Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(8)

Nice.

Our eyes connect when I look up. He’s so tall I have to stretch my neck and tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

This guy. How do I describe him?

Crude. He’s already said pussy twice, and the set of his lips is sarcastic, even if no words are coming out of them at the moment.

He’s a giant, taller than anyone else in the room—or anyone I’ve ever met for that matter. Six three? Six five?

Definitely too hairy.

My eyes rake down his chest—his shirt is actually nice, looks expensive, despite the droplets of beer soaking in beneath the logo on his right pec. His hair is dirty blond and long, pulled up into a topknot—much like the one I wear when I’m in a rush and have no time to do my hair, only his is messier.

He has a mustache and beard too—not one of those neatly groomed, manscaped ones that are so trendy right now.

No.

His is…unkempt, untrimmed, burly. Kind of pre-mountain man meets college hobo meets mass murderer in training. I’ve never seen a beard like this on a college kid. Once, in high school, there was this wrestler with one, a big, burly, farm kid who gave zero shits about what anyone thought. He did what he wanted, including sporting a beard, which I don’t think was allowed. He looked older than most of the faculty.

The thought makes me smile. Shit, what was his name…Mitch? Darren?

“Hi.” His deep voice snaps me out of my perusal. “My eyes are up here.”

Somewhere is a mouth—one I faintly detect. Somewhere, I want to sass, shadowed by one of the most ridiculous mustaches I’ve ever seen on a grown man. Can barely tell if his lips are tipped into a smile or in a straight, serious line. It’s impossible to be sure if he’s joking or not.

I lift my chin and study him. Unwavering eyes. Purposeful gaze, unflinching. Straight brows.

Oh.

Crap, he isn’t kidding—I think it’s seriously bothering him that I’m checking out his body.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t staring.” I mean, I was, but not to be rude. Merely curious.

What was his original point? Pussy—god, that word—and something about rules and dating and the guys in this place?

Beards.

Jesus, my eyes are straying again and I swear I’m not doing it on purpose—there is just too much to see. His large brown eyes, the bushy brows. The man bun, the beard.

This guy is so freaking…

Hairy.

And intense.

I give my head a physical shake. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

He expels a loud sigh. “We were talking about how if you’re going to date one of the guys here, you can’t be such a goddamn pussy.”

“No we weren’t. I never said anything about dating guys here—you did.”

He snorts then takes a drag from the cup in his hand. “Please. Everyone wants to date the guys around here.”

“Rugby players?” I scoff, disguising my snort with a cough. “I don’t think so.”

“Rugby players isn’t what I meant—I meant athletes at this school in general.” He lifts a leg, propping his massive booted foot on top of the metal keg. “But what’s wrong with rugby players?”

“Nothing!” I don’t want to offend him, it’s just… “Nothing is wrong with them, but I don’t think they’re any girl’s first choice in the hierarchy.”

That sounded so rude, the candor surprising me, and I clamp a hand over my lips to shut myself up.

I shouldn’t have any more beer.

“Well even if that’s not the case, you are without a doubt the worst jersey chaser I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen shit tons of them come through these parties. You’re terrible.”

“Did you just call me a…a…” I can’t even get the words out.

“Jersey chaser? Yeah. You didn’t hear me stutter, did you?”

“What would make you say that?” I’m one second away from clutching a hand to my chest at the indignation of it all.

“Dude, you’ve been here two weekends in a row, chatting up everyone and standing next to the keg—that’s prime real estate. That’s where all the guys congregate.”

Is it? I guess I hadn’t noticed.

“I did not do that on p-purpose!” I’m sputtering. Actually sputtering.

The giant takes another long pull from his cup. Swallows, his Adam’s apple somewhere in his throat concealed by all the hair. He’s in desperate need of a shave but clearly does not give a shit.

“Whatever you say, jersey chaser.” His drawl is nonchalant, and it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me.

“I don’t!” Wait, that didn’t make sense. “I’m not!”

Those wide, lumberjack shoulders shrug. “Whatever you say.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Agreeing with me in a patronizing manner.” God do I sound like a prig.

One of his dark brows rises. “A patronizing manner? What the fuck is that? It sounds exactly like something my mom would say.”

Could this conversation get any worse?

“Look, man.” The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, further adding to my stuffy demeanor, but honestly, I have no idea what to say. “Thanks for the advice, but I don’t think I need it.” Especially not from someone who looks like he just emerged from the wilderness after being lost for a month.