Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

This guy—this new “friend” of Kaylee’s—stays until the entire movie is over then hefts himself up off the couch at the end, loudly stretching. Putting on a show.

Irritated but not complaining, Kaylee follows him to the kitchen.

I listen as I clean up the spot I was relaxing in, one ear trained on their voices.

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night? We haven’t even gotten the chance to talk.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m tired and have to get up for practice tomorrow. I’ll have to get there early since I missed the meeting tonight.”

He sounds a bit stuffy and formal.

“Oh, boo!” my roommate pouts. I imagine her hand somewhere on his chest, lightly caressing his shirt in an attempt to lure him to stay. “Are you sure?”

“Considering I’ve only just met you tonight, love, I’m sure I shouldn’t be spending the night.”

I’ve only just met you tonight, love…

The back door opens, but they’re both still in the kitchen.

He’s not lingering; she is making it impossible for him to graciously make an exit.

Since when do you care about some random guy? It’s his dang fault for coming home with her in the first place—what was he expecting?

Then again, it’s not normal for a guy to walk out of this house without…I don’t know…at least fooling around with Kaylee or putting the moves on her. Making out, touchy-touchy, that whole song and dance.

One I usually have to hear through the thin walls.

I give this guy credit.

At least he’s not using her.

She is throwing herself at him and he still wants to go home after ignoring her to watch a movie.

Maybe he doesn’t have the internet at his house. Maybe he can’t afford to rent it on his own, and maybe he doesn’t have Netflix so he can’t enjoy it at home. And chill.

Doubtful.

He looks like the kind of upper-class dude who plays polo on the weekends, not rugby—not that I’m any kind of expert on what upper-class, polo-playing dudes look like.

Not a scratch on the guy…

After a few more minutes, the door closes and Kaylee locks it, without even an attempt to follow him out to his vehicle.

I busy myself with folding blankets and rolling up the chip bag so I can put a clip on it. Grab my water cup, take it to the sink to refill it, toss the chips onto the counter.

Kaylee scoots by me and disappears, presumably headed to her bedroom.

I let her go.

I’m not sure if she’s feeling rejected or tired or whatever, but I do know she has practice in the morning and will most likely crash.

I head to the bathroom and begin my nightly routine—I didn’t do it before settling in the living room to watch the movie, so I have to do it now. Never go to bed without washing your face, my nana always said. And Nana would know because she doesn’t look a day over eighty.

Brushing my teeth, I watch myself in the mirror, looking at my hair, my eyes, and my outfit—wondering what that boy must’ve been thinking when he looked at me. Was he comparing me to my beautiful roommate? My effervescent, outgoing, energetic roommate.

It would be impossible not to.

Compare us, I mean.

I’m not insecure; I know I’m cute, in a girl-next-door kind of way. But that isn’t always what guys this age want, is it?

Setting the sketch pad I was drawing in on the desk next to my door, I slide into bed, darkness doing nothing to help lull me into sleep. I’m lying here, daydreaming about ComicCon and manga, the new art class I’m taking for enrichment at the rec center downtown.

Eventually, my eyes slide closed.

Three

Jack

“Jack, are you going to join us or not?”

Not.

“Righto, give me a second, would you mate?” I steal time from the huddle by bending to tie my shoe, eyes glued to the ground as I do my best to remember everything I learned by watching those YouTube videos until the wee hours of the morning last night. I scoured the damn internet for tutorials, watched clip after clip of rugby matches from around the world, trying to absorb it all.

The pisser of it is, I have a shite memory.

Once I’m done making a show with my trainers, I stand, stretching dramatically. Do a few lunges, hands behind my head as I take large steps forward, bending at the knees. No one is really paying all that much attention to me, but I feel the need to be theatrical, put on more of a show so I look like I know what I’m doing.

Since it’s just practice, we’re not wearing uniforms, but we are wearing these little colored vests denoting offense or defense.

The field we’re on is not level, having been aerated recently, the ground somewhat rutted. I wonder for a few brief moments if I could find a pothole to stick my foot in—sprain an ankle and get out of the match that’s bearing down on me.