Jock Rule (Jock Hard 2)

One nod. “Yup.”

I don’t need to flip on the light to know Teddy is blushing.

“I just can’t imagine her having sex with a guy named Archer Eisenhower,” she grumbles.

“In his defense, he’s not bad to look at.”

She shoots me the stink eye. “Why do you even care, Kip?”

“I don’t.” Which must be a goddamn lie, because here I am, pressing the issue. This little slumber party of ours is turning into a goddamn therapy session, and it’s my own fucking fault for inviting her here in the first place.

I should have—could have—left her to sleep in the hallway of her building.

“When is the last time your buddy Mariah helped you out? Or told you about her sex life when she wasn’t bringing a guy home? Or waited around the house so you could get ready?”

Most guys wouldn’t notice Teddy wasn’t wearing any makeup the first night she appeared at the rugby house, but I did. And I bet the five thousand dollars cash I have stashed upstairs in a shoe box she had no time to get ready herself, because they weren’t willing to wait.

I’m one of those guys—freakishly observant.

“I can help you.” God, what am I saying? Shut the fuck up, Carmichael, or I’ll punch you in your own goddamn face.

Skepticism is etched all over her pretty face, but she sits up taller. “Help me how?”

“Well.” I settle deep into the chair, get good and comfortable. “For starters, I notice you hang back a lot. You shouldn’t be doing that—join the conversations, man.”

“You notice I hang back a lot…” She has an odd look on her face now as she tilts her chin to the side, her sentence trailing off.

“Yeah. So like, instead of talking to the dudes walking up to the keg, you’re way too shy. You should be making jokes and shit. Even lame ones are better than going full-on mute—and why are you even standing by the keg to begin with? What the fuck is that about, Teddy?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” she says miserably.

“Right. Step away from the freaking keg and join the damn party.”

“All right.” She looks so confused, but I’m not even close to being done. “How?”

I.

Am.

On.

A.

Roll.

“Do you need a goddamn puppeteer to help you figure out what to do with yourself? Someone to tell you what to say and do?”

“You’re being dramatic. I’m not that bad.”

“Yeah you are. You need a…” I search for the word. Snap my fingers in the silence. “Hairy godmother.”

“A what?”

I’m a fucking genius is what I am. “Hairy godmother. Like a fairy godmother, but a guy.”

Honest to God, I just made that shit up, right now, on the spot.

Clever asshole that I am.

“Are you high right now?” Teddy isn’t speechless, but she’s pretty damn close. “You sound drunk.”

“Sober as you are. Okay, that’s not true—I had three beers tonight, so maybe not completely dry, but close enough.” I am six foot four, after all; it takes a lot of fucking alcohol to get me drunk—like, a lot. Plus, I never would have driven her anywhere had I been drunk. Never. “My point is, you need help—mine, specifically.”

“I’m not sure I need your brand of help—no offense, Kip.” God that name…makes me cringe every time she says it. Can’t she call me Sasquatch like the rest of them? “No offense, but what do you know about relationships?”

Oh, now she wants to get sassy?

Fine.

“For your information, I’ve been in a few relationships.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” With girls named Mitsy and Tiffany and Caroline. Waspy, pure-bred socialites pushed at me by my well-meaning but interfering family.

I throw up in my mouth a little.

“When?” Teddy is impatient.

“I mean, if you want to get technical, high school. And freshman year.”

“Your freshman year of high school? Are you serious?”

“College too, smartass—and it might have only been a few relationships, but I learned a lot from them.”

“Like what?”

Like the fact that I never want to be in another relationship. And girls named Mitsy might sound fun and cutesy in theory, but they’re actually pint-sized tyrannical Nazis, drunk on the idea of spending days dating me, lounging at the country club my parents belong to.

I shudder at the memory of her bubblegum pink, coffin-shaped nails.

“Listen Teddy, with guys, you have to come out and say what you want. No gray area—guys don’t get it. And don’t fucking lie or beat around the bush.”

Teddy rolls her eyes. “Give me a break. How is that going to help me at a party?”

“I’m giving you pearls of wisdom here—would you listen? So what if it doesn’t help at your bartending job?”

“Shut up.” She laughs, though reluctantly.

“What I can tell you is what guys want, so don’t go to a party and start pouring their damn beer. Everyone will take advantage. Do you want to be known as the girl who hands out red cups?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be the girl who pumps the beer tap all night?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be the girl who stands in the corner talking to the social outcast?”

“The social outcast?”

“Yeah—me.” How was that not obvious? Duh.

But Teddy’s laugh is light and amused, which tells me she disagrees. “You’re hardly a social outcast.”

Maybe not, but only because everyone is afraid to piss me off. I might be an okay guy, but I look like the occasional street beggar more often than not, and that makes people uncomfortable.

Although, oddly enough, girls do hit on me often enough to confuse me.

I’m not going to argue those points with Teddy, though. She wouldn’t get why I do the things I do.

So few people do, because no one knows my secrets.

“Next weekend when you come to the house, I’ll give you some pointers.”

“Oh jeez.” Her blanket rustles. “Maybe I should just stay home.”

“Give up, you mean?”“No, I mean—maybe flirting isn’t my strong suit, especially at a house party. I’m way out of my league and we both know it. I should stick to libraries and coffee shops.”

“You’re not out of your league though.” Any one of those idiots would be lucky to hook up with a girl like Teddy—but that’s not what she wants, is it? To hook up?

Nope. Teddy is a relationship kind of girl, and that’s what makes her so damn different. Even I know she’s long-term relationship material.

She a wifer.

“Teddy, you’re kind of being a pussy about this whole thing.”

“You cannot keep calling me that.”

“Calling you what?” I know she’s not going to say the word that flows so freely off my tongue.

“A…you know.” I swear, she lowers her voice as if just the thought of the word makes her squirmy and uncomfortable.

“I have no idea what I always call you.” My eyes widen, lending an innocent air to my expression, which she’s probably hard-pressed to see in the dim light.

“You’re so full of shit, Kip.”

“For real though, enlighten me. I call people all sorts of things. Shitface, doofus, fucker.”

“The P word.”

“The P word, the P word…” I scratch my beard. “Pussy? When else have I called you that?”

“Uh—the first night we met? Like, four times?”

Did I? Huh. “Really, four times? That sounds so unlike me.”

Actually it isn’t unlike me, because I really do love that word. What guy doesn’t?

Pussy, noun: a wimp or someone who’s a total chickenshit. Won’t take risks, overthinks everything. Scared of their own shadow.

Pussy, noun: a cat. Furry kitty. Pet-able. Purrs when I stroke it—if I ever wanted to stroke a pussycat, which I don’t.