Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(25)

“What about you?” he wants to know.

“I don’t live here either.” It takes him a few moments to get my joke, but when he does, his head tips back and he laughs, his chiseled jaw and Adam’s apple absolute male perfection.

“You’re a real wise ass.” His smile is warm, and I catch him biting his bottom lip when he turns back toward the street.

Loud laughter is amplified when the door to the house flies open again, the music spilling into our perfect moment like toxic waste, along with a small group of co-eds.

The inebriated group stumbles to the stairs, hanging on to each other, raucous laughter, barely making it to the bottom without breaking their necks, barely making it to the sidewalk still standing.

I’m half expecting some of them to begin crawling.

Rowdy frowns under the dim porch lights, his eyes trailing their movements, watching them warily.

“This is the shit I’m talking about.” I can barely hear him.

“Don’t you guys get busted having parties all the time?” I ask his back.

“Sometimes.” His broad shoulders move up and down. “But mostly, no.”

“How? I mean, the music is so loud.”

“Who’s going to call the cops on us, Scarlett? The rugby house next door? The football players across the street?” He leans toward me, reaching with his long limbs, stretching until he reaches me, pilfering my bottle of water.

Chugs it.

I watch, riveted, as the corded muscles of his tan throat work the water down, only glancing away when he swallows. Crushes the plastic bottle between his two hands.

“The other teams party like this when it’s their off season, too.”

“Makes sense. Who wouldn’t? You guys work hard.”

My eyes hit the house across the street, its dim lights shining through the windows but otherwise, little activity.

“That house across the street you’re staring at?” he asks. “Ten football players live there.”

“Ten!” How can that possibly be? The place is tiny. I continue to study the pitch-black house. “Seems quiet to me.”

“’Cause half of them are inside this house, probably shitfaced. We’re going to have to physically take some of them home later. The other half are obeying their curfew.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What kind of player are you? A rule breaker, or do you—”

“Play by the rules?” Pause. “You’ll be surprised to learn, Scarlett”—I smile, relishing the sound of my name on his lips—“that as team captain, it’s my obligation to set a good example for the rest of my team, especially for the incoming freshmen and walk-on players.”

“Sounds noble.”

“It’s not all shits and gigs—the responsibility blows.”

I study him, trying to read his face, handing him a fresh bottle of water and cracking open one for myself. “Never have I ever broken a rule and lied about it.”

He studies me back, lifting the bottle to his mouth and taking a healthy gulp.

“Which one?” I want to know.

“I used to break curfew a lot when I was a freshman—a lot a lot—and a few times, I helped sneak girls into the hotel during away games. We call that road sex by the way.” There’s a long pause as he considers his numerous infractions. “Sometimes we go out drinking during the season when we’re not supposed to.”

“Not supposed to? I thought it was a free-for-all.”

The shaking of his head indicates the contrary. “We’re given one night a week to go out.”

Just one? “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, usually it’s a Saturday.” He makes a box with his hands, using his fingers to create the corners. “See, if our coaches don’t give us structure, some guys? Jeez, they just fucking cannot handle playing at this level. It’s like when the teacher would leave the room in grade school—total chaos.

The notoriety, the crowds…drugs, sex, booze…it’s a lot to handle.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Rowdy sets his water bottle on the railing, balancing it there, twirling the top until it spins. “Never have I ever had a wet dream.”

“Dude, what the hell!” I sputter. “Where did that one come from? Give a girl a little warning, why don’t cha.”

“Well? Have you?”

“Can girls have a wet dream? They don’t even have the necessary equipment.”

“You tell me.”

I roll my eyes for lack of a better, more mature reaction, taking a slow sip from my water bottle. Rowdy watches intently from his perch on the railing, swallowing down the last of his water.

“Just to clarify, we’re not going to start talking dirty.” No good can come of that; I don’t know if my heart can handle anything casual, and sex talk will only leave me feeling vulnerable.

“Why not?”

“Because once we go down that road, things are going to get weird. Trust me.”

“How so?”

“I read it somewhere in an article.”

“Reading is bad, you should stop.” He clicks his tongue. “So, what you’re telling me is, you don’t sit around talking pervy with your friends?”