Jock Hard by NEY SARA

Author:NEY, SARA
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-05-12T16:00:00+00:00

FIRST SATURDAY PART 2

“Guys are just gross.”

TEDDY

“Now.” Kip’s voice is low and croaks a little as he tries to get serious. “What were we talking about before? Oh yeah—you were about to tell me what you would say if some dude came up to you at a party and said he liked your shirt.”

“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.

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