Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(60)

So.

While she’s talking to the girl next to her—some girl named Jenna who squealed and clapped like a damn lunatic when she won a trip to Florida as the raffle prize—I whip out my cell phone and message the one person who can help me sort this shit out.

Me: SOS

Ronnie: What did you do this time?

Me: Teddy isn’t a fan of the shaved look. What the hell do I do now?

Ronnie: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE ISN’T A FAN? Is she BLIND?? Does she not SEE you?

Me: Okay, first of all, stop shouting. Secondly, no. Pretty sure she liked it before when I looked homeless.

Ronnie: Well she’s just going to have to get over it, isn’t she?

Me: But WHAT DO I DO?

Ronnie: I don’t know KIPLING—you can’t go to the bathroom and grow it all back, you idiot.

Me: You’re the one who TOLD ME TO SHAVE and now my girlfriend won’t even look at me.

Ronnie: Do not blame this on me you little shithead. You shouldn’t have listened.

Ronnie: Wait. Back up. She’s your GIRLfriend now? Since when? You’ve been dating for like, five minutes.

Me: I don’t have time to argue with you about semantics, VeRONica.

My fingers brutally attack the screen of my phone, pounding out word after furious word in reply. Why is Ronnie like this? Why can’t she just tell me what to freaking do?

“Who ya texting?” Teddy’s sweet voice interrupts, eyes wide. I can tell she’s trying to be civil and excited. “You look so angry.”

That’s one way of putting it. “My sister. She’s the one who told me to shave my face and cut my hair, so I’m chewing her ass out.”

“Kip…” She looks so full of regret. And sad.

And I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why.

Up front, professors and department heads are taking seats in the chairs lining the stage. A technician plugs in and taps on the microphone, testing it for sound. Taps once, twice, the echo filling the cavernous room.

“Looks like they’re ready to get started. We can talk about this later.”

I face the front, presenting her with my profile.

My chiseled, flawless profile, jaw set rigidly.

The one she apparently can’t stand to look at without all the scruff.

Gag, right? So fucked up.

“Right,” I hear her murmur, hand fidgeting atop the cream linen tablecloth. We’re done with dinner, the usual university cuisine when they’re feeding students on the cheap: chicken breast, mashed potatoes, shitty gravy, and a vegetable medley. Brownie for dessert, none of it worth whatever she paid for the tickets.

But.

Whatthefuckever.

Goddamn I’m pissed.

My leg continues to bounce under the table, and if Teddy can feel the vibration from it, she isn’t going to say anything. I give her a fake, toothy smile when she glances over, notecards in her hand bearing the short speech she prepared.

It’s another ten minutes before they call her name; six students go before her, each of them receiving an award, scholarship, or honor from the university.

Then.

“Theodora Grace Johnson, receiving the William Richards Fellowship Grant.”

The audience applauds politely as Teddy stands. Hesitates at my side before leaning over and softly kissing my cheek. The spot tingles even after she walks toward the stage, and I touch it with my forefinger—it’s sticky from her lip gloss, and when I lower my arm and look at my hand, I see the light pink stain.

Okay, fine.

Maybe I won’t be that pissed off later.

I’ll get over it.

Teddy is shaking some dean’s hand, smiling—beaming, actually—before taking the mic and thanking the crowd.

“Thank you Doctor Langford.” She clears her throat. “And thank you to the William Richards trust committee for choosing me as this year’s recipient.” She clears her throat again before nervously chuckling. “Um…things haven’t always been easy for me. My mother raised me by herself, and I was alone a lot while she worked. This grant is going to make a huge difference for me this year, and it will allow me to do what I love: discover and help develop the cities in which we live.” She glances up from her small, white notecards. “I also want to say…I’m thankful for my new friends.”

I sit up straighter in my chair. She means me, right? I’m one of her new friends, albeit one who likes to get naked with her. I count, yeah?

“And Kip, thank you for…everything.”

Wait. What?

That’s it?

That’s the end of her speech? Thank you for everything? Am I supposed to know what that means?

Thanks for the orgasm. Thanks for sucking on my tits. Thanks for keeping an eye on me at parties?

That wasn’t a goodbye thank you, was it? Shit, what if it was? It did sound kind of ominous. Or maybe I’m reading into it too much.

My eyes never leave her as she weaves her way back to the table, smiling and saying hello to people along the way, and I stand to pull her chair out before she sits back down.

She faces the stage, presenting me with the back of her head, and I want nothing more than to lean over and kiss her smooth, pale shoulder.

We sit through another ten speeches, which—miserably—takes over an hour, the button on my shirt screaming to come undone.