Jock Row (Jock Hard 1)

Or on a trip to the frozen fucking tundra.

Or when you think you might be spending an entire night on a cold porch.

She’s causal, leaning on the railing, not one bit of surprise marring her expression when I push through the screen door, stepping down onto the floorboards of the porch.

My mouth, goddamn it, stretches into a toothy grin when we lock eyes, her brows rising beneath her warm hat. They wiggle in my direction as she raises two hands, covered in mittens, sending me a small, hopeful, wave.

She’s cheeky, this one.

I acknowledge Brinkman with a fist bump, and Cock Blocker’s friends light up when they see me, two pair of eyes alive with interest and overenthusiasm. Possibly because I’m fresh meat to sink their cleat-chasing claws into.

I shrug it off; I’m not out here for them.

I tip my chin up at the girl. “Nice coat. Looks nice and insulated. Warmer than last weekend’s attire.”

“Indeed it is. I dug deep into my closet for this one—you know, just in case.”

The trio on the porch with us choose that moment to make their escape. Brinkman and the two blondes push through the screen door to the house without stopping, without looking back—without checking to see if their friend is following behind them.

“I see you didn’t take my advice.” She flickers her gaze over my chest, brows raised. “Where is your jacket?”

“It’s coming.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I had it ordered up when they came and told me you were here.”

“Ordered up? What does that mean?”

I smirk arrogantly. “I’m having someone fetch it.”

“You are not.” She’s about to smirk, too, but the grin is wiped off her face when—as if on cue—Tony Keats abruptly bangs through the door, thrusting my jacket into my outstretched hand.

My fingers close around it.

My arms shrug into it.

Thumbs hook into the pockets, and I jut my hip out, posing. Cocky.

“Boom! Jacket.”

Her mouth opens, closes. “Wow. That was…”

“Awesome? Amazing?” I spin on my heels in a full circle for emphasis—as if she needs more evidence that I’m a badass.

“Yes.” She’s laughing now, tugging at her hat, pulling it down over her ears. “Sure, that’s one way of putting it.”

She takes a few hesitant steps forward, destination: the door behind me.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, not so hasty.” I tsk, raising my arm, preventing her from moving toward the door, almost clotheslining her in the process. Arm grazing against the scratchy fabric of her coat. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She drags her eyes up and down my body before casting a guilty glance down into the dark yard. Gulps.

“That’s right, take a good look at where you’re spending another night.” My hands go wide, panning around the porch. “Because we’re going to spend another night outside.”

What the hell is wrong with me? Let her in for fuck’s sake.

“We are?”

“Yeah, all signs point to: you can’t go back inside.”

Liar.

“They’re really not going to let me in?”

Yeah, they would, but you don’t need to know that.

“Oh.” Her voice is small. “I was kind of hoping…”

“Tonight’s not your night, babe—too many people inside.”

Shut the fuck up, Rowdy. Why are you doing this? Just let her inside so you don’t have to stand out here with her—give her what she wants.

She came to party.

She didn’t come to stand on the fucking porch with you.

But what if she did? She didn’t—she hasn’t hit on you once. Shut the fuck up, idiot.

Jesus Christ, now I’m arguing with myself.

“I’m really sorry Cock Blocker, it’s been decided.”

By me. Because I’m a selfish asshole.

Her arms brush my chest when she crosses them. She’s standing closer, her chin raised rather indignantly. “If we’re going to stand out here, could you not call me Cock Blocker? You and I both know it’s degrading.”

She’s right; calling her Cock Blocker is demeaning, but suddenly I’m an eight-year-old boy on the playground who doesn’t know how to conduct himself in front of a cute girl. I’m four seconds from pulling at her hair.

Not to mention, if my mother heard me calling her Cock Blocker, she’d metaphorically kick my ass straight into next week.

“Sorry.” I swallow. “There are rules you have to follow if you’re going to stand on this porch with me, and not being a sass is one of them.”

“Then it’s going to be a really long night for both of us.” Her mouth puckers.

“You know how athletes love their rules and playbooks.”

She crosses her arms, setting her bag on the floor. “Actually, I don’t.”

My arm extends, resting on the doorjamb and creating a barricade. “We create rules as we go, and the porch-dwelling addendum is new, created special just for you.”

I sound so fucking stupid.

Her eyes are brighter tonight, a black coat of mascara on her top lashes. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Her voice is almost a whisper, and for a brief second, I feel like a real fucking prick.

But that fucking dimple makes an appearance, and all my best intentions to behave fly out the window. Shit, who am I trying to kid? I have no best intentions.

“Why are you doing this? You had to have known you weren’t coming inside—you wore a hat with your coat tonight. You literally look like you’re going skiing.”

Her arms raise, finger pointing into the living room her friends just disappeared into, exasperated. “But you let my friends inside!”

“It’s been decided by the council. You cannot come back inside.”

“Who’s the council?”

Me.

“That’s a well-guarded secret.”

“God, you are so exasperating.”

Ooh, exasperating—good word. “Thank you.”

“I can’t go back…ever?” Her eyes get wide.

A terse jerk of my head. “We’ll see.”

“You’re going to make me stand on the porch tonight while my friends stay inside?”

I cross my arms. “I can’t make you do anything, can I?”

Her lips blow out a frustrated puff of air, sending a few loose strands wisping around her face. “Be honest: don’t you think this is kind of ridiculous?”

Yeah—but I keep that shit to myself, because tonight, when I saw her, I decided to be selfish with her time, to stand out here and try to make her laugh just so I can make that dimple appear in her cheek.

Not that my friends would have been ecstatic to see her; she would have a shit time inside since Wilson and Fitzgerald are still ten shades of pissed, the fucking tit babies.

Bros before hos and all that sexist bullshit.

At least, that’s what I’ll be telling myself later when I’m staring up at the ceiling above my bed, thinking about that little dent in her cheek same as I’ve done every damn night this past week.

“Honestly, we here at the baseball house do our best to be as difficult as possible.”

“Haven’t I been punished enough?”

“Don’t consider it a punishment—consider it banishment on a case by case basis.” I snap my fingers. “Oh! Like you’ve been voted off the Island of Hornball Dudes Who Want to Get Laid.”

“Really?” She rolls her eyes, backing away a few steps. “That’s what you’d name your island?”

I laugh. “If it were my island, it would something way cooler, like Rowdy’s Tropical Hideaway.”

“So that really is your name?”

“Yes, that really is my name.”

“Your name is Rowdy?” She repeats it, and I can’t help but be slightly insulted by her tone.

I spread my arms wide. “In the flesh.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Her hands go to the hat pulled down over her forehead, giving it a little tug upward to afford herself a better view of me.