by Ney, Sara
So, fine. Okay. Maybe I do hanker for home more often than a twenty-one-year-old should—big fucking deal. But I can’t fly, and I can’t drive.
Far too expensive.
So I stay at school, even during holidays when everyone goes home.
Oh-fucking-well. You won’t find me crying about it.
“It’s not a crime to miss home,” Griffin muses, wiping his forehead with a white towel. “I miss my girlfriend.”
“Torenson, no one gives a shit about you missing your girlfriend,” a guy shouts from the machines in the middle of the weight room. “That’s what your right hand is for.”
“Definitely looks like his right arm is bigger than his left,” another guy jokes, squirting his water bottle in Torenson’s general direction but missing him by a mile.
“Gross, Rutherford—that has your backwash in it!” Griffin whines.
“At least it’s not sweat from my ball sac.” Rutherford laughs, grabbing a fresh towel from a nearby rack and running it over his forehead. “Enjoy a shot of moist spray from my hose.”
What a fuckin’ idiot.
“Asshole,” Griffin grumbles, using his towel to wipe down the few drops of water that did manage to hit his chest. “You’re disgusting, do you know that?”
Chuckling, I wander to the opposite side of the room to get some breathing room. These dudes are always up my butt and riding my ass. I’m almost never alone, which seems like it would be great—having people around, always keeping you company—but you know what? Occasionally I’d like privacy and some time to think without their obnoxious voices in my ear.
And I don’t know why Tyson is making fun of me for cruising up and down the road on the weekends since he fucking comes along all the damn time. Idiot. He loves nothing more than riding shotgun.
We have a routine, Tyson and I—he walks his ass to the football house (where I live) Friday nights after ten. We stop along the way and grab fast food, usually several hamburgers each plus fries, onion rings, shakes—whatever sounds good at the time—I take one cheat day a week and take full advantage.
Then, we head back toward campus, going south at the end of Jock Row and slowly creeping along the road where most of the action happens. People standing around on the corners, waiting to cross the busy streets. It’s almost always crowded, even during the week, usually with students walking to and from parties, downtown to the bars, or the nerdy kids heading to campus to study.
Music pumping through the speakers of my truck is a bit douchey, no doubt. I won’t deny we’re a bit douchey and cliché, but the weather is still freaking beautiful considering it’s fall, and unless it’s too cold, we keep the windows rolled down and the music turned up, which is the best way to fucking drive.
Slow, seeing who we can see, who can see us.
I’m not surprised Tyson wants to make a game of it; plenty of people get pissed off by my bright headlights, but what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I can’t help it if my damn truck is higher up off the ground than your stupid car. I can’t help it if the lights hit your rear-view mirror in just the perfect way. I can’t take my truck back and return it, and I’m sure as shit not going to sell it for something smaller.
Back home, teenagers cruised the strip; have been for decades since carhops and Friday night lights during football season were the only forms of entertainment in our small town, population three thousand eighty-five, give or take.
That’s how my mama met my daddy—though he ended up being a philandering piece of shit and the main reason I’m not in a relationship. If you can’t find one person to be loyal to, don’t date anyone.
I could get into more detail, but I won’t. All I’ll say is, I’ve watched my mama cry when my pops wouldn’t commit, and I swear I’ll never do that to a woman unless I can give her my whole heart.
For now, football has my body and soul, and I’m gonna keep it that way.
It’s the only way I’ll keep my scholarship, the only way I can keep playing, and the only way I can make it in the pros.
I love football. Live for it.
It’s the one and only thing that kept me going when things at home were shitty, the only time my Pops paid any attention to me, something I craved growing up. Just a bit of goddamn attention from my old man—attention I fought for. So much effort wasted on him because I didn’t know any better, despite having a passion for the game.
What an ignorant kid I was.
I should have been paying more attention to my mom and how miserable she was, but I was young—what the hell did I know about love and relationships and making someone happy?
Nothing.
I wasn’t a comedian, so my jokes didn’t cheer her up. I wasn’t sweet, or thoughtful, or studious; I knew nothing about females, and my mother never taught me. What my mother did was resent my father—then later, me, because she wanted attention from my dad and he never gave it to her.
He focused all his time on me when she wanted it—or at least some of it—on her.
I know less about women now, having steered clear of girls for the past couple of years. Shit, I haven’t even had sex yet.
Yes, I’ve been tempted—of course I have—but it’s too risky.
I’m not willing to get some rando accidentally knocked up for one night of one orgasm—too many jersey chasers hanging around. My teammates and I never know who the fuck is honest and sincere and who’s just at the house to add a notch to their athlete tally.
Anyway.
I’m single and plan to stay that way.
I don’t do casual—I go all in or not at all, and right now, I don’t have time for women.
I’m no Puritan; I’m not waiting for marriage to have sex, but I’m in no hurry, either. My right hand does just fine taking care of “business”.
I watch the guys joke around. It’s late—far later than we usually work out, but we have a game coming up against a huge rival and Coach has stepped it up to two-a-days. Practice at the ass crack of dawn then again in the afternoon.
We’re also required to hit the weight room.
I won’t lie—I’m fucking tired as all hell.
