Jock Row

I breathe it in then out with a sigh of relief. God it feels so good.

“So…we’re outside.” I take the jacket out of my tote and slide both arms into it, zipping the front with a satisfying whirr. “And doesn’t this feel amazing? I was dying in there.”

He studies me under the porch lights, silently crossing his arms, a beer clutched in one huge hand.

No jacket, short sleeves, and a scowl.

I raise one brow, waiting.

He continues staring me down, wordlessly.

This guy is tall—good and tall—legs spread slightly, bulky arms crossed defensively. What I imagine a powerful baseball player stance to be, except without the uniform or glove.

I can’t take it anymore.

“What’s up? Did you see me across the room and decided I was irresistible? You just had to talk to me?” Haha. “Don’t tell me—you can’t resist a fuzzy brown sweater?” I try for brave and nonchalant, but my nerves betray me and my voice quivers.

His nose dips down, those brawny arms uncrossing, the cords in his forearms stretching. Claps his hands together like two giant cymbals, the noise echoing in the quiet yard.

“So, I’m just going to throw it down, all right? It’s nothing personal.”

Nothing good comes from sentences that begin with, ‘It’s nothing personal’, which is just a generic form of ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

“It’s like this,” he continues. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed back in the house.”

“I’m sorry, what?” My voice raises a few octaves above my normal tone. “Why?”

His voice also goes up a few decibels. “The guys decided that for the rest of the night, you’re not allowed—”

I put my hand up so he’ll shut his gorgeous face. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Isn’t it obvious?”

Uh, no. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have been dumb enough to follow you out here, would I?”

“I’m not fucking around, sorry. You can’t go back—you’re being booted for the night.”

“Booted.” I snort. “By who?”

“By the guys. By me.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m their fearless leader—and the unlucky bastard that drew the short straw.”

My nose crinkles like I’ve just swallowed a Sour Patch Kid. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re running interference and it’s driving my friends fucking nuts. They want you gone. Hope you have all your personal shit.” He smiles, eyes catching the tote bag hanging off my shoulder. “Never mind, I see you brought a giant fucking suitcase along with you.”

“Are you for real right now?” Crap, now I sound like that asshole Derek.

“Yeah, I’m—like—for real.” He imitates an airhead, fake twirling an invisible lock of long hair, lobbing his head from side to side rudely.

“I’m not stupid, you don’t have to be a jerk, but what gives them the right to—”

“Cock Blocker.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“That’s what they called you: cock blocker. You should have just left well enough alone—all you did by running interference was piss off Ben and Derek.”

“Running interference? I was making small talk, not that those meatheads would know the difference.”

Without warning, he plucks the red plastic cup from my fingers, sniffing the contents with that great, Greek nose of his.

“What’s in here, vodka?” He inhales inside the cup again, taking a good long whiff—the way I sniffed him earlier—sticking his nose all the way in. “What the hell is this, boring juice?”

My lip twitches because the way his nose twitches is kind of cute, and I try not to smile. “No, it’s water.”

“Huh. Just water?” He looks mildly entertained, thick eyebrows raised into his hairline. “Well now it’s kind of starting to make sense.”

My chin goes up a notch. “Your friends are ridiculous, you know that, right? It’s not my fault they can’t take a joke.”

“Yeah, well, they’ve decided you’re grade-A pain in their ass.” He pauses, giving the yard another once-over. “Cock Blocker.” His laugh is low and deep as he recalls the nickname.

“Please don’t call me that. It’s insulting, even though it doesn’t surprise me.”

“You’re messing with their game.”

“Their game? Do people actually still use that term?” I snort, so unladylike, unable to stop the sound from coming out my nose. Charming, I know. “Your friends have no game, unless you give points for lies. They weren’t impressing anyone.”

His laugh echoes down into the yard. “Let’s face it—they were impressing your friends.”

He’s got me there. “Tessa is too sweet for her own damn good, okay?” Why am I telling him this? “And Cameron just wants…”

I clamp my mouth shut.

“Just wants to get laid?”

“No!”

“Just wants a jock notch on her bedpost?”

“Stop. Now you’re just trying to find creative ways to say get laid.” And I’m not supposed to be enjoying myself out here, dammit. I’m pissed at this guy—he literally just kicked me out of a house party.

I will not allow myself to be charmed, no matter how funny he is.

His shoulders shake in a quick shiver as he throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Wanna tell me what it was Wilson and Fitzgerald were lying about back there?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.” But he’s curious—I can see it in his eyes as he stares at me from across the porch, brows still imposingly arched. He’s not entirely bored.

“Look,” I begin, hefting my bag. “The pick-up lines were terrible, and I couldn’t resist giving Derek shit about it, if you must know the truth. Like—the worst. If you were there, you would have done it too.” I pause. “Then when they started in about the College World Series, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

His spine straightens. “What about the CWS?”

“They said they won it, and we all know that’s a load of crap. All I did was call them on it! Sue me. It was dumb that they lied to impress my friends.”

His smirk comes slowly, one side of his mouth curving into an arch. It’s more mischievous than sinister. “How are you so sure we didn’t win?”

“Dude, stop.”

He laughs when I call him dude, Adam’s apple bobbing. “The fact that you know that shit is so fucking random.”

“I have a baseball-obsessed father, all right? I can’t help myself—I’m the son he never had.” Inside my warm jacket, my shoulders move up and down in a tiny shrug. “Maybe remembering weird facts is my stupid human trick.”

The guy’s eyes stray to the window of the house, gazing through. “Look, I hate to be rude, but can you do me a favor and leave? It’s cold and I’m freezing my balls off.”

I will my eyes not to stray down the front of his jeans, to his zipper. To his balls.

“So this is real? You’re seriously kicking me out?”

His nod is authoritative. “Yup. This is me, seriously kicking your scrawny ass out.”

I do not have a scrawny ass! “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”

“Stick around long enough and it won’t be.” He’s laughing at himself again. “I say some pretty stupid shit.”

“You’re kind of an asshole.” My conviction is weak—so weak—and more wishful thinking that anything.

“You were disturbing the peace—the natural order of things, if you will—and I’ve been tasked with escorting you from the premises. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Escorting me from the premises—what a ridiculous thing to say.

“The proverbial short straw you speak of.” I nod, knowingly, oh so wise and clever.