Home > Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)

Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)
Author: Sara Ney

Teddy

“Farmer Ted, can you do my makeup?”

I hate when my friend and roommate, Mariah, calls me Farmer Ted; she does it when she’s trying to get my attention, and it always works.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Yeah, sure. I can do your makeup.” Of course I can—I always do.

The foundation brush I’m holding between my fingers gets set on the counter, and instead of evening out my own complexion, I pull out a shade of concealer that matches Mariah’s skin. Her skin is tan, thanks to copious amounts of fake bronzer, so I go with something dark, pulling a compact of bronzer from my drawer.

Mariah plops herself in a chair, closes her eyes, and tips her head back, waiting like she’s a celebrity and I’m the stylist who has all the time in the world to work on her face.

I sigh.

If I do her makeup, I’m not going to have time to do mine. That fact doesn’t escape my notice, but apparently it escapes hers.

Either that, or she just doesn’t care.

“I’m thinking smoky eye,” she murmurs, instructing me, not chatty other than to tell me what she wants.

It’s fine; that’s just how Mariah is—how she’s always been.

“With a nude, glossy lip.” She puckers her mouth, smacking her lips. Mariah is beautiful; I don’t know why she feels it necessary to plump her lips and tan her skin and wear extensions.

I watch her watching herself in the mirror, and she glances at me over her shoulder, raising her dark brows. They’re a stark contrast to her light-colored hair—almost too stark, but if I ever mentioned that to her, she’d get defensive.

“Shouldn’t you be hurrying? We don’t have tons of time.”

I wouldn’t call her selfish, but she is a little selfish.

Okay, fine—a lot selfish.

Love her to death, don’t get me wrong, but even after all these years, Mariah Baker has always gotten what she’s wanted, and I’ve always been the person to help her get it.

And right now, she wants me to do her makeup.

You can do this, Teddy. You can do Mariah’s makeup first then crank out a quick blow-dry of your own hair, and once that’s done, maybe even—

Mariah interrupts my musing. “Tessa and Cameron want to meet a little earlier tonight. That’s why we need to rush it. Are you down with that?”

Am I down with that?

I glance at the clock hanging on my bathroom wall, frowning. “When?” I still haven’t done my hair. Or gotten dressed. “What time?”

“Nine. They heard there’s a party at the rugby house.”

Shit. That gives me no time to get myself ready.

“You want to party at the rugby house on the Row? That’s so completely random.” Usually it’s the baseball or football houses my friends flock to; no one on campus gives a crap about rugby, and no one I know has ever dated a player.

It’s not like any of these boys will play professionally—unlike the other sports—so it’s kind of weird they have a designated house on Jock Row. At this university, living on “The Row” is the equivalent to being a king of campus: everyone wants to be an athlete, and everyone wants to date one.

It’s the off-campus party scene, and students flock there every weekend.

“I’ve never heard of them having a party.” I smudge black charcoal under Mariah’s left eye. “Ever.”

“Right, but they have some regional tournament or something coming up and they’re throwing a blowout—it’s supposed to be huge. Everyone will be there.”

“Dang. Everyone?” I drag out sarcastically, brushing shadow across her upper eyelid. “How big is their house?”

“Tiny.” She’s already eyeballing herself in the mirror, scrutinizing my work, pursing her lips. “It’ll probably be in the backyard. If it sucks, we’ll just ditch and go to a frat party.”

“You don’t think it’s going to get out of hand, do you?”

Dark brows rise. “Why would it get out of hand?”

I stare back at her reflection in the mirror; the way she’s watching has me feeling naïve and immature. “Uh…because they’re rugby players and don’t they usually fight a lot?” Not that I know anything about it, but I swear I heard somewhere they were kind of brutes, especially on the field.

Muddy, dirty brawlers.

Mariah shrugs. “God, Teddy, who cares if they fight a lot? A party is a party, and it’s Friday night—what else is there to do?”

“I don’t care. I was just asking.” Why do I sound so defensive?

I swipe some blush across her cheekbones. Add highlighter. Do her eyebrows. Hand her the mascara wand.

“Here, go apply two thick coats.”

“Just two?” She steals it from the tips of my fingers and stands, flouncing into my room to the mirror behind my bedroom door so she can get an up-close and personal look at what I’ve done to her eyes.

I swear, if we hadn’t been best friends since we were seven, I’d wonder what the hell I was doing hanging out with her. Sometimes she’s exhausting, and the older we get, the more opposite we become.

I catch a peek of myself in the mirror. Sigh with resignation, running my fingers through my long, brown hair—my stick-straight, un-styled hair. Stare at my wide brown eyes. My shiny skin, freshly scrubbed, complexion rosy—and also not bearing a speck of makeup.

Glance at the clock I hung in the bathroom so I wouldn’t run late in the mornings before my eight o’clock class.

8:32. Mariah wants to leave by ten to nine, which gives me eighteen minutes to get completely ready.

Fuck my life.

***

“You can do this, Teddy. You’re going to have a great time tonight.”

God, why am I talking to myself in the mirror at a party?

It’s because I’ve been hanging out alone since we got here, that’s why, even though I’ve been in a room full of people.

I take a deep breath, checking my face one last time after washing my hands, no hand towel in sight. Using my jeans instead, I slide my palms up and down the denim, creating dark, damp streaks.

Someone bangs on the bathroom door.

“Just a minute!”

Startled, my lip gloss slips from my fingers to the dirty, laminate tile floor, and I cringe when the cap cracks. Pluck it off the disgusting floor like it’s a flammable explosive.

“Dammit. This was my favorite,” I complain to no one, fingertips barely grasping the tube as I toss the entire thing into the trash can, wash my hands again, and shoot myself one last cursory glance in the mirror before leaving the room.

I look good. Cute and natural.

Wearing way less makeup than I’d planned to when I had actual time to get myself ready, I lean against the water-soaked counter and sternly give myself another lecture.

“You’re going to put yourself out there tonight. You’re going to step outside your comfort zone and maybe you’ll meet someone. No standing by the wall.” I raise my brows at myself and point a finger at my reflection, unable to resist a pep talk. “No standing by the wall, you got it?”

I’m almost afraid to pull open the door, knowing a lynch mob is waiting on the other side—unhappy young women who had to stand in line while I screwed around inside the bathroom, giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror.

My hand reaches for the doorknob. Unlocks it.

Clasps.

Pulls.

Loud music and voices assail me all at once, along with the line outside the door. I was right: some of them do look pissed off. Others lean on the wall for support, totally drunk. Not a surprise since this is a drinking party and everyone here is shit-faced.

Except for me.

Which reminds me…

I grab the red plastic cup off the counter, clutching it protectively in my hand as I nonchalantly breeze out the door as if nonplussed by the glaring, heavily made-up eyes.

Compared to them, I look like the girl next door.

I did what I could manage in the eighteen minutes Mariah left me to get ready, but it wasn’t enough; I wasn’t even able to do my hair. Thank God it’s long, hanging in a flat, shiny sheet down over my shoulders, hiding the fact that my face barely has anything on it.

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