Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

“Freshman, really. Starting over.”

Sort of.

I took a few courses back home but mostly did a gap year early, not knowing what I wanted to do. Work for Dad like Ashley, or be more independent.

Besides, it can’t hurt to have four more years to decide, can it?

“I’m a sophomore,” she tells me. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.” Old enough to legally have a pint here.

“Oh, me too!” She is way too excited about our shared age. “I’m a cheerleader.”

“I play rugby.”

Sort of.

Er, not really, but I’m going to try.

“That is so sexy.” Kaylee has her hands on my forearm now—yes, both of them—squeezing the muscles there as if inspecting their size. I’m in decent shape, despite the fact that I don’t work out regularly, just started to because of pressure from my mates.

When in Rome, as it were.

“You’re strong.”

“Thank you?” I mean, what else is there to say? I am strong, but I’m not—not really. Big and strapping by birth, not by effort.

Still, I’ll take the compliment.

“You’re cute,” I tell her and watch with satisfaction when her face gets a bit flushed.

Kaylee is an accomplished flirt, wasting no time in claiming me for the night, hand wrapped around my arm, nails sinking into the skin there, a subtle reminder that she may not be as innocent and sweet as she looks.

“Have you been on any dates since you’ve been here?”

“Not really.”

“And you’re not seeing anyone now?”

Would I be letting her manhandle me like this if I were? Please—give a bloke some credit. If I were in a relationship, I would never allow a woman to clutch me as if we were about to go down with the Titanic.

Flirt, yes. Physical contact? No.

“I’m not seeing anyone exclusively, no.”

“No one back home?”

“I broke up with my girlfriend before I moved.”

“You had a girlfriend? For how long?”

A blasted eternity.

I shrug. “Don’t know—six years?”

Kaylee’s eyes bug out of her pretty skull. “Six years! Holy shit.” Her hand flies to her mouth as she remembers her manners. “I mean…wow. Why did you break up?”

“Caroline was a stiff.”

“A what?”

A stiff. “Boring. Uptight.” I hesitate. “She was mean.”

My new blonde friend purses her lips in disapproval. “She sounds awful.”

If that’s her assumption based on those three things, fine. I’m not here to argue one way or another about what constitutes a person being awful.

“She’s in the past.” I look down at the top of Kaylee’s pretty little head. “I only have eyes on the future.”

Ashley would be gagging right now, barfing the saccharine words all over my expensive, custom trainers.

But this pleases her. “Good.” You’re mine now, her expression seems to say, chin tilting up almost victoriously while her friends watch on.

From out of nowhere, Phillip and two of my other teammates—Levi and Booker—appear, nudging me aside and grinning around the small circle of girls.

I met Levi and his buddy Booker through the rugby house the first weekend I was in town, connecting with them at a party. Instant mates.

“We were going to have an impromptu team meeting to talk about tomorrow—get some things hammered out before we’re on the field so we don’t waste time.”

“Now? Tonight?” Are these blokes mad? Who has a team meeting at eleven o’clock on a weekend? Who?

“We need to know where to put people.” Levi clamps a giant palm on my shoulder.

Incidentally, neither he nor Booker have seen me toss a rugby ball around and therefore assume I’m good at the sport, or at least passable. I’m more comfortable with the American version of soccer, but that isn’t in the cards for me, now is it.

No.

Kaylee looks on with interest, still gripping my arm like I’m a life preserver. It’s a bit odd, but whatever—I’ve never understood women and probably never will. American women, I mean—British women are easier to figure out. The ones I grew up around were always well trained and poised, their only intention to snag a titled husband—or one from a good family—and have families. Impress their friends. Live a leisurely life with nannies, vacations, and the like.

American girls…want careers and to be the boss and be independent.

It’s refreshing, and I’m here for it.

Which is why Kaylee’s death grip on my arm confuses me. Nonetheless, I have a feeling she’ll be wildfire in the sack, and I’m not going to turn the opportunity down because she’s clingy from the outset.

That will fix itself.

“…kick everyone out and get the meeting started in half an hour,” Booker is saying, even as he chugs from a pint. It’s a plastic cup—something I’m still not used to—the amber liquid disappearing with each swallow.

He licks his lips. “Jack, you can lead the freshman breakout session since you’re the same year but with loads more experience.”

Lead the breakout session?

Jesus H, I have to get myself out of this. I’m in no condition to lead anything, let alone a rugby strategy meeting.