Jock Row

by Sara Ney

  I shuffle to the couch, crossing in front of him, noticing those green eyes of his trailing along after me the entire way, tracking my movements.

  I shiver.

  Settle on the couch left of center.

  “Never have I ever been handcuffed.” He wastes no time initiating the start of the game, masculine brows waggling. “For any reason.”

  Heart already racing, I raise a brow, surprised he’s diving right in with the risqué topics. We haven’t traveled down this path yet, but it looks like tonight’s the night.

  Neither of us takes a sip, but I’m convinced he’s lying.

  “You mean to tell me you’ve never been handcuffed, even to a bed? Why do I find that hard to believe?” Impossible, as a matter of fact.

  His right shoulder rises. “I don’t fancy being tied to a bedpost—I have trust issues.”

  “Oh! You don’t fancy being tied up? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  “Someone could leave me there with my nuts and bolts just sitting there blowing in the wind, all vulnerable and shit. No thanks, not into it.”

  His voice is a deep and humor-filled vibration, and Jesus, now I’m visualizing him naked, silk ties wrapped around his wrists, legs spread, and—

  “Seriously, Scarlett, give me some credit? It’s been five weeks—I can read your mind by now.”

  “No you can’t.”

  “Yes I fucking can—get your mind out of the gutter.”

  My blush is furious, unattractively darkening my collarbone.

  “Never have I ever flashed a bartender for a free drink at the bar.”

  Nothing.

  “Really Rowdy? You’ve never flashed a bartender?”

  “What would I flash them, my rod?”

  “Uh, or your abs.” I laugh.

  “If you were a bartender, would it work if I flashed my abs at you?”

  Uh, yes. “I’d have to see them first to make that judgment call. You might have a dad bod under that shirt for all I know.”

  “Don’t insult me. My abs are chiseled from the hardest rock.”

  My heart beats erratically as I play it cool, wanting to see his stomach, but worried I’ll embarrass myself if I do. “If you say so.”

  He leans forward. “Want me to show you? After all, I have seen your ass.”

  “Do you think my ass is a fair trade for your abs?”

  “I’d say it’s even—you have some pretty sweet cheeks on you.”

  I tilt my head, tripping over my tongue. “I…I-I…”

  “You wanna see?” He’s so blatantly fishing, wanting to impress me, that I give in—no hardship there.

  “Yes.”

  He straightens on the couch, setting his wine on my coffee table, rising to his knees. Grips the hem of his shirt and—

  “This feels weird.” He lets the shirt fall.

  “Why?

  “Now I feel like I’m showing off.”

  “You’re not showing off—this is for scientific research, remember? The bartenders?

  “Good point!”

  His charcoal gray tee rises again, inch by inch, fisted by his tan hand. Bit by bit he exposes his chiseled abdomen, the hard muscles constricting as he balances on the couch, foot secured to the floor.

  “If I was a bartender,” I say slowly, accidentally chugging some of my wine, “I’d totally give you free drinks if you flashed me those abs.”

  They’re absolutely ridiculous. As intimidating as he is.

  Satisfied, he plops his ass back down on the couch.

  “Never have I everrr…” I glance around the room for inspiration. “Woken up in a room I didn’t recognize.”

  We stare at each other, defying the other to take a drink.

  Neither of us does.

  Rowdy’s pouty lips part. “Never have I ever asked for extra credit from a teacher.”

  My chin tips up and I drink. “You already knew the answer to that one, you jockhole. That wasn’t fair.”

  He ignores me, charging forward. “Never have I ever gotten kicked out of a house party.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “I see what you’re doing, trying to get me tipsy.”

  I drink, smirking. Two can play this game.

  “Never have I ever slept with someone without knowing their last name.”

  I grin when he drinks from his red cup, green eyes boring holes into me from above the rim.

  “Never have I ever gotten in the way of my friends hooking up.” He smirks back.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Drink.

