Jock Reign (Jock Hard 5)

Any guy who is willing to stick his neck out for me is truly a remarkable person.

But.

Nothing can come of our attraction for each other—not while I’m living with him. I just can’t do it, cannot muddle things. Cannot mix business with pleasure, as they say.

Standing here on the sidelines, it’s clear (at least to me) that Jack does not want to be put in the game—a fact that his coach does not share the same feelings about, because one of the staff walks over to Jack, clamping his hand down on Jack’s broad shoulder and telling him something. Giving him instructions?

Regardless, Jack is nodding, his eyes scanning the field.

Somewhat hesitantly, he takes himself over the painted lines on the grass, putting himself in the game.

One of his teammates comes out, replaced by Jack. Slaps him on the back for a bit of good luck, going immediately to the water bottles scattered on the ground, on and around the wooden bench.

I can’t watch when the play begins; I’m too afraid of what I will see. I pray our team takes possession of the ball so Jack won’t have much to do, because he doesn’t have a clue what to do.

He’s like a fish out of water.

It’s obvious he has no clue what he is doing.

Coach begins shouting, expletives directed at Jack, his face turning red, his clipboard already thrown to the ground. This isn’t going to end well.

I can’t watch.

Oh god.

Shouting.

Cursing.

The sound of guys tussling, running, yelling to one another on the field as they make plays Jack is not a part of.

I cannot watch.

Covering my eyes with both palms, I peek through the crack in my fingers, cringing.

He’s a sitting duck.

Oh god.

“Jones!” the coach shouts again. “You’re going the wrong fucking way!”

Indeed he is; even I know this, and I know less about the game than Jack does.

It happens in the blink of an eye. Mud, dirt, grass. Arms, legs.

Cleats.

Headgear.

The sound of it all coming together, the sound of bodies hitting, the sound of grunting and sweat.

Jack is on the ground, on his back.

The playing stops.

Players gather.

I can’t see him anymore; where is he?

Frantic, I crane my head, moving closer.

“Jack!” I call out—to no one because I am here alone.

My heart is beating wilder than it ever has before, and I know I can’t stand here not knowing what’s going on inside that huddle around my roommate. My friend.

If he is hurt, I have to help him.

If he is hurt, I want to hold his hand, cradle his head in my lap.

No one seems to be concerned except me, the crowd playing on their phones as if this were some kind of intermission or timeout.

This is part of the game that is rugby, I suppose—and yet, that doesn’t make me feel one bit better or less anxious.

He remains on the ground as I approach, eyes closed, arms and legs spread out like a starfish on the beach.

I say his name for what feels like the millionth time, trying to get his attention, pushing through the large group of guys standing around staring down at him.

“Isn’t anyone going to do anything?” I ask, dropping to my knees and feeling for a pulse in his neck—he is breathing, I know this, but that doesn’t stop me from checking for it anyway.

“He looks fine to me,” one of the giants says. “It’s not like he’s dead.”

One of the coaching staff walks over to join the conversation. “Why don’t the rest of you guys go take a quick break while we sort this out. Grab some water.”

Sort this out.

How are men so cavalier about injuries?

“Are you his girlfriend?” the staffer asks me, also kneeling beside Jack.

“No. His roommate.”

“Well, I don’t think he was hit that bad—just had the wind knocked out of him most likely, wasn’t hit above the belt.”

“Are you sure? He looks so pale.”

“We already checked him out and he was lucid before, pupils aren’t dilated. He just needs to catch his breath before we have him stand and get him off the field.” He looks down at Jack, then over at me. “We can move him to the bench.”

“I think he should come home with me.”

He’s watching me skeptically. “You think you can get him home? You’re a little thing.”

My back stiffens. “I’m sure I can get him home just fine. I’ll order a car. Just have to get him in it.”

“I can send someone along with you.”

“It’s fine, sir.”

Sir.

The word has his brows rising; he can’t be much older than me, most likely a student trainer working on his internship.

He shrugs, his shoulders not nearly as wide as those of any of the players. “Suit yourself.”

I plan on doing just that.

My palm goes to Jack’s cheek. “Jack, can you hear me?”

His head moves toward my voice, eyes peeling open like a newborn baby seeking the light. “Eliza? Why are you still here?”