Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(5)

Whatever.

Anyway.

I swipe at the hair in my eyes.

Bend at the waist, setting my half-empty beer bottle on the ground, resting it between my feet so it doesn’t spill. Pull the rubber band out of my hair and shake my entire head, dipping over to gather it in my hands. Yank it into a top knot and wrap the black elastic band around it.

“Looking good, Sasquatch. You really shouldn’t have gotten all fancy for us,” one of my teammates goads from a few feet away, having caught me doing my hair. “Want to blow me later?”

My hands are now free, so I flip him off. “Fuck the fuck off, Winkowski.”

“But you’re such a pretty girl.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ha ha. Jesus, these guys. Constantly giving me shit about my appearance—as if I give a crap what they think about my hair. Nothing I haven’t been hearing the two years since I decided to let it all grow out.

It’s easier this way.

Less distraction.

Less of a pain in the ass.

The hair and the beard work because I’m not getting approached constantly, and no girls are trying to get themselves knocked up.

I’m no one’s sugar daddy and no chick’s meal ticket.

So, here’s the thing: my parents are…wealthy. And not the millionaire-next-door kind of rich. No. They’re the You want to have dinner in Vegas tonight? Let’s take the leer jet. kind of rich. Hilton rich. Rockefeller rich.

Sometimes it blows dick that Dad is one of the biggest employers in the state and owns one of the largest manufacturing plants in the country, located right here in Iowa. It’s like wearing a big, red target on my back, and eventually…I got sick and tired of it.

Don’t get me wrong—I love them like crazy. Our family is really close. But along with my parents, come the people; the assistants. The users. The ass-kissing employees.

It was time to distance myself from it all, at least for the time being—while I have the chance.

My sister got to change her last name when she got married; she didn’t even hyphenate like most socialites tend to do. Nope. Not Veronica. Lost the Carmichael name entirely, moved to Bumblefuck, USA, and only comes back for the holidays and big charity events—and even then, she digs her heels in.

Stiletto heels, but still.

My sister has a giant set of lady balls, and I’m trying to follow in her footsteps by becoming my own man—not the obedient scion my father expects me to be.

So.

The first middle finger to my lifestyle was me dropping out of Notre Dame—Dad’s alma mater—after one year and transferring to Iowa.

My parents have actually been pretty damn cool about it, albeit a little uptight from lack of understanding. They’re really regimented from habit and set in their ways, getting everything and anything they want. Their expectations of people can be ridiculous and often times impossible to meet. But, they worked their asses off to get where they are, building a company—actually, an empire—over the course of thirty years.

You get the picture; I don’t have to paint it for you.

The point is: I do what I want.

And when the time comes, when I feel ready, I’ll take my place at my dad’s company—and not a day before.

I asserted my independence and hid out, growing out my hair and beard and not giving a shit what I looked like.

Sometimes, no matter how rich a guy is, girls just aren’t willing to put up with all the unruly hair.

It’s the perfect fucking disguise.

Genius, really.

Smith Jackson is a trust fund baby too. Not like I am, of course—very few people are—but the difference between us is that I’m not a self-centered, narcissistic prick. I’m no shrink and haven’t diagnosed him, but because of how I grew up, I know a self-serving asshole when I meet one.

Jesus, I don’t even know why I’m bothering to think about it, but any time I see him with a girl, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The girl seems to be warming up to him, slowly but surely, her shoulders relaxing in a way they weren’t when he first walked up. Her laugh looks like it’s coming easier, less forced. She’s not touching her face anymore or fidgeting with her long hair.

I watch.

I watch as three more girls approach, shouldering their way into the conversation, the one with dark hair planting herself firmly in front of Smith. Flipping her hair and laughing so loud I can hear it from here, and believe me—nothing that jackass is saying could possibly be that funny.

There is no fucking way.

The blonde one in the group throws her arm over the quiet girl’s shoulders. Gives it a squeeze.

Ah, so they know her.

She gives a weak smile, her eyes darting to Smith, that smile eventually fading until it’s nothing but a flat line of confusion. Resignation.

I see her body sigh, and she’s back to brushing her hair to the side, out of her pretty face.

Smith touches one of the friends, fingering the strap of her skimpy tank top, earning himself yet another loud, fake laugh. He smiles.

She smiles, and…

I’m instantly irritated.

Her friends are jock-blocking—so fucking typical. I recognize their type: jersey chasers. Gold diggers. Here for the MRS degree and not for an actual education because there are so many athletes running around this university who will end up in the pros.