Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

“Right then.” I nodded.

“And where are your goddamn shoes?” he added as I shuffled forward, staring down at my trainers.

“Uh.” I hadn’t gotten around to ordering them online, and I vowed it would be the first thing I did when I sat down for tea after this mess was over.

Too late to sneak off now, you cockwaffle.

I’d lost my chance, and now I was fucked.

“Sit your ass back down,” he grumbled, pointing at Grant. “Pepper, you’re up.”

Grant shoved in his mouthguard with a nod and a smile, eager to get into the muddle and impress our coaching staff, and I watched as he raced into the fray like a warrior going to battle.

Those blokes were nothing like I was picturing and nothing like Ashley had described.

Jolly good fun! he said. Fun lads, easiest game to join on campus—all my mates were the real deal.

Jolly good fun my arse.

I was lucky enough to find a booth to slide into—this place is surprisingly packed considering I had no idea it existed—after ordering one of every flavor scone (one for now and the rest for later), peeling open the small packets of butter the barista put on a plate for me.

The pats are wrapped in silver and not nearly enough to keep me satisfied, so I asked for eight.

Wish I’d worked off some of the calories I’m about to stuff down my gullet…

Patiently I wait for my carb overload—er, I mean, food—stomach as impatient as I am. When it finally arrives, I moan as it’s set down in front of me, anxiously waiting to pounce on the warm pastry. It’s been far too long since I’ve had one of these lemon scones, not taking the time to locate them, not taking the time to do what I’ve traditionally done my entire life: partake in tea time.

Even in boarding school, we had tea at least once a day, usually in the late afternoon before supper time, always dressed in slacks and a nice shirt with a tie.

I hated those ties…

And of course, Mum always does tea at home when Ashley and I are there on holiday, his new wife Georgia usually in tow.

Lovely sister-in-law I have.

She and my brother were roommates at university, living in the same house I’m living now. They got off to a rocky start. According to my brother, Georgia approached him because of a bogus dare her mates challenged her to and that she did, despite it being dodgy and somewhat meanspirited.

Anyhow, they fucked in Vegas, got hitched after too much booze, and here we are.

I bite into the warm bread after smothering it with butter—a lackluster replacement for my beloved clotted cream—eyes roaming the establishment, searching all the faces and finding none I recognize.

Too far from campus, I suppose.

My eyes then stray to the door.

No sooner do I peel them away than the thing swings open and a familiar form materializes.

Eliza.

That blonde’s roommate—the one who was watching the Hulk.

Never one to shy away, I raise a hand and gesture to her before she even sees me, her gaze scanning the room and finding nowhere to sit. I’ve taken the last decent booth, and if her intention is to stay awhile, she’s in for a wait.

Eliza spots me.

Hesitates.

Looks left, looks right.

Even looks behind her?

“Um,” her lips seem to say, unsure.

Instead of coming toward me, she seems to retreat to the door, still hoping to find an empty table among the crowd.

Zero to be had, love.

Her options are my table or the ground, and she is toting a book bag—one that looks heavy and full of what I can only assume are textbooks, or maybe drawing pads.

Still, she won’t come over.

I lift a scone as an invitation. There’s a party over here, and she’s invited!

Eliza smiles despite herself, shifting the bag on her shoulders and biting down on her bottom lip, hair getting brushed behind her ear as well.

Fussy little thing.

And she is little.

I didn’t notice that when I was at her house; she was ensconced at the end of the sofa and didn’t get up the entire time the movie played, not to pee, not to stretch.

Well, I’m noticing her now, and she’s a petite little thing.

Eliza has leggings on, but they’re not the hideous kind most girls wear. They look like leather, and she’s got them tucked into a cute pair of moto boots. White T-shirt. Gold bracelets on her wrist. Large hoops in her ears.

Her hair is down and I’m shocked I even recognize her based on the last time I saw her—the one and only time I saw her—when it was a jumbled, moppy mess on top of her head.

Long.

Wavy.

Streaks of golden highlights I notice because of the light streaming through the glass door behind her.

She takes a step forward, and I can see her clearing her throat.