Jock Row (Jock Hard 1)

I glance down at my beige mohair garment, affronted. “I was cold, and I-I was sick!”

“Aren’t you fucking hot? Is that what’s making you run your mouth?”

“Yeah,” I admit begrudgingly, shoulders slouching. “Maybe.”

“You should go outside then and get some fresh air.”

Fresh air does sound better than standing in front of these idiots, putting up with their insults.

Ben casually arches a brow and the guys exchange another glance—so damn shady. I watch as he casually eases out of the conversation and disappears into the crowd, causing Cameron’s bottom lip to jut out in a pout. Arms cross. Boobs rise above the low neckline of her shirt.

“What did you say your name was?” Derek asks me.

My arms cross defensively. “Stacy.”

His face is a blank canvas, impassive, stony, and directed at me. “Are you going to tell me your name again or not, because if you don’t I’ll just give you a nickname—I have a pretty good one already, right up here.”

He taps his skull.

I make a hmph sound they probably can’t hear over the noise. “Scarlett.”

His mouth curves. “Sober Scarlett.”

“Oh so you think you’re clever now cause you can alliterate?” I hold up my red plastic cup, not bothering to hold back the biting comment on my tongue. “Got any other set of skills?”

I wish I didn’t sound so defensive, but these guys are bringing out the worst in me.

“You wouldn’t know what to do with my other set of skills.” He chuckles, pleased with his innuendo, thinks he’s being clever. Tessa must agree because the cheesy line throws her into a giggle fit.

Gross, Tessa. Just…no.

Get better taste in men!

Honestly, what is it with these guys?

Bunch of douchey jockholes congregating in one small space. The room lacks oxygen—that must be why they’re acting like assholes.

I smirk at my own joke but am still unable to figure out why Tessa and Cam find these idiots so damn charming, especially with how rude they are. Crude and unoriginal, Ben and Derek have one modicum of sense between them. I can tell by the cold glint in Derek’s eye that he’s a colossal asshole and is reining it in for my friend’s benefit.

Never have I ever met a bigger pair of douchebags.

I sigh into my water cup. What a shame. God wasted all that talent and those incredible bodies on these two creeps.

Amazing bodies, average personalities.

What dicks.

Derek’s face goes from a scowl to a megawatt smile when his buddy Ben reappears. “Heads up, Cock Blocker, the cavalry has arrived.”

Cavalry? Cock Blocker?

I glance around—is he talking to me?

He must be drunk.

From behind, I feel a large hand gently gripping my shoulder, the sizzling weight of a heavy palm and splayed fingers reheating my upper torso. Surprised that someone is touching me from behind, my head swerves, gaze settling on a large, tan hand with square-tipped fingers covering my shoulder.

Short nails. Rough pads.

Manly.

My eyes trail up, following the arm attached to that hand. Travel upward, over a muscular, bare forearm. Lift their way to a set of wide shoulders. Meet an unsettling pair of curious green eyes, a strong, straight nose.

Full, downturned mouth.

Five o’clock shadow.

The human attached to the massive paw is just as handsome as the others, not in a beautiful way, like some athletes tend to be, but good-looking just the same. Add in the the fact that he’s the only other human here not wearing a ridiculous Halloween costume?

Major points.

Imposing and intense, his gaze beams down as his fingers give my shoulder a light squeeze, refocusing my attention on his face.

His eyes are a diluted green, crinkled at the corners with laugh lines, like he smiles easily when he’s not glowering at people.

Pillow-soft lips set in an unreadable, unhappy line, he’s irritated, but not in the same way his friends are. I can tell immediately that he’s friendlier, but right now he definitely means business.

Holy crap is he intense.

Broody, I wonder what his problem is and why he’s got my shoulder in a vice. What is it with these damn baseball guys? Why are they so grumpy? Did someone piss on their third place trophies?

My eyes widen when he dips his torso to get closer, warm breath brushing the outer shell of my ear. Leans down, broad chest grazing my back as that exquisite, pouty mouth speaks slowly into my cerebellum. Reverberates down my spine.

“Can you follow me for a quick second? I gotta talk to you.”

I shiver.

Inhale—of course I do—because he’s wearing cologne and it smells good and I can’t stop myself.

It’s what I do.

“Where do you want to talk?” My eyes stray to the front door, to the staircase leading to the second floor. To the kitchen, where I filched the water inside my cup and the bottle inside my bag. To the screened porch out back.

Cameron watches the exchange with rapid interest, eyes wide as mine, mouth twitching. She’s practically drooling, licking her lips.

“Over by the front door? This won’t take more than a few seconds. It’s too loud near the speakers to say what I have to say.”

What the hell could he possibly want?

And why is he so damn handsome?

I stare at the pronounced bow curving the top of his lip.

God, his voice. It’s deep and clear. Even with the pumping bass in the background, I can hear every syllable, the timbre sending an extra shiver of exhilaration down my spine.

“Just so you know, I’m fluent in karate.”

“Fluent in karate,” he deadpans, knowing I’m totally full of shit. “You don’t say?”

I slice through the air with my hands for good measure. “Yes, so make this quick.”

Warning bells go off inside my head, niggling at me, yet I trail along, curiosity and attraction getting the best of me. What could this guy possibly want?

God, what kind of idiot is persuaded so easily by a handsome face and sexy voice? Me—that’s what kind of idiot!

Me. I am.

I want to see what this cute guy wants and what’s going to come out of that pretty, perfect mouth of his. What’s the harm in following him to the corner of the room?

I mean—it’s the corner of the room. We’re not going outside, and he’s not taking me to one of the bedrooms. He can’t try anything in a room full of people. Plus, I took self-defense last semester, so I know where to knee a man to knock his ass down: right in the balls.

Grinning, I glance over my shoulder at Derek, at Ben.

Roll my eyes at them both. “I’ll hear you out, but no funny business or I’ll scream.”

“Funny business?” His tone is bored.

“Yeah—you know, assault.”

“Jesus, I’m not going to assault you. Could you lower your voice?” He glances around us to make sure no one heard, gauging the distance between the crowd and us. “Stay close, yeah?”

Yeah, yeah, whatever.

I nod, giving Tessa and Cam one last sidelong glance before prancing off after this stranger. They nod enthusiastically, encouraging me. Ogling him. Giggling.

The guy I’m following is big.

Bigger than the others, his presence parting the crowd like Moses at the Red Sea as we wade through, students evaporating so he can get by.

Who the hell is this guy?

I follow, gaze trained on his broad back. His muscles are unmistakably defined beneath his t-shirt, straining with every step he takes, every fluid movement, the cords of his neck visibly tense.

He has rich brown hair, lightened by the sun at the top, the back recently trimmed, lines precise. Short on the sides, slightly longer at the top, it’s a mop top I could easily imagine a girl running her fingers through.

He glances back at me again when he reaches the front door, yanks the handle, pushes the screen open to the porch.

I come up short. “You said this would only take a few seconds—why are we going outside?”

“It’s loud in here.” He yells to illustrate his point, pointing to his mouth like I can read lips.

I hesitate.

Poise my foot on the threshold, toe of my boot on the step before striding all the way out, cool air hitting me like a welcome force.