Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(51)

“Miranda!” Renee is horrified. “What the hell? Too much information!”

Miranda rolls her eyes. “Puh-lease, I told you all this already.”

“But we just met Teddy, like, five minutes ago,” Renee chastises. “Give her a minute to get to know us before you scare her away. Ease into it, Jesus!”

“Teddy isn’t going anywhere, are you Teddy?” She pats me on the shoulder. “She’s going to be one of us, I can tell.” Miranda winks flirtatiously.

“I didn’t say we were dating, you guys,” I hasten to point out. “I might not come back.”

“Not yet, but Kip has looked over at you at least a dozen times in the last three minutes, so I’d say you were headed that way, especially if he asked you to be here in the first place. And went down on you last night.”

“Did you give him a blowjob?” Renee blurts out, and has Miranda letting out a peal of laughter.

“You just yelled at me for getting too personal, you hypocrite.”

Renee covers her mouth with her hands, laughing. “I’m sorry, it just came out. Teddy, you don’t have to answer that.”

“Yes she does,” Miranda chides. “Kidding, only if you want to.”

“I…didn’t. Should I have?”

“Did he want you to?”

“He didn’t say.”

“He didn’t ask for a blowie?” Miranda’s brows are in her hairline. “Dang girl—you’ve got yourself a unicorn.”

“What do you mean?”

“He gave you oral without wanting it in return? That’s a true find, my friend. Thomas always wants a BJ after he’s gone down on me, unless I let him bang me.”

“Um, I didn’t let him, uh…bang me, but…we did dry hump first. Does that count?”

“You dry fucked first? That is so hot.”

“I remember when Brian and I used to dry hump all the time.” Renee recalls it wistfully, gazing off into the line of trees at the back of the park. “I’m totally doing that to him tonight. I’m gonna try to make him come in his boxers for old time’s sake.”

“Like when we were in high school—I was always afraid to get pregnant, so I would only let my boyfriend dry fuck me through my clothes. God, I was such a prude.”

“It’s not prudish—it’s sexy.”

“Right, but do you know how much chafing is involved? Dude. So much chafing.”

These girls are too much.

I lie back on the blanket, laughing up at the sky, and they join me until we hear a whistle blowing, three short blasts.

“Op! Match is starting.” I get a pat on the thigh. “Pay attention, and we’ll talk you through it so you know what’s going on. It looks like football but the rules are completely different.”

“It’s mostly guys who like to pile on top of each other, get dirty, punch each other in the face, and then go drinking afterward,” Renee teases.

For once, Miranda is the serious one. “Stop that—you know that’s not true. Rugby is a real physical strain on their bodies. See? They’ve only been playing thirty seconds and that guy is already limping.”

“That guy is a pussy,” Renee mumbles under her breath about the opposing player limping to the sideline. He’s replaced quickly by another giant. “And those pileups are called scrums. It’s part of the game.”

I nod, though I don’t understand.

Some of the guys are wearing helmets; most of them aren’t. They’re all wearing mouth guards, their jerseys all stained. Each and every one of them has bruises, gashes, and scrapes.

I hadn’t noticed them on Kip before, but I’m noticing them now. The dark bruise on his thigh I didn’t see in the dark. A cut on his forehead, right at his hairline.

“How long do these things last?” I ask.

“Eighty minutes. Two halves.”

“Basically an eternity, unless they’re playing someone really good, like Penn State or Notre Dame.”

Notre Dame.

“Oo! Watch, watch, watch—Thomas is about to get pummeled. Ugh, why does he do shit like that?”

“Do shit like what?” I ask. “What did he do?”

“He always has to be in the middle of those stupid scrums—he’s going to get hurt again.”

The players from both teams are huddled in the middle of the field, and it looks like a giant bar fight as each man struggles to gain control of the ball.

“Who invented this? It looks awful.” My voice sounds dazed as I watch men jump on top of each other, throwing elbows, shoulders, and gabs. “Jesus, where are the refs?”

“Right? Brian spends the whole next day after one of these complaining, icing himself, and bandaging up bloody wounds.” She smiles. “I think he feels really masculine playing this stupid game, like a gladiator or something.”

I can see that—no padding, no hard helmets, nothing to prevent them from getting seriously injured.

Spandex shorts.

Perfect asses and toned backs. Thick thighs. Muscular arms.

It’s hard not to stare, hard not to appreciate how hard and fine these bodies are.

They’re rough. They’re dirty.

Some of them are as hairy as Kip, but not many.