Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)

Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)

Sara Ney


To Lexington.

You’re what heroes are made of: Tall. Strong. Masculine.

A bit flawed, a lot stubborn.

So good-looking (obviously).

Come kiss me already.





FIRST FRIDAY


“The Friday where I tell her she’s a giant P word (and I don’t mean Pretty).”


Teddy

“Farmer Ted, can you do my makeup?”

I hate when my friend and roommate, Mariah, calls me Farmer Ted; she does it when she’s trying to get my attention, and it always works.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Yeah, sure. I can do your makeup.” Of course I can—I always do.

The foundation brush I’m holding between my fingers gets set on the counter, and instead of evening out my own complexion, I pull out a shade of concealer that matches Mariah’s skin. Her skin is tan, thanks to copious amounts of fake bronzer, so I go with something dark, pulling a compact of bronzer from my drawer.

Mariah plops herself in a chair, closes her eyes, and tips her head back, waiting like she’s a celebrity and I’m the stylist who has all the time in the world to work on her face.

I sigh.

If I do her makeup, I’m not going to have time to do mine. That fact doesn’t escape my notice, but apparently it escapes hers.

Either that, or she just doesn’t care.

“I’m thinking smoky eye,” she murmurs, instructing me, not chatty other than to tell me what she wants.

It’s fine; that’s just how Mariah is—how she’s always been.

“With a nude, glossy lip.” She puckers her mouth, smacking her lips. Mariah is beautiful; I don’t know why she feels it necessary to plump her lips and tan her skin and wear extensions.

I watch her watching herself in the mirror, and she glances at me over her shoulder, raising her dark brows. They’re a stark contrast to her light-colored hair—almost too stark, but if I ever mentioned that to her, she’d get defensive.

“Shouldn’t you be hurrying? We don’t have tons of time.”

I wouldn’t call her selfish, but she is a little selfish.

Okay, fine—a lot selfish.

Love her to death, don’t get me wrong, but even after all these years, Mariah Baker has always gotten what she’s wanted, and I’ve always been the person to help her get it.

And right now, she wants me to do her makeup.

You can do this, Teddy. You can do Mariah’s makeup first then crank out a quick blow-dry of your own hair, and once that’s done, maybe even—

Mariah interrupts my musing. “Tessa and Cameron want to meet a little earlier tonight. That’s why we need to rush it. Are you down with that?”

Am I down with that?

I glance at the clock hanging on my bathroom wall, frowning. “When?” I still haven’t done my hair. Or gotten dressed. “What time?”

“Nine. They heard there’s a party at the rugby house.”

Shit. That gives me no time to get myself ready.

“You want to party at the rugby house on the Row? That’s so completely random.” Usually it’s the baseball or football houses my friends flock to; no one on campus gives a crap about rugby, and no one I know has ever dated a player.

It’s not like any of these boys will play professionally—unlike the other sports—so it’s kind of weird they have a designated house on Jock Row. At this university, living on “The Row” is the equivalent to being a king of campus: everyone wants to be an athlete, and everyone wants to date one.

It’s the off-campus party scene, and students flock there every weekend.

“I’ve never heard of them having a party.” I smudge black charcoal under Mariah’s left eye. “Ever.”

“Right, but they have some regional tournament or something coming up and they’re throwing a blowout—it’s supposed to be huge. Everyone will be there.”

“Dang. Everyone?” I drag out sarcastically, brushing shadow across her upper eyelid. “How big is their house?”

“Tiny.” She’s already eyeballing herself in the mirror, scrutinizing my work, pursing her lips. “It’ll probably be in the backyard. If it sucks, we’ll just ditch and go to a frat party.”

“You don’t think it’s going to get out of hand, do you?”

Dark brows rise. “Why would it get out of hand?”

I stare back at her reflection in the mirror; the way she’s watching has me feeling na?ve and immature. “Uh…because they’re rugby players and don’t they usually fight a lot?” Not that I know anything about it, but I swear I heard somewhere they were kind of brutes, especially on the field.

Muddy, dirty brawlers.

Mariah shrugs. “God, Teddy, who cares if they fight a lot? A party is a party, and it’s Friday night—what else is there to do?”

“I don’t care. I was just asking.” Why do I sound so defensive?

I swipe some blush across her cheekbones. Add highlighter. Do her eyebrows. Hand her the mascara wand.

“Here, go apply two thick coats.”

“Just two?” She steals it from the tips of my fingers and stands, flouncing into my room to the mirror behind my bedroom door so she can get an up-close and personal look at what I’ve done to her eyes.