Legs weak, I sink down onto a nearby weight bench and exhale. Lower myself to my back, grip the bar that’s set on the rack, the cold metal a contrast to my burning hot skin. I wish I could run it over my forehead to cool off and drench myself with water, but that will come later when I hit the shower.
I crane my neck. I can’t do these without a spotter, and there is no one nearby. Too lazy to call someone over, I lie still, staring up at the ceiling and the exposed industrial HVAC vents. Wires. Fluorescent lighting tubes.
Large Iowa banners flank the perimeter, hanging down the cinder block walls. Photos of my peers—student athletes—blown up larger than life and displayed around the room. The quarterback from our football team. A few varsity women’s rowers. Wrestlers. Track stars and soccer players. They’re all represented, their stats and championships displayed on huge plaques near the front registration desk.
I don’t get up, but I make no effort to lift.
I don’t have the energy.
Then.
My thoughts stray to that girl—the one on the road who got out of her car to bitch at me. Man, she was pissed. As angry as a barn cat and ten times cuter.
That day I took her sandwich in the union, her nostrils actually flared.
Freckles.
That’s what I noticed about her when she got up in my face; her adorable freckles.
Blonde hair, but don’t they all? Blue eyes. Nothing special about that. Pink cheeks.
And freckles.
Right—I mentioned that already.
No doubt about it, she was cute, and kind of tall. I definitely wasn’t dwarfing her by any stretch, and I’m a big dude. Most people back down when I get up in their shit, but not this girl. She was too pissed and too hungry to surrender.
And the second she climbed out of her car and came toward my truck with fire
in her eyes? Shit. I don’t know, my stomach did a somersault.
Really fucking inconvenient.
Whatever, I’m not interested anyway. I’m not dating, remember?
If I were, though…
But I’m not, and I best keep that in mind.
My head turns. “Bledow! Get your scrawny, good-for-nothin’ ass over here,” I bellow to a teammate. He’s a sophomore second-stringer and is neither scrawny nor good for nothing. In fact, he’s a one of the best fuckers I’ve ever met.
Bledow comes immediately when called.
“Spot me?”
“You got it, Triple J.”
I nod, inhaling and exhaling sharp breaths, psyching myself up to lift the weight stacked on the Olympic bar, and push up.
I push everything out of my mind, focusing on the heavy, dead weight above me.
Fourth Friday
Charlie
This is getting ridiculous. Why do I keep seeing him, every freaking week?
Same truck.
Same spot.
Same time of night.
Same. Guy.
Is God punishing me? Why do I keep bumping into this idiot? Seriously. It’s becoming a joke at this point, and I’m tired of it. I’m sick of seeing his stupid, smug, arrogant face.
His handsome, dumb face.
He’s a Cretan—one with a serious set of balls, I’ll give give him credit for that. One who is pulled over on the road, hogging the shoulder.
Fortunately, I’m not alone for this ride, because this time, I’d love nothing more than to stick it to this guy; get out of the car and give him a piece of my mind. I’ve been daydreaming about it, as a matter of fact, since our last…encounter. Is that what I’m calling it now? An encounter?
Gosh, listen to me.
I steer my car to the side of the road, getting as close to the curb as possible so I’m pulled over on what little shoulder room there is, careful not to hop the curb. God forbid I scuff my tire—I can’t afford for them to get damaged.
“What are you doing?” Savannah finally notices we’re not in the turning lane—we are, in fact, pulled over. “Uh, hellooo.”
“Give me a second here.” I have to think about what I’m going to say.
“We’re not stopping for a hitchhiker.”
“This is a college town—there are no hitchhikers. Plus, there’s Uber for that.”
“Oh yeah—good point. So. What are we doing?”
I ignore her question to ask one of my own. “Roll down your window, would ya?” She has to do it for me because my car is so old, the windows are manual, not automatic.
“Why? What are you going to do?” She’s so nosey.
“Can you just do it without arguing?” Ugh, when did I get so bossy? “That guy is someone I recognize and I want to, um—say hello.”
Not.
My friend complies, shooting me a look as if I’ve lost my damn mind—and maybe I have, because I’m about to shout out the window in the middle of the road at an idiot who probably couldn’t care less.
“Hey! Hey, asshole!” I’m loud, projecting as best I can so he hears me.
He straightens to stand, turning slowly toward my idling vehicle. Crosses his arms and smiles—as if he’s actually pleased to see me, pulled over and shouting at him.
“Well if it isn’t Little Miss Priss.”
Miss Priss? “Is that what you’ve been calling me?”
“Yes ma’am.”
We’re going to add ma’am to the list now?
Great.
Everyone knows it’s a shortened version of the word madam, which we all know was the formal way to address a woman back when etiquette and common courtesy were common.
Yes ma’am does flow off the tongue nicely—if you’re a Southern gentleman.
Which this guy is not.
Southern jackass is more accurate.
“Is this your Friday routine? Blinding unsuspecting girls and hitting on them on the side of the road?”
His laugh fills the darkness, confirming my suspicions.
“That’s sick and twisted, and it could get you arrested.”
Couldn’t it? Surely that can’t be legal. I’ll have to google it later when I get home.