  The chilled wine goes down smooth, loosens the lazy smile I now have directed at him, letting myself learn the little nuances about him.

  He’s handsome, but not in a classical way. Not like some guys—some athletes—who are chiseled and perfect and pretty. The ones we see in magazines, digitally enhanced to flawlessness. Straight noses and arresting eyes, landscaped—or manscaped or whatever—within an inch of their lives to garner attention.

  Sterling is none of these things.

  He has scars and flaws, with freckles across the bridge of his nose that contradict how big and masculine he is. Imposing. Tall and boxy and—

  “Scarlett?”

  “Hmm?” I’m lost in my thoughts, the alcohol not doing me any favors.

  “Never have I ever called someone out at their own party for being a lying sack of shit.”

  I grab a pillow to wallop him with it. “Would you stop that!”

  His smile is all innocence. “Stop what?”

  “Stop asking questions you already know the answer to. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “You’re doing the same thing I am!” His voice rises an adorable octave. “Maybe you’re trying to get me drunk.”

  “Pfft, like you’d hate that.”

  “No, I wouldn’t hate it.”

  There is no doubt about it: we are trying to get each other drunk.

  Naughty, naughty.

  I can’t even look at his face when I ask, “What motivation could I possibly have to get you drunk?”

  “To take advantage of me?” He sounds hopeful.

  “In your dreams, pal.” I’m a pretty little liar.

  “Accurate.” The neutral expression on his face gives nothing away. “Every damn night, as a matter of fact.”

  I shake my head; he’s got me all tied up in knots, and I laugh it away to keep the mood from getting any more weirdly wonderful. God I’m getting drunk…that didn’t even make sense…

  “All right, I’ll stop asking you questions I already know the answer to if you agree to do the same. Besides, it’s not as fun.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Good, because I want to get to know you better.” I bite down on my lower lip, concentrating. “Never have I ever…hmmm., let’s see. Never have I ever cheated?”

  Rowdy tilts his head. “Didn’t you already ask me that once?”

  “That’s right—you cheated on your road test by flirting with the guy at the DMV.”

  We regard each other from across the couch and he raises a brow.

  “How about rephrasing the question?” he asks slowly.

  I let out a breath. “Never have I ever cheated on a significant other.”

  There, I said it, the question I’ve been curious about but too damn afraid to ask. Is he faithful? Or is he a cheating, piece of shit, jock stereotype?

  “Oh, well that one is easy.” He grins. “No.”

  “Are you being honest?”

  His brows furrow. “Why would I lie?”

  “I just—you’re surrounded by girls, I just thought maybe—”

  He cuts me off. “If you had asked if I’ve cheated at baseball or in class, then yes, I would have had to take a drink.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yup. I used to cheat all the time when I was a kid, especially in middle school—I sucked at math so damn bad.”

  “Yeah, I could see you sucking.” My face gets
hot. “At math, I mean, not sucking on—at! Not sucking at other things. I can see you, uh, sucking at math.”

  Stop saying suck—what the hell is wrong with you?

  He clears his throat, glancing away, inspecting his fingernails with a smile. “Never have I ever sexted.”

  My head rears back at that one, surprised he’s dropping a sext bomb. “What do you suppose the answer to that is?” I’d really like to know what he thinks of me.

  He stares at my red plastic cup. “You? No way.”

  “I get no street cred around here.” I laugh, chugging.

  I swear, I’ve never seen anyone’s eyes get so wide as his are right now.

  “For real?”

  Laughing again, the alcohol in my cup is making me light and bubbly and kind of loopy.

  “Yes, really. I’m super good at it, too.” I take another sip of my wine for good measure, those green eyes of his burning holes into the bare skin of my shoulders. Collarbone.

  Cleavage.

  Rowdy’s eyes take one more long drag of my hair before he clears his throat, focusing on the wall.

  “Your turn.”

  I tap my chin. “How about: never have I ever slept with someone knowing they only wanted to sleep with me because I’m popular.”

