Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(2)

I swear, if we hadn’t been best friends since we were seven, I’d wonder what the hell I was doing hanging out with her. Sometimes she’s exhausting, and the older we get, the more opposite we become.

I catch a peek of myself in the mirror. Sigh with resignation, running my fingers through my long, brown hair—my stick-straight, un-styled hair. Stare at my wide brown eyes. My shiny skin, freshly scrubbed, complexion rosy—and also not bearing a speck of makeup.

Glance at the clock I hung in the bathroom so I wouldn’t run late in the mornings before my eight o’clock class.

8:32. Mariah wants to leave by ten to nine, which gives me eighteen minutes to get completely ready.

Fuck my life.

***

“You can do this, Teddy. You’re going to have a great time tonight.”

God, why am I talking to myself in the mirror at a party?

It’s because I’ve been hanging out alone since we got here, that’s why, even though I’ve been in a room full of people.

I take a deep breath, checking my face one last time after washing my hands, no hand towel in sight. Using my jeans instead, I slide my palms up and down the denim, creating dark, damp streaks.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door.

“Just a minute!”

Startled, my lip gloss slips from my fingers to the dirty, laminate tile floor, and I cringe when the cap cracks. Pluck it off the disgusting floor like it’s a flammable explosive.

“Dammit. This was my favorite,” I complain to no one, fingertips barely grasping the tube as I toss the entire thing into the trash can, wash my hands again, and shoot myself one last cursory glance in the mirror before leaving the room.

I look good. Cute and natural.

Wearing way less makeup than I’d planned to when I had actual time to get myself ready, I lean against the water-soaked counter and sternly give myself another lecture.

“You’re going to put yourself out there tonight. You’re going to step outside your comfort zone and maybe you’ll meet someone. No standing by the wall.” I raise my brows at myself and point a finger at my reflection, unable to resist a pep talk. “No standing by the wall, you got it?”

I’m almost afraid to pull open the door, knowing a lynch mob is waiting on the other side—unhappy young women who had to stand in line while I screwed around inside the bathroom, giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror.

My hand reaches for the doorknob. Unlocks it.

Clasps.

Pulls.

Loud music and voices assail me all at once, along with the line outside the door. I was right: some of them do look pissed off. Others lean on the wall for support, totally drunk. Not a surprise since this is a drinking party and everyone here is shit-faced.

Except for me.

Which reminds me…

I grab the red plastic cup off the counter, clutching it protectively in my hand as I nonchalantly breeze out the door as if nonplussed by the glaring, heavily made-up eyes.

Compared to them, I look like the girl next door.

I did what I could manage in the eighteen minutes Mariah left me to get ready, but it wasn’t enough; I wasn’t even able to do my hair. Thank God it’s long, hanging in a flat, shiny sheet down over my shoulders, hiding the fact that my face barely has anything on it.

Concealer. Blush. A few swipes of sooty, black mascara. Nothing to write home about.

I look like the chaperone and not someone here for the party. Not even my outfit looks put together: black half boots, jeans, and a simple long-sleeved shirt I grabbed off the hanger in a rush.

It’s not even cold outside yet.

I probably look ridiculous and out of place.

Lord knows I feel ridiculous.

Curse Mariah—she ditched me to play beer pong when I said I had to use the bathroom. Now I have to figure out where they’re playing it…

“What were you doing in there, masturbating?” one of the girls in the hallway crudely asks as I squeeze past.

The rest of the line laughs.

I give the girls an awkward smile, shrugging my shoulders as if to say, Sorry! and slither away, head bent to find my friend.

The beer pong table where she said she’d be? Nowhere to be found.

I check the living room—nothing.

The kitchen. Back bedroom.

Ugh.

Slightly irritated, I gradually make my way to the backyard, where the crowd is gathered around a beer pong table I can hardly make out; the area is so congested it’s almost impossible to move. I tiptoe down the porch steps, shielding my eyes from the blinding spotlight set up in the corner of the yard, and squint.

No sign of Mariah. Of course.

My breath hitches when I spy some familiar faces. Relieved, I push through the crowd, making a beeline for Tessa and Cameron, two girls we made friends with in the dorms our freshmen year. They’ve both always been really friendly, despite being jock chasers like—well, like Mariah.

God am I glad to see them.

It takes me a good ten minutes to claw my way to their side, and when I do, “Thank freaking God I spotted you. I was beginning to think I was going to spend the entire evening alone on the porch.”

They give a collective squeal when they see me—of course they do, because they’re that type of girl. Squealers. Always overexcited to see someone they saw the day before in the quad. Nevertheless, I let them hug me and fuss and act like we didn’t walk to the party together tonight, like they haven’t seen me in years.