Jock Rule (Jock Hard 2)

I wait for the awkward pause that usually follows that statement, but it never comes. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t embarrass me that my mother is a bartender and waitress—it’s other people who get all weird and judgmental about it.

Especially women her age, ones with husbands and families and minivans and carpools. That was never my mother, never us. We never had the money for that kind of life—barely had the money for me to play sports or join clubs.

Always just squeaking by.

I was left alone a lot. Not only did my mom work a lot when I was growing up, she couldn’t afford babysitters or whatever. Taking every available extra hour, working overtime to pay the rent and utilities, at the same time saving for my college education.

“Damn, do you ever get to see her?”

“Sure I get to see her. I mean, not a ton…not really.” If I’m being honest, my mom works way too much and I rarely get to spend time with her. “I, uh, I’m here on a partial scholarship, so…” The sentence trails off. “And I was just awarded a grant from the engineering department.”

“Is that your major? Engineering?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Civil.” I pause. “Does that sound boring?”

“No—not at all.” He reaches over and turns down the volume on his radio. “So you have a partial, and a grant, and your mom busts her ass to pay for the rest.”

“Exactly.”

“I get it.”

“Do you?” Somehow I doubt it. I glance at Kip out of the corner of my eye, at the leather and chrome interior of his luxury vehicle, the branded logo on the sleeve of his pricey sweatshirt, not to mention his little slice of suburban heaven tucked away in a high-end neighborhood.

For a caveman, Sasquatch sure has expensive shit.

If he senses me eyeballing him, casing my surroundings, he chooses not to mention it.

“What’s your major?” I ask out of polite curiosity.

“Economics.”

“Wow. Really?” I’m sincerely surprised.

“Yeah. Business and economics seem to be in my future.”

That’s an odd way of putting it. “Why is that?”

“Family business.”

“I see. Do you have a choice?”

“Kind of, but not really.” A master of deflecting, Kip changes the subject as he slows down when we near the edge of campus.

“Have you ever lived in the dorms?” I cock a brow.

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

Shrug. “My parents wanted me off campus.”

That makes no sense. From my experience, most parents keep their kids on campus as long as they can—at least, that’s what my mom wanted.

“Why?”

Instead of answering, he shrugs.

Kip measures his words. “It’s complicated.”

“Then I’m not going to ask.”

“Thanks.”

I catch a smile, a flash of his straight, white teeth. “You should smile more.”

“I smile plenty.” His face scrunches up, lip furled.

“You really don’t though.”

“Sure I do—you just have to catch it at the right moment. Sometimes you don’t see it happening.”

“Because of all the hair on your face?”

“Correct.”

Despite myself, I take him in, his whiskers highlighted by the sunlight streaming into the driver’s side window and through the windshield.

“Don’t girls get whisker burn from your face?”

A short laugh. “No.”

Pfft. “Yeah right.”

“I’d have to kiss one for that to happen.”

“You haven’t kissed a girl?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Oh.” Ohhh… “Now it all makes more sense.”

“What does?”

“You being into guys.”

He shoots me a quick glance, brows furrowed. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Yeah, I know that wasn’t what he meant, but it’s fun to tease him. He’s so serious.

My laugh fills the cab of his SUV. “You should see the look on your face—you look like a serial killer.” One who’s not amused.

“Ha ha.”

“I would have said Bigfoot instead, but that seems too obvious.”

“I do get that one a lot.”

“Figured. That’s why I went with serial killer, although you don’t really look like one of those, either. You’re too tall.”

My stomach chooses that moment to growl, and it’s so loud it fills the sudden silence.

Of course it does.

“You hungry?”

There is no denying it when my stomach rumbles again. “Uh, kind of.”

“Why didn’t you eat anything?”

“I wasn’t about to go digging through your cabinets.”

“Why?”

“Because I barely know you—it would have been rude.”

“You want to stop somewhere and grab something?”

“No! No. It’s okay, I have food at home.”

“You sure? What about that little diner on the corner of South and Meridian—they make a killer omelet.”

I mentally calculate the meager change stuffed inside my wallet. It’s barely ten dollars and the only cash I have.

“Yes, I’m sure, but thank you for the offer.”

“Come on,” he urges. “Do you have somewhere else to be right now?”

“Don’t you? You’re the one with rugby practice today, right?”

“Later. At noon.” His car is no longer headed toward my apartment, damn him. He’s the shittiest listener; I’ll have to remember that from now on.

“Kip, it’s fine. Really.” I cannot spend my money on food when I need it for rent, books, and tuition. Frivolous spending is not in my budget for the month.

But for some reason, he isn’t letting it go, and he isn’t taking me home.

“My treat.”

Well. In that case. “Fine—twist my arm.” Because honestly, I’m starving, and food from an actual restaurant sounds like heaven. Cinnamon roll? Eggs? Breakfast sausages?

Yes, please.

***

KIP

Jesus, where is she putting all that food she ordered?

Seriously, Teddy is tiny—compared to me. I guess for a girl, she’s pretty average, but next to my six foot four? She’s pocket sized.

And she’s stuffing breakfast links in her face with a forkful of egg and washing it down with chocolate milk. It’s more than I’ll pile in my mouth at once.

“Is that going to be enough food for you? Sure you don’t want to order more?” I tease, eyeing her plate of eggs, hash browns, and the side order of a giant cinnamon roll. The quantity rivals mine, and with both our heads bent, we go at it, stuffing our faces like we haven’t eaten in days.

I’ll pay for this during practice by running it off with extra laps around the field, but right now, the greasy breakfast is worth it.

Even if I end up with the shits later.

I shovel a spoonful of food into my mouth and chew, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, totally cognizant of the fact that if my mother saw me right now, her mouth would fall open in horror at my complete lack of decorum, my complete disregard for the manners she drilled into me from day one.

“Gross, you have eggs in your beard.” Teddy’s lilting, soft voice floats across the table, half amused, half disgusted.

“Where?” I don’t tell her that half the time when I eat, food ends up in my beard, a hazard of having so much hair hanging from my face. “Show me.”

“I’m not touching it.”

I snicker into my napkin as I swipe it across the lower half of my face, tempted to throw in a That’s what she said but think better of it when her lip curls up and her eyes narrow like she knows I’m thinking it.

I don’t even have to say it.

Nice.

“Don’t say it.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t going to.”

“But you were thinking about it.”