Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5 Read online

  Jock Reign

  Sara Ney

  Copyright

  Jock Reign

  Copyright © 2021 by Sara Ney

  Editing by Caitlyn Nelson

  Proofreading by Julia Griffis

  Proofreading by Shauna Casey

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Casey Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without “express “written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or shared with other people. If you would like to share with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the “author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Love is sharing your popcorn.

  – Charles Schultz

  Contents

  1. Jack

  2. Eliza

  3. Jack

  4. Eliza

  5. Jack

  6. Eliza

  7. Jack

  8. Eliza

  9. Jack

  10. Eliza

  11. Jack

  12. Eliza

  13. Jack

  14. Eliza

  15. Jack

  16. Eliza

  17. Jack

  18. Eliza

  19. Jack

  20. Eliza

  21. Jack

  22. Eliza

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Ney

  One

  Jack

  Things I’ve done in the past month that aren’t characteristically me:

  Broken up with my long-time girlfriend, Caroline, to whom everyone thought I would propose.

  Decided to go back to Uni instead of taking a gap year.

  Oh, and did I mention packing up my belongings, putting them in storage, subletting the flat my parents were financing, and moving halfway around the world?

  Yeah. I did all that.

  I don’t regret breaking things off with Caroline—it was a long time coming and something I’ve wanted for ages; I just didn’t have the motivation to actually do it.

  She was bossy, prissy, and controlling, and our relationship had turned into a stressful, not fun, sexless partnership. Sure, we looked great standing beside each other, but behind closed doors was a different story.

  I couldn’t be myself, wasn’t happy, and I certainly didn’t want to be the person I was becoming when I was with her:

  A miserable sod.

  Welp. It’s not an issue anymore because not only are we finished, she can’t drop in on me unexpectedly to try to change my mind.

  Those days are over.

  No amount of groveling or the promise of hot sex could make me stay with Caroline, who was only with me because of my last name and the desire to make it her own.

  Hot sex?

  Since when?

  Caroline hated sex in most forms, ergo we rarely had it, unless of course it was a special occasion, like my birthday or Trooping the Colour, a day she loved celebrating.

  Blasted Caroline—she’s in my back mirror now, and I’m happy for it.

  I’ve been in the States a few weeks already and love it.

  Love the food, utterly delicious and unhealthy.

  I bloody love the students and the professors and this college town that is huge but small with its diverse population; plenty to do and see and eat.

  Plenty of parties on the weekend.

  I’m front and center at a party currently, a fall party at the rugby house—a sport they won’t start playing until spring but still practice for at the indoor facility. I’ve always been shit at the game, but the lads here are determined to recruit me.

  My brother Ashley played here, and they want me to play as well.

  I might look like my brother and be as big as my brother—but I do not play rugby like my brother.

  Never quite had the opportunity to get good, another pitfall of my relationship with Caroline—she never wanted a boyfriend who was banged up or cracked in the knob. Zero tolerance for injuries or the time practices took up; she wanted it all for herself.

  Therefore, I’m mostly shite at sports.

  It’s not for lack of desire to play, but mostly for hesitating out of embarrassment—my new mates don’t need to find out any sooner than they have to that I’m crap.

  Practice begins tomorrow, and I’m dragging my feet.

  Studying up.

  Watching videos online and reading the rules, learning them, or at least trying to.

  Whatever.

  I do what I bloody have to; I need a group of close mates while I’m here—they’ve had my back since the day I landed in the States, and I’m not going to fuck this up by royally sucking.

  I lift a cup of beer to my mouth, sipping at the foam.

  Chug with a grimace.

  It’s not a Guinness or a Stella, but it will do—this isn’t a social with highborn bluebloods.

  “Hey Jackie, ready for the big day tomorrow? Feels a lot like the first day of school, huh?” One of the guys on the rugby team claps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a commiserating squeeze.

  “Can’t wait,” I lie, ball forming in the pit of my stomach.

  “The guys and I were talking about how excited we are to see Ashley Jones’ bro in action. So fucking pumped, dude.”

  It’s Dryden-Jones, not Jones, but that’s neither here nor there.

  “We’re going to kill it this season.” He raises his hand so I can high-five him, and I do, albeit weakly.

  “Lower your expectations.” I laugh.

  “Come on, don’t be modest…” he teases, oblivious to the anxiety raging inside my body.

  “Mate, I’m not being modest.” I push out another laugh. “I wouldn’t know a scrum from a hole in my arse.”

  Phillip laughs loudly and exuberantly as a few girls walk up, blonde and basic and smiling, teeth white against their spray-tanned skin. Probably wearing extensions. Fake lashes.

