Jock Row (Jock Hard 1)

I return the favor, giving my greedy eyes permission to wander the length of the hair peeking out from beneath her knit winter beanie; it’s long—longer than it looked pulled into a ponytail last weekend, and a dark shade of chocolate brown.

When she tilts her head, catches me staring, I refocus my attention to the yard, feigning interest in the cars parked at the curb.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

Is she being coy on purpose? “Do you have a name?”

“Of course I have a name.”

“So it’s going to be like that, huh?”

Her pretty pink lips smirk. “Yeah, it’s like that.”

“Mind if I take a guess?”

Shrug. “Be my guest.”

“Helga.”

Her brows shoot up. “That’s your guess?”

“Rudy.”

“Seriously, you’re such an asshole.” She laughs, eyes doing a sparkly little dance as she watches me. “Do I look like my name is Rudy? Rudy, jeez.”

I shrug. “Prudence?”

“I hate you so hard right now.” She laughs again. “My name is Scarlett.”

Scarlett.

Scarlett red. Scarlett fever.

“Huh. Never would have guessed.”

An ironic expression is pasted on her face. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Scarlett.

I slide the zipper of my jacket up and down to give my hands a chore, glancing at her on the sly.

“Why do you suppose, Scarlett,” I ask slowly, testing out her name, hands burrowing in my pockets, “that your friends keep abandoning you for dick?”

Her mouth twists into a bemused smile. “I don’t know, Rowdy—why do you think all women want from you and your friends is dick?”

Holy shit, this girl and her mouth.

“If you’re referring to our lack of personalities, I take offense.”

Scarlett sighs. “I can’t even be mad at you right now.”

“I don’t want you to be mad, I’m just making conversation.”

I shrug. “It’s your friends who are groupies, not you.”

“My friends aren’t groupies.” Her brows go up. “But it sounds like it’s bothering you way more than it’s bothering me.”

I do not understand girls.

I prod her. “Admit that’s what they are. Tell Uncle Rowdy your friends are gold diggers and we’ll get along just fine.”

The little burst of laughter is airy, kind of sweet, and has me puffing out my chest. I did that—she thinks I’m funny.

Most girls just see my face. The body. The uniform.

“Are you always this tenacious? You will not quit, will you?”

“Being a gold digger isn’t always a bad thing, Scarlett.”

“I know that, Rowdy.” She all but rolls her eyes toward the dark sky above. “But trust me, sometimes it has nothing to do with the fact that they play sports. Have you seen your friends? I mean, they’re good-looking. Some of them are so fracking hot.”

I stomp down a flare-up of jealousy.

“So so so good-looking.” She goes on, simply cannot stress enough how damn good-looking my friends are, and now my ass cheeks are puckering. “A girl would have to be blind not to notice.”

“And I’m not?” I swear to fucking god, my nostrils flare.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Whatever reply she has on the tip of her tongue is fleeting, gone within a heartbeat, and replaced with a simple, “You know you are.”

My chest inflates inside my jacket.

“Besides,” she goes on, “it’s not a crime to have a type—that doesn’t make them groupies, right? Or gold diggers? They just gravitate toward buff, amazingly hot guys.”

“No, it’s not a crime to have a type.” I can’t believe I’m arguing about this stupid shit with her. “But the fact that they’re hanging out here, at this house specifically, when there are plenty of other house parties on campus makes them cleat chasers, hot dudes or not.”

I damn near choke on those last words.

Scarlett tilts her head at me, knit cap concealing the brows I know are being raised in my direction. I want to whip that hat off and see what’s underneath, what the exact shade of her hair is.

“Are you always this sure of yourself?”

I jerk out a decisive nod. “I’ve been playing at this for three years. I know the drill.”

Her next question surprises the shit out of me, like a casual bomb dropped in my lap. “What about you—how many cleat chasers have you let past third base?”

It detonates, as it was intended to.

“Ouch.” I grab my upper bicep. “Scarlett, that dig hurt me a little.”

She smirks, chuckling to herself, feeling sassy. “Ha, that’s what I thought. So judgmental yet so hypocritical.”

“Which guys are they panting over tonight?”

“I don’t know.” Her shoulders slump. “That same asshole Derek, and somebody Tessa found on IG—oh, and one of the outfielders we met on the porch. Bingman?”

Brinkman and Wilson? Man, her friends have shittastic taste in men if they’re chasing those twats around. Brinkman has no standards; his favorite conquests are desperate band geeks, sorority girls with dark hair, and teacher’s aids—which is way too fucking specific if you ask me.

“I know on our walk over last Friday, Cameron threw your name around quite a bit. I think she’s…” Scarlett chooses her next words carefully. “Kind of envious that I’m out here with you.”

I all but snort. “I’m not dumb enough to date girls like that.”

“When we left,” she goes on, “they were talking so much shit about what an asshole you are.”

“Stop.” I wave a hand at her, demurring. “Now you’re making me blush.”

Her laughter keeps coming easy tonight—and louder—steam rising from her lips with every giggle.

Fucking delightful is what it is.

“You’re definitely too—”

“Hot?” I interrupt, battering her with adjectives. “Magnificent? Insanely talented?”

“Not humble, that’s for sure.” If she rolls her eyes any farther into her head, they’ll get stuck in her skull. “Unattainable? They think they’ll have better luck with someone less…” She waves a hand in the air, searching for the adjectives.

“Sexy? Talented? Mind-blowing?”

“Would you please stop interrupting? You really are the worst.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I? They’re after smaller fish, knowing they’ll have a better chance at snagging one.”

“Maybe.”

“Well they’re right.” Those girls have zero chance with me and every chance with someone else. “You can tell them not to bother next time my name comes up.”

She buries her hands in the pockets of her warm jacket, tugging at her mittens. “Trust me, they are not here for you.”

I make a humming sound, unconvinced. Girls like the ones she came here with? They don’t give up easy, and they don’t play fair. Prime example: Scarlett being marooned on the porch, alone, despite the fact that it was by design.

“You want something to drink?” I walk the few feet to the cooler I had Keats place by the door so we’d have refreshments on the off chance she came back. Unhook the latch with my foot like a Neanderthal. Reach down and produce a bottle. “Beer? Water?”

“You brought me water?”

“Well, I didn’t want us—you—to die from thirst. Not on my watch.”

“That was really—”

I point a finger at her. “Don’t you fucking dare say nice, and don’t get used to it. I’m not running a home for stray cats here.”

Her eyes widen. “Stray cats?”

Shit. Damn Keats and his crap analogies. “Uh…never mind.”

I grab a water for myself, twisting the tops off two bottles and handing one to Scarlett. She swipes it in her mitten-clad paw, sucking the first drops eagerly.