  Rowdy stiffens. “Scarlett, come on.”

  “Sterling, come on. Drink or don’t.”

  Please don’t, please don’t.

  But he does, raising his cup. Drinks from it before licking the rim, then licks the drops off those beautifully sculpted lips.

  It’s mesmerizing.

  “Never have I ever fantasized about a friend,” he mutters, voice low but steady. Steadier than mine, steadier than my hands, which feel weak.

  Hell yes I fantasize about friends, I want to shout. I fantasize about him. Fantasize about all the unfriendly things I want to do to him, with him.

  We stare at each other expectantly, raising our cups at the same time, pressing the plastic to our mouths, tipping back.

  Chug the wine down because suddenly we both need it.

  My pelvis wiggles on the couch, a dull ache building in my crotch. My breasts get heavy. Nipples hard.

  I feel a desperate need to drink away this sudden heat between us, the way his gaze grazes my skin.

  Say something Scarlett.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “No, it’s going to take a lot more of these to get this tank drunk.” He laughs. “But I’m definitely starting to feel a buzz. Should I get the rest of the bottle?”

  “Please?”

  He clucks his tongue, amused. “Such pretty manners.”

  When Sterling rises, stands, and stretches, my gaze lands squarely on his backside, dragging over his round, ballplayer’s ass. His tapered waist.

  His thick thighs.

  That strong back, muscles straining against his tight gray compression t-shirt.

  Jesus, his body is incredible—and I would know, because my eyes follow it allll the way into the kitchen.

  When he returns and takes his place back on the couch, he’s closer than before, so close our thighs touch through the fabric of our pants.

  “Did you check the thermostat before?” I ask, holding out my cup for the refill I so desperately need. “It feels warm.”

  He pours. “Yeah. It’s set at sixty-eight, you should be good.”

  Right.

  Sixty-eight degrees.

  Most definitely not sixty-nine.

  “I thought of one while I was in the kitchen.”

  “Go.”

  He repositions himself, spreading his legs. “Never have I ever gotten anyone drunk on purpose.”

  “I would never do that.”

  “Nope.” His grin is lopsided. “Me neither.”

  “Really? You don’t haze the new guys on the team? Get them drunk on purpose.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was talking about.”

  “No, but now I’m curious. What’s the worst thing you’ve done to someone on the team as a joke?”

  He’s quiet, giving it some thought, debating about whether or not he can tell me. “I don’t know—probably the time I helped put Simon Grant’s car up on blocks in the parking lot.”

  “That seems harmless enough.”

  “You say that now.” Rowdy smirks. “But you try getting a two-ton car down off cinderblocks by yourself.”

  “Has anyone ever hazed you?”

  “Sure.” He leans back, arms up on the back of the couch, still gripping his cup.

  I roll my eyes, wanting more detail. I hate having to pry it out of people. “And?”

  “Anddd someone once took all my clothes while I was showering, which was so fucking dumb, because I solved that problem right away by stealing someone else’s.”

  “Very clever of you.”

  His grin is mischievous. “I didn’t say they fit.”

  “Never have I ever stolen someone’s clothes.”

  I laugh when he takes a chug from his cup.

  “How is the wine? Need more yet?”

  I squint into the half-empty cup he refilled not five minutes ago. “Yes please.”

  He takes my cup, fingers wrapping themselves around mine—deliberately or not, his strong, steady fingers send a shiver up the nerves in my arm and straight to my erratically beating heart.

  Rowdy pours light gold liquid into my cup, never taking his hand off mine.

  Until he does.

  I exhale.

  “Never have I ever played Never Have I Ever for so fucking long and for so many days.”

  We clink glasses in a mock cheers, drinking down our wine with matching laughs. “Never have I ever played a drinking game with wine.”

  “Never?” he asks.

  “Never.” I wink at him. “I’m not sure how I feel about it—the wine is a bit much.”

  “Have you ever…” His throat clears before he goes on. “Dated an athlete?”