  Big tits.

  The usual type that hangs out at these parties.

  I’ve been to parties before, sure, but nothing like this.

  I spent years doing the “London Underground” thing—secret parties and dance clubs fueled by and for the rich and famous.

  The offspring of them, too.

  Those nights were fun but contrived.

  Drunken but stale. Same old same old.

  Vapid.

  Predictable.

  Not that these Uni parties aren’t. There is absolutely nothing glamorous about a small, dilapidated house that is desperate for a renovation, crammed full of people and only swinging one beverage.

  Beer.

  Cheap, foamy beer at a makeshift bar fashioned out of plywood, tended by members of the rugby team.

  It only takes
one bloke to pour a beer, and yet they always put two or three behind the counter.

  Rookies, usually.

  Freshmen.

  Can’t say I’m not surprised they haven’t stuck me behind there as well, given I’m new to the school and to the team.

  From what my brother has told me, there is plenty of hazing taking place at this school. That is how he met his girlfriend.

  Er, wife.

  Or maybe Ashley is the reason I haven’t been made to do menial tasks, like take out the trash or clean the bathrooms the morning after a kegger.

  I’ve picked up on American terms quickly, loving the slang and the crude way the words are formed. How lazy the speech is. How informal.

  “Hi,” one of the blondes says, tossing back her hair. I’m positive even that isn’t real. “Phillip, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  My teammate puffs out his chest, tasked with the role of playing host. “Ladies, this is Jack Jones—he’s a newbie but comes from a long line of illustrious players.”

  Long line of illustrious players, long line of illustrious players—say that again three more times.

  I can hardly believe Phil just spoke those words without stumbling.

  “Hallo, ladies.” I grin, eager to make their acquaintance, lust and attraction pulling my mouth from ear to ear.

  “Oh my god, Paige,” one gasps, clutching her friend’s arm. “He’s Australian.”

  Oh lord. “British actually.”

  But honestly? Her IQ matters little to me.

  Paige and her friends are a dime a dozen here, the same as all the rest, always wanting something. I thought when I moved here that I would go ham and sow my wild oats. Shag anything that moved. Itching to fuck and casually date my way around campus, wasting no time in the process.

  That never happened.

  I tried; oh, I tried. Just last weekend as a matter-of-fact, snogging this beautiful brunette at a party, chatting her up, doing my best to get aroused. Shake the hollow hole that I thought casual sex could fill.

  No pun intended.

  We hadn’t even gotten back to her place before I realized I couldn’t do it. I needed to know more about her; feelings and all that blasted inconvenient bullshite getting in my way.

  I’m getting in my own way of getting off.

  “Wait,” the one named Paige says. “Are you the royal British guy?”

  “Am I the what?”

  I know what she means—I just want to hear her say it. The fumbling never gets old.

  “Shoot, what’s it called? Blue bloods?” She tilts her head to concentrate. “Darn it, what do they call that? Aris…the aristocksy?”

  “Aristocracy?”

  “That’s it!” She squeals with a giggle and claps. “Are you an earl or something?”

  The fuck?

  No.

  Where do they come up with this stuff?

  “Well,” I begin an explanation I’ve given no less than a hundred times since moving here. “My father is a baron, but my brother is the one inheriting the title—he moved back to the UK a few months ago.”

  He moved out, I moved in.

  Same house, same landlord, same furniture.

  Only difference? I have zero flatmates. He had one, and it was a she, and he married her.

  “So you’re not going to be an earl?”

  “That’s not how it works. You can’t be an earl unless you inherit an earldom, and you can’t become an earl if your father is your baron. Or if you’re the second son.”

  The girl lowers her head. “Oh. That’s so sad.”

  Her delivery is far more appropriate for a funeral setting or, say, someone failing a college level course than what one would normally give after simply finding out a guy isn’t set to inherit a title.

  These American girls never cease to amuse me.

  “Does this mean you wouldn’t want to date me?” I laugh, already knowing the answer: of course she would still want to date me—I’m the hottest commodity this campus has seen in months, if you don’t count my brother Ashley gracing it with his presence.

  Title or not, I’m still from Britain, I still possess an accent, I’m still big and brawny and strapping.

  Apparently, the ladies in America love that shite.

  “Are you asking me on a date?” asks the blonder of the two, twisting a lock of her long strands around a pink fingernail.

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “It’s Kaylee,” she says, over-pronouncing it as if I’m hard of hearing or don’t speak her language.

  Oy.

