Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(4)

Not this chick.

She’s rooted to the floor like it’s her fucking job to stand in that one spot.

Another swig from my bottle has me settling against the wall behind me, my massive shoulder slouched against the drywall. Bored.

At six foot four, I have a bird’s-eye view of the entire living room. I’m a head taller than most people here, definitely taller than all the chicks. A few of my teammates come close to my height, but not many.

Brawny.

My scowl keeps the girls at bay, and I arch my brows when an errant female partygoer mistakes me for someone who wants to talk.

I don’t.

Not to her.

And not to the blonde in the low-cut black dress. Or the one in the midriff-baring top and low-rise jeans. Or the one flipping her hair in ten different directions as she looks me up and down, blue gaze landing on my junk.

Jesus, these girls.

No class. No shame.

I have one semester and summer classes left before I can go through commencement; I’m not going to spend the time chained to some needy cleat chaser or a gold digger who’s only after my family’s money.

Not even one as pretty as the girl in the middle of the room.

I don’t know why I’m freaking staring at her. She’s not “hot,” or drunk, or the type that typically shows up when we have parties.

She looks more conservative, self-conscious and…out of place.

Long, straight hair. Black shirt. Jeans. Barely any makeup from what I can see from here, and she’s pushed the strands of her hair away from her face no less than four times already.

Yup, I’m counting.

Watching as Smith Jackson approaches her, I barely contain an eye roll when his blaring smile aims in her direction as he swipes one of his tan hands through his jet black hair.

Flirting.

Smith is on the soccer team and a giant douchebag.

Does hard drugs recreationally—shit like coke. Treats girls like crap, from what I’ve heard. Takes advantage of the services offered to athletes, like preferred class selection, then skips those classes.

Basically, Smith Jackson is a real cunt.

I have no fucking idea why girls drop their panties for him.

Oh—yeah I do: he’s an athlete and he’s good-looking. But who the fuck names their kid Smith? Who?

He’s sizing up the girl by the keg, but with a familiar air surrounding the approach that makes me think they’ve met. He taps her on the elbow. Smiles again. She nods.

Yup, they definitely know each other from somewhere. Class maybe? Definitely haven’t fucked or he never would have approached her; he’s not the double-dipping type, not from what I’ve seen.

The kid is well and truly a total dipshit.

I lean back, get comfortable, and watch.

The girl isn’t bothered by him or overly charmed, but she’s blushing—I can see the tint on her cheeks from here, damn near across the room, and I can see the brightness of her face. Her high cheekbones shine. Her teeth are white and blinding.

She’s nervous but trying to be nonchalant, as if she gets approached all the time, when it’s obvious to me that she doesn’t.

I wonder what Smith wants from her. Why he walked over.

He grabs the hose to the keg and holds it up, demonstrating to her that it’s tapped out.

“See?” He laughs, tipping his head back. Mocking her a little until her head bows a bit.

Fucker.

He gives her a nudge, dropping the black line to the beer. It falls to the carpet and he sets it on the metal barrel, crossing his arms and looking up at her. Puppy dog eyes? Really, Smith?

I can’t see the girl’s face anymore—just her back and the long brown hair spilling down it—but her arms eventually come uncrossed and her posture relaxes. Whatever it is Smith is saying, it’s easing her tension. It’s probably garbage, but she seems comfortable.

And another one bites the dust.

They always fall for his shit.

Content to watch the party from the corner of the room, I slouch so I’m not standing at my full height, scratching at the full beard growing on my face. It’s been about two years since I shaved the hair on my chin, cheeks, and jawline, and I have no intention of doing so any time soon.

I wouldn’t call it bushy, but it’s pretty damn close. Unkempt. Scratchy.

My mother hates it. My sister hates it.

Girls on campus hate it.

The beard serves its purpose perfectly.

Despite my size, build, and status on campus, I’m left alone all night. Not a single female approaches me, if you don’t count the girls in the kitchen who needed cups taken down off the top of the fridge earlier in the evening.

The mop of man bun on top of my head wobbles when I give it an agitated toss. For a hot minute, when I first transferred to Iowa, I’d actually thought about living in this dump.

Fortunately, I learned a few general rules quickly enough from spending time with my teammates:



Nothing is sacred if you’re a member of the team, so anyone living here better get a goddamn lock on their bedroom door.

It’s loud every damn weekend, whether a party is happening or not.

Guys are slobs when there is no one cleaning up after them. And no one is.

Even with a lock on your bedroom door, there is still no peace in this place.

Everyone is in everyone’s business.