“Just havin’ a little fun, darlin’. No harm done.”
Gross. “Please stop calling me that,” I shout.
“Stop calling you what?”
It sounds like ‘Stop cawlin you wut?’
Ugh. The accent is too, too much.
“What the hell is going on right now?” Savannah asks, head whipping back and forth between me and Biff McMuscles. “Charlie, do you know that guy? I think I recognize him from somewhere…”
“No, I don’t know him. There was just an unfortunate incident involving chicken and a burger that I don’t have time to tell you about it right now,” I mutter, fixating my glare in his direction and narrowing my eyes. Lower my voice and whisper, “I wish he’d choked on it.”
The big jock peels himself away from Co-Ed Barbie to amble toward my vehicle, all toned arms and muscular legs and tight abs. I mean—allegedly.
“One of these nights, I’m going to have you arrested for harassment,” I hiss to him around Savannah, whose eyes have gone wide at my tone.
I’m normally so sweet and easygoing.
Truly.
I don’t know what it is about this guy that’s turning me into a livid little dictator.
“For real though, how is he harassing you? You’re the one shouting out the window,” she mumbles. “What is happening right now? You’re acting manic.”
McMuscles continues walking toward my car, all cute and good-looking.
“We’ve got to stop meetin’ like this.” His deep voice is a silky Southern caress as he lumbers toward my car, large body imposing in the dim dusk of what’s nearly midnight. When he reaches the passenger side door, he rests that big, monolith of a body against it and leans in, forearms propped on the metal frame.
They’re tan, veins popping.
Savannah is inches away from the intrusion, reclining in my direction—as if we were in an exotic animal park or on a safari and a lion was approaching the car.
“Oh shit,” she mutters. “You’re…”
He winks at her, presses a forefinger to his lips so she doesn’t finish her sentence—and she sighs.
Wait. What?
No.
Savannah, no.
Do not fall under his spell!
“At least one of you knows how to be agreeable,” he drawls.
Yeah—and it isn’t me.
My chin tilts up, incensed. “Can you kindly remove yourself from my car? The last thing it needs is a dent.”
“You’re feisty tonight.” He laughs deep in his chest then regards Savannah. “Is she always like this?”
“Her name is Charlie.”
I swat at Savannah and land a soft blow to her upper bicep, near her boob, punctuating it with a, “Shut up, Van.” Jesus, whose side is she on? The last thing I want is him knowing my name.
“Charlie, eh?” Suddenly, he’s keenly interested. “Like the boy’s name or somethin’?” He seems to think he’s amusing—I want to wipe the smirk off his face with the back of my hand. Besides, this isn’t the first time someone has made a wisecrack about my male name.
I’ve heard it all before.
I roll my eyes at his ridiculous statement. “No. It’s short for Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” His brows rise. “Charlotte.” He says it twice—first as a question, then as a statement—in his Southern burr, momentarily causing my insides to twist in the most inconvenient way. He isn’t just saying it. He’s saying it, hard, like it’s interesting and sexy—as if he’s never heard the name before, as if he loves it and is assigning it to me.
I ignore the spark shooting to my heart, tempted to swat it away as it lingers in the air, Savannah caught in the crossfire of our barbs.
He says it again. “Charlotte.”
“Yes, but no one calls me that.” Not anymore. Not since I was ten, when I went through my tomboy phase and hated everything feminine, including the color pink, doing my hair, cute clothes—and my own name.
That’s changed now that I’m grown, but the nickname has stuck.
“It’s pretty—way prettier than Charlie. Or Chuck.”
“Gee, thanks.”
His smile is patronizing. “My pleasure.”
Is he not picking up on my sarcasm? If he is, he’s damn good at hiding it. My eyes shift around him to the platinum blonde sitting in her car, waiting for him to return. Good. She can have him.
“Your harem awaits. Please don’t stand here in the road on my account, blocking more traffic while you try to bag another unsuspecting victim.”
“Charlie!” Savannah gasps, unused to any hostility from me. “Don’t be rude!”
Yeah, she’s definitely siding with the devil on this one, which surprises me. Savannah is single because she’s too picky; she wants a gentleman and a scholar, and those don’t seem to exist anymore. This guy? He doesn’t look like either, yet here she is, falling all over herself.
Drool is practically dripping from the side of her mouth.
“What!” I look to the guy for support; surely he’ll back me up since we do not like each other. “A little help here—tell her we don’t get along.”
“I think we’d get along just fine if you minded your manners.”
Oh no he did not just insult my manners.
“Stealing is minding your manners?”
His grin is wolf-like, bright white teeth vibrant in the dim light.
“Like taking candy from a baby.” With that, he saunters away.
I do want to apologize for the crap that’s flying out of my mouth, but not to Biff—no. I want to apologize to Savannah. I hate that she’s horrified by my behavior. Her jaw couldn’t have fallen any farther—she’s going to have to pick it up off the floor.
Honestly—what’s gotten into me? I’m not usually this big of an asshole. I guess seeing guys act like total scumbags pisses me off more than I ever thought it would. And now he’s trying to schmooze me? I don’t think so, pal.