  “I’m Jack.” I extend a palm and she extends hers, but instead of shaking it, I raise it and plant a soft kiss to the top of her hand.

  She exhales a breathy “Oh my god,” and I know I have her hooked. Kaylee practically fans herself with her free hand, eyes glazing over in love at first sight.

  If her expression were an emoji, it would be heart eyes.

  I’m shocked she doesn’t have drool coming out the side of her pouty, pink mouth.

  Putty in my hands.

  “What year are you?” Kaylee asks me, still staring at the top of her hand where I kissed it.

  “Freshman, really. Starting over.”

  Sort of.

  I took a few courses back home but mostly did a gap year early, not knowing what I wanted to do. Work for Dad like Ashley, or be more independent.

  Besides, it can’t hurt to have four more years to decide, can it?

  “I’m a sophomore,” she tells me. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.” Old enough to legally have a pint here.

  “Oh, me too!” She is way too excited about our shared age. “I’m a cheerleader.”

  “I play rugby.”

  Sort of.

  Er, not really, but I’m going to try.

  “That is so sexy.” Kaylee has her hands on my forearm now—yes, both of them—squeezing the muscles there as if inspecting their size. I’m in decent shape, despite the fact that I don’t work out regularly, just started to because of pressure from my mates.

  When in Rome, as it were.

  “You’re strong.”

  “Thank you?” I mean, what else is there to say? I am strong, but I’m not—not really. Big and strapping by birth, not by effort.

  Still, I’ll take the compliment.

  “You’re cute,” I tell her and watch with satisfaction when her face gets a bit flushed.

  Kaylee is an accomplished flirt, wasting no time in claiming me for the night, hand wrapped around my arm, nails sinking into the skin there, a subtle reminder that she may not be as innocent and sweet as she looks.

  “Have you been on any dates since you’ve been here?”

  “Not really.”

  “And you’re not seeing anyone now?”

  Would I be letting her manhandle me like this if I were? Please—give a bloke some credit. If I were in a relationship, I would never allow a woman to clutch me as if we were about to go down with the Titanic.

  Flirt, yes. Physical contact? No.

  “I’m not seeing anyone exclusively, no.”

  “No one back home?”

  “I broke up with my girlfriend before I moved.”

  “You had a girlfriend? For how long?”

  A blasted eternity.

  I shrug. “Don’t know—six years?”

  Kaylee’s eyes bug out of her pretty skull. “Six years! Holy shit.” Her hand flies to her mouth as she remembers her manners. “I mean…wow. Why did you break up?”

  “Caroline was a stiff.”

  “A what?”

  A stiff. “Boring. Uptight.” I hesitate. “She was mean.”

  My new blonde friend purses her lips in disapproval. “She sounds awful.”

  If that’s her assumption based on those three things, fine. I’m not here to argue one way or another about what constitutes a person being awful.

  “She’s in the past.” I look down at the top of Kaylee’s pretty
little head. “I only have eyes on the future.”

  Ashley would be gagging right now, barfing the saccharine words all over my expensive, custom trainers.

  But this pleases her. “Good.” You’re mine now, her expression seems to say, chin tilting up almost victoriously while her friends watch on.

  From out of nowhere, Phillip and two of my other teammates—Levi and Booker—appear, nudging me aside and grinning around the small circle of girls.

  I met Levi and his buddy Booker through the rugby house the first weekend I was in town, connecting with them at a party. Instant mates.

  “We were going to have an impromptu team meeting to talk about tomorrow—get some things hammered out before we’re on the field so we don’t waste time.”

  “Now? Tonight?” Are these blokes mad? Who has a team meeting at eleven o’clock on a weekend? Who?

  “We need to know where to put people.” Levi clamps a giant palm on my shoulder.

  Incidentally, neither he nor Booker have seen me toss a rugby ball around and therefore assume I’m good at the sport, or at least passable. I’m more comfortable with the American version of soccer, but that isn’t in the cards for me, now is it.

  No.

  Kaylee looks on with interest, still gripping my arm like I’m a life preserver. It’s a bit odd, but whatever—I’ve never understood women and probably never will. American women, I mean—British women are easier to figure out. The ones I grew up around were always well trained and poised, their only intention to snag a titled husband—or one from a good family—and have families. Impress their friends. Live a leisurely life with nannies, vacations, and the like.

  American girls…want careers and to be the boss and be independent.

  It’s refreshing, and I’m here for it.

  Which is why Kaylee’s death grip on my arm confuses me. Nonetheless, I have a feeling she’ll be wildfire in the sack, and I’m not going to turn the opportunity down because she’s clingy from the outset.