Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(8)

“Yeah, well, they’ve decided you’re grade-A pain in their ass.” He pauses, giving the yard another once-over. “Cock Blocker.” His laugh is low and deep as he recalls the nickname.

“Please don’t call me that. It’s insulting, even though it doesn’t surprise me.”

“You’re messing with their game.”

“Their game? Do people actually still use that term?” I snort, so unladylike, unable to stop the sound from coming out my nose. Charming, I know. “Your friends have no game, unless you give points for lies. They weren’t impressing anyone.”

His laugh echoes down into the yard. “Let’s face it—they were impressing your friends.”

He’s got me there. “Tessa is too sweet for her own damn good, okay?” Why am I telling him this? “And Cameron just wants…”

I clamp my mouth shut.

“Just wants to get laid?”

“No!”

“Just wants a jock notch on her bedpost?”

“Stop. Now you’re just trying to find creative ways to say get laid.” And I’m not supposed to be enjoying myself out here, dammit. I’m pissed at this guy—he literally just kicked me out of a house party.

I will not allow myself to be charmed, no matter how funny he is.

His shoulders shake in a quick shiver as he throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Wanna tell me what it was Wilson and Fitzgerald were lying about back there?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” But he’s curious—I can see it in his eyes as he stares at me from across the porch, brows still imposingly arched. He’s not entirely bored.

“Look,” I begin, hefting my bag. “The pick-up lines were terrible, and I couldn’t resist giving Derek shit about it, if you must know the truth. Like—the worst. If you were there, you would have done it too.” I pause. “Then when they started in about the College World Series, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

His spine straightens. “What about the CWS?”

“They said they won it, and we all know that’s a load of crap. All I did was call them on it! Sue me. It was dumb that they lied to impress my friends.”

His smirk comes slowly, one side of his mouth curving into an arch. It’s more mischievous than sinister. “How are you so sure we didn’t win?”

“Dude, stop.”

He laughs when I call him dude, Adam’s apple bobbing. “The fact that you know that shit is so fucking random.”

“I have a baseball-obsessed father, all right? I can’t help myself—I’m the son he never had.” Inside my warm jacket, my shoulders move up and down in a tiny shrug. “Maybe remembering weird facts is my stupid human trick.”

The guy’s eyes stray to the window of the house, gazing through. “Look, I hate to be rude, but can you do me a favor and leave? It’s cold and I’m freezing my balls off.”

I will my eyes not to stray down the front of his jeans, to his zipper. To his balls.

“So this is real? You’re seriously kicking me out?”

His nod is authoritative. “Yup. This is me, seriously kicking your scrawny ass out.”

I do not have a scrawny ass! “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

“Stick around long enough and it won’t be.” He’s laughing at himself again. “I say some pretty stupid shit.”

“You’re kind of an asshole.” My conviction is weak—so weak—and more wishful thinking that anything.

“You were disturbing the peace—the natural order of things, if you will—and I’ve been tasked with escorting you from the premises. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Escorting me from the premises—what a ridiculous thing to say.

“The proverbial short straw you speak of.” I nod, knowingly, oh so wise and clever.

“Exactly.”

He’s pleased with himself, too, leaning against the balustrade, legs so long his ass rests comfortably on top of the rail.

A nervous, giddy laugh escapes my lips. I can’t handle moments like this; they make me uncomfortable when I’m not prepared, and this cold weather isn’t helping matters.

I’m laughing like an idiot, and he’s staring at me like I’ve lost my damn mind and now there is no way he’s going to let me back inside.

“Escort me from the premises?” I muse, rubbing my chin. “What are you, an undercover cop?” I’m sassing now, turning my embarrassment into a thinly veiled joke.

Except…

If this is a joke, it isn’t funny—not at all. It’s awkward and inconvenient and we’re out here on the porch in the cold, shivering. Locked in a battle of wills, neither one willing to bend, my teeth chattering the slightest bit. Thoughts straying from his handsome face to the warm scarf buried in my bag.

I wonder how tacky it would be for me to wrap it around my neck while he stands there, shuddering every so often, covered in goose bumps.

“Can I at least go back inside and tell my friends you’re kicking me out?”

“Nope.” He obnoxiously pops the P. “I’m under strict orders not to let you back in.”

“Whose strict orders?”