admitted it.

Tessa: All right, then we’ll make ourselves scares when we get there. Deal?

Me: Deal.

Me: You know, I’m still a little bitter you and Cameron fell for every one of their dumb lies. You can do WAY better than those two jockholes.

Tessa: Try telling that to Cameron. She’s been creeping on Derek since last Friday night. I swear, her fingers are going to fall off from all the Insta-stalking.

Me: All right. I know it’s crazy but I’m coming tonight.

Tessa: Well it’s not like you had anything else going on, right?

Scarlett: #realtalk

Tessa: There are worse things in the world than being stranded on a front porch with a total hottie preach hands emoji


Rowdy

“Rowdy.” A hand claps down on my shoulder with a jostle, prompting me to turn. “Hey man, the guys wanted me to come get ya.”

“What do you want, Keats? Spit it out.”

The rookie freshman stutters when I pin him with a hard stare for interrupting my conversation with a guy from the rugby team.

“Th-That girl is back.”

I stand a bit taller. Yank at the hem of my shirt, trying to smooth out the wrinkles.

“Which girl?” I know exactly who he’s referring to. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Uh…Ben called her Cock Blocker?”

“Well?” I crane my neck, height easily affording me an bird’s-eye view of the crowded room, scanning for any signs of the girl with the glossy ponytail and the dimple in her cheek. “Where the hell is she?”

Tony Keats gives a jerky nod toward the foyer. “Porch. The guys stalled her outside in case she wasn’t allowed back in tonight—no one knew what you’d want us to do.” His hands jam inside his pockets. “Her friends are flirting with Brinkman.”

“Brinkman?”

Brinkman is a sophomore and a total douchebag who loves attention from girls, guys, and anyone with a pulse. I hate that he made the team and that our coach signed him, but we’re stuck with him, girls love him, and he’s a fucking fantastic outfielder.

Kid might have a thirty-eight-inch vertical, but the tidy package includes a few STDs.

“Brinkman, huh? I thought the blonde one had a boner for Derek.”

“They’re both blonde,” Keats points out. “But ya know chicks love Brinkman, and he’s probably their best chance at getting laid tonight. No one wants to hit it with Cock Blocker’s friends after last weekend.”

Heat spreads through my chest as I scratch behind my ear, taking a swig from my beer bottle as Tony runs his loose mouth beside me.

“Girls are like stray cats man—you let one in, give them some milk, and they keep coming back. We’re the milk, by the way, in case you hadn’t figured it out.”

“I get the analogy, Tone. Thanks.”

I clap him on the back, chug the remainder of my beer, and set it on the closest surface. Wipe the condensation from the bottle on the leg of my pants.

“All right, give me a few—I’m going outside to figure this shit out.” We bump knuckles. “Run upstairs, would you? And bring my damn jacket from Amado’s room.”

I won’t lie, my heart rate quickens when I push through the front door of the baseball house. The girl is indeed on the porch, back against a support beam, hanging back as her friends cluster around Jonathan Brinkman.

She’s barely recognizable.

It’s cold tonight, and she’s dressed for the occasion in jeans, a jacket, and dark gray knit cap pulled down over her long dark hair. It’s the kind of knit hat you’d wear skiing or sledding.

Or on a trip to the frozen fucking tundra.

Or when you think you might be spending an entire night on a cold porch.

She’s causal, leaning on the railing, not one bit of surprise marring her expression when I push through the screen door, stepping down onto the floorboards of the porch.

My mouth, goddamn it, stretches into a toothy grin when we lock eyes, her brows rising beneath her warm hat. They wiggle in my direction as she raises two hands, covered in mittens, sending me a small, hopeful, wave.