  “Just in high school.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “Not the same thing.”

  No, I wouldn’t suppose so. Sterling Wade is nothing like the boys I went to high school with. He’s powerful, well on his way to becoming a man, with responsibilities.

  “How is it different?”

  “How much time do you have for me to explain?”

  “All night.” I blush when he shifts in place, resting his arm on the back of the couch, our thighs and calves rubbing together when he relaxes.

  “For starters, during the season, we’re constantly sore from working out. It sucks. Wanting to go home and pass the fuck out after practice is pretty standard, which makes life pretty boring, but—homework.” He exhales a deep breath before continuing. “Training. Practice. Rehab if you’ve been injured.”

  “How often do you train?”

  “Up to forty hours a week. It’s a job, not a hobby, so…not like high school where anyone can play if they make the cut. You fuck up and you’re screwed—your mommy isn’t coming to rescue you or call the principal to get your ass off the bench.” Rowdy shifts his big body again so he’s facing me. “Then obviously, stamina.”

  “Stamina?”

  “You know, going the distance.” How he says that with a straight face, I will never know.

  “Are we talking about sex now?”

  He has the courtesy to be sheepish about his blatant innuendo, shrugging, face turning crimson red.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Rowdy, but contrary to popular belief, no girl wants to have sex for hours when the goal can be accomplished in a few minutes.” I flip my long hair. “It’s not realistic, and it would make me sore as hell.”

  Instead of arguing like I expect him to, Rowdy Wade tips his head back and laughs, Adam’s apple bouncing as his beautiful, unshaven throat constricts. I imagine those whiskers leaving marks on my silky skin, in places I can only see with a handheld mirror.

  “Never have I ever considered a girl one of my best friends.” He pins me down, only a fe
w feet away, stopping my mouth from opening when he continues, “Do you consider me a good friend Scarlett?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Never have I ever…” He pauses, swallowing. Stares straight at my mouth. “Never have I ever wanted to kiss one of my friends.”

  He’s whispering, the hand in his lap now sliding down his thigh…toward mine. I watch that hand breathlessly—wide and sturdy and male—drumming on the denim material of his jeans.

  Takes a drink of his wine with the other, the knot in his throat bobbing…nervously?

  I’m tempted to drink from my cup, too, just to give my hands a job, before I start fidgeting from nerves, having him so close. When I inhale a breath, I catch a whiff of him, of the fresh air, aftershave, and laundry detergent fragrances on his clothes.

  “Stop it, Sterling,” I whisper back. “You shouldn’t tease.”

  He looks unsure, oddly vulnerable. Smells so damn terrific. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m…”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m trying to get you to kiss me. Why is it so damn difficult?”

  My mouth forms an O.

  He sets his cup down on the table in front of us, leaning forward to invade my personal space.

  I let him.

  I let him lean over, big body facing mine, torso twisted. Large hands slide up my bare arms to my shoulders.

  “Never have I ever stared at someone’s lips so fucking hard in my entire life.” He pauses. “Never have I ever put the moves on someone and been so fucking nervous.”

  “You’re nervous?”

  “Yes,” he rumbles.

  “So am I.”

  Our faces are inches apart, hot breaths mingling.

  My voice catches. “Sterling, don’t ever play games with me.”

  I’m at a loss for words.

  “This isn’t part of the game, Scarlett.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No.” The tip of his nose brushes mine and the rumble of his chuckle is low. “I have never, in my whole goddamn life, worked so hard to get someone to put their mouth on mine.”

  “Are you drunk?” I murmur.

  Because I am, buzzing with nervous energy and anticipation. Drunk on his cologne and the tingle from his strong forearms breezing up my body.

  “Maybe not on alcohol, but on something else entirely,” he admits. “Are you?”

  My eyes close when his nose slides across my cheekbone, down my jawline, nuzzling my neck. He can’t see it, but my eyes roll back into my head from the contact.