Jock Rule (Jock Hard 2)

“We weren’t talking about that, and we’re not going to. It’s stupid.” I place another bite of eggs in my mouth and set about ignoring him. Mmm, delicious.

“Why aren’t you taking this seriously?”

“Why do you care?”

“Honestly? I’m probably a little bored—give me something to do, would ya?”

Oh god. “The last thing I want to be is your pet project. It would be bad enough if you were female—I cannot handle having a random guy give me dating advice.”

“First off, I’m not random—you just spent the night at my house. Secondly, you see the rationale behind that argument sucks balls, right? Taking advice about guys from a girl? Makes no fucking sense. I’m a guy—take advice straight from the source. I’m giving you a gift here.”

“But you’re not into girls.”

Kip laughs. “Not right now, but someday I’m sure I will be…maybe.”

“You need therapy.”

“Actually, I’ve had tons of it. When I dropped out of Notre Dame to come to Iowa, my mother had a coronary and thought I’d gone off the deep end. Boom, therapy.”

Boom, therapy?

He says the line so casually—“When I dropped out of Notre Dame”—like he was asking me to pass the salt.

“You got into Notre Dame?”

He scrunches up his face the way I do when I eat something sour. “Do you have to say it like that?”

He’s avoiding my gaze now, the fingers of his left hand pushing and pulling on the handle of the white, ceramic coffee cup, tapping on it a few times with his fingernail.

“Yeah I have to say it like that.” I’ll admit, my tone does sound kind of duh, which is rude—but still. Notre Dame? You don’t drop a bomb like that, leave it to detonate, and walk away without explaining yourself.

His grades in high school must have been insane. I couldn’t have dared to dream of going to a school as illustrious as that, even if I’d gotten a full-ride scholarship with housing. No way.

And he dropped out.

Then I start to wonder…

“Were you there on scholarship?”

His eyes stay trained on the table. “No.”

Well shit.

Non-scholarship kids aren’t in my wheelhouse. I can’t relate, nor do I have any friends who aren’t receiving some kind of aid. So, having Kip sitting across from me with all that money has all the pieces falling into place.

The house.

The car.

The ivy-covered education.

His parents must be loaded.

I try not to let thoughts of all that money change my facial expression—try to keep the thunderstorm of questions at bay—but damn, it’s difficult. A true test of my self-control because, despite myself, I am a nosy little bugger. My mom always said so.

Swallowing a bite of bread, I ask, “Are you glad you transferred?”

“Exceedingly.”

“Okay Mr. Ivy League, calm down—no need to throw out the fancy words,” I tease.

“Oh, I see how it’s gonna be now.”

“I mean, if I can’t tease you, what fun would that be?”

“Fun for you, not for me. And keep that shit quiet, okay?”

“I will. You can trust me.” If there’s one thing I understand, it’s not wanting the state of my finances—or lack thereof—spread around.

He’s silent for a few heartbeats, staring intently into my eyes, heavy eyebrows still in a straight, serious line—same as his mouth.

“Okay. I’ll trust you.”

My lips creep into a leisurely curve. “Good.”

“You can trust me too, you know.”

“Sure.” More bread gets pushed between my lips and I chew then swallow it down with a gulp of juice.

“I don’t have any friends so I don’t repeat shit.”

“You have friends. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I have teammates—there is a huge difference. I don’t tell those guys shit.”

I consider this. “I used to tell Mariah everything, but…she’s…”

“A loudmouth?”

“Yes.”

“Would never have guessed that about her.” Sarcastic ass.

“Shut up.”

“Okay.” Kip clamps his lips together, the hair around his upper and lower lips concealing his mouth.

“You are so hairy.”

“Thanks!”

I laugh. “I bet when you shave all that off you’ll look twelve. Right now you look forty-five.”

“I’m never shaving this off, so…”

“Does your dad have a beard?”

“God no!” Kip laughs. “Oh my god, no—I can’t even imagine my dad with facial hair. He’s so buttoned up and stuffy he wears cuff links to brunch on Sundays. Plus, my mother—there’s no way she’d let him.”

Brunch on Sundays? Well la-di-da!

“Does the beard drive them nuts?”

“Yup, and that’s the beauty of it.”

“Ahh, now it’s all making sense.”

“What is?”

“You rebel. You’re purposely doing all that to piss off your parents, aren’t you?”

“No I’m not.”

“Do you know how I can tell you’re lying? You can’t even look at me when you deny it.”

“Whatever, Teddy. Can we stick to the subject at hand here?”

“You really must be bored. Fine, let’s say I entertain the idea of letting you help me—you can’t boss me around. That would drive me nuts.”

“I won’t.”

I was right; he can’t look me in the eye right now. “You’re such a damn liar!”

“Tell me how I’m supposed to help without bossing you around! Go ahead, tell me.” I open my mouth to respond, but Kip silences me with, “I can’t. It would be impossible.”

“Just don’t be a jerk and we’ll get along just fine.”

“So you agree to let me help you?”

Do I? “Not really—it’s more like you’re wearing me down, like a dull pencil after too much use.”

“Mission accomplished then, eh?” He looks oddly satisfied with himself.

I’m this close to planting a facer on the tabletop. “I can’t believe I’m considering this—with you.”

“You’ve been waiting for a guy like me to come along and help you.”

“Stop making this my idea—it was yours. I’m still not convinced I should let a matchmaking giant follow me around.”

“Hairy godmother—not the same as a matchmaker.”

“Whatever. You’re still being ridiculous, whatever you want to call yourself.”

“You know, come to think of it, a hairy godmother would make an amazing Halloween costume. I’ll have to remember that come next October.” Kip stares off into the distance, imagining what it would look like. “Dude, like the Tooth Fairy, with tiny wings and shit? I could pull off a tutu, right? Camo would be badass—or brown.”

A brown tutu?

“It would be pretty awesome,” I relent begrudgingly.

“Hairy godmother, at your cervix,” he jokes.

“If you went anywhere near cervixes,” I mumble under my breath with a chuckle.

“Ha ha.” He isn’t laughing.

“I thought it was funny.”

“Think we should establish some ground rules?”

“Probably—I can see you’re getting overzealous and amped up to do this. If we could curb that from the beginning that would be outstanding.”

“Me? Overzealous?”

And I’m becoming powerless to stop him. Or maybe curious enough to go through with it. He’s crazy and fun—and perhaps I could use a bit of both in my life right now.

“Yes, you—you’re like a bored frat boy, minus the frat, minus the boy, itching for something to entertain himself with. I am not that something.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”