Jock Road

by Ney, Sara

What a dickhead.

  “That was JJ Jennings.”

  I do not care what his name is, but Savannah wants to prattle on about it.

  “He’s one of the wide receivers on the football team.”

  Yup. Don’t care.

  “They call him Triple J,” she drones on.

  “Is now a good time to point out that his name sounds like a dude ranch in Wyoming?”

  “Can you be nice for five seconds?”

  “Meh—don’t think so. That guy is a total ass.”

  “You haven’t told me a damn thing, so I wouldn’t know—I only know what I’ve heard about him.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Let me google him, too.”

  “He’s google-able?”

  Savannah looks at me like I’m nuts. “Have you been under a rock? We go to a Big Ten school and he’s on the football team—of course you can google him. He’s probably going to enter the draft. They all do if they’re good enough.”

  “Is he?”

  “Jesus, Charlie. Get with the program.”

  Sorry, but my eye tends to slide toward baseball players and guys who aren’t as bulky and huge. Less Hulk-like and more…intellectual. Funny and cute but smart.

  JJ Jennings looks like he could bust through a wall in an action movie as a stunt double for The Rock.

  “What does JJ stand for?”

  Savannah’s head dips as she checks her phone. “Let me check.” She pauses for a brief second as her fingers fly over the screen of her cell phone. “Jackson Jennings Junior.” Another pause. “Well. That’s certainly a mouthful.”

  “That’s certainly Southern.”

  “Bless his heart.” Savannah laughs, and suddenly I find myself defending him.

  “Hey, it’s not his fault he’s stuck with a terrible name.”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that,” Savannah demurs, shooting me side-eye. “For someone who hates the guy, you sure are—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  Savannah laughs, smacking me in the arm then reaching for the radio. “I can’t believe your radio has dials. This is so weird.”

  Yeah—my radio has actual dials and only gets a grand total of eight FM stations, and it drives my friend crazy that she can’t connect her phone to my car. If I hear her bitch about it once a week, I hear it twice, but I’m the only one of us with a car, and beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was about, or are you going to pretend there’s nothing going on between you and Triple J?”

  “Can you not call him that? It’s idiotic.”

  “That’s his nickname. What else am I supposed to call him?”

  “His name?” Jackson is a cute moniker; I could live with that, but I’d never call him Triple J if I ran into him again. “Thanks for telling him mine, you creep.”

  “He wanted to know.”

  “He didn’t ask!”

  “Trust me, he wanted to know.”

  “Whatever.” My eyes are trained on the road ahead of us, and I hang a left after stopping at a stop sign, then another right, heading toward my small off-campus rental. It’s the perfect distance from campus—not so close that I have to see and hear the commotion during the day when classes are in session, but close enough that I can walk and it doesn’t take forever.

  Plus, I’m near Jock Row. When I want to party, there’s always one nearby…

  “Quit stalling.”

  “There is nothing to tell, Savannah.”

  “Liar. You’ve met him before, and I want the details. I’d tell you, so why aren’t you telling me?”

  She’s right—she would tell me, and in great detail.

  “Fine, but just so you know, it’s no big deal.”

  “Right. No big deal—got it.”

  Her mouth is set in a straight, serious line, but it’s her eyes that give her away. She’s excited for more information and won’t believe me when I tell her Jackson Jennings and I are never going to be a thing because Jackson Jennings and I loathe each other.

  Just because he was kind of flirting with me a few minutes back doesn’t mean anything; he’s a jock, and jocks flirt. Like, I’m pretty sure it’s in their DNA and it would go against his core nature if he didn’t.

  It had nothing to do with him liking me. Just so we’re clear.

  Great, and now I’m talking to myself.

  Awesome.

  “The other night when I was coming home from the library—it was Friday—”

  “You were at the library on a Friday night?”

  “Are you going to keep interrupting?”

  “Sorry. Go.” Savannah clamps her mouth shut and purses her lips tightly.

  “So I’m coming back from the library. It must have been close to eleven? I’m not sure but a truck was behind me and had its headlights right up my ass. I could hardly see—it was dangerous. Anyway. It was him, but I didn’t realize it at the time.”

  “Uh huh.” My friend is nodding, mouth still snapped shut.

  “The next week I’m on campus grabbing a sandwich in the union—I was totally starving. I’m standing in line for food and all I want in this whole wide world is my damn chicken patty, right?” I give her a sidelong glance. “You know how I love those.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “You do.”

  “I’m about to have it in my hand and my mouth when all of a sudden, a freaking hand reaches out and takes it.”

  “He just took it?”

  “Yes! He took my chicken sandwich and literally shoved it in his face immediately. No manners, didn’t ask, just ate it like a wolf raised in the woods.”

  “Now you’re being dramatic.”

  “I’m sorry, but no. He took my food and didn’t even apologize.”

  “Okay, so then what happened?”

  “Then Wyatt, the guy who works there, had two burgers ready and I took those. Because the guy with four billion Js in his name wanted to nab them, too.”

  “The nerve!” She’s clearly outraged on my behalf—and if she’s not, she’s doing a great job pretending to be on my side.

  “Yeah, so he wants both—both of them after he just scarfed down my chicken. For real, Wyatt didn’t know what to do. He looked terrified, and Jackson isn’t even scary. Give me a break.”

  “I mean, he kind of is? The guy is huge, Charlie—did you not get a good look at him? He’s like six and a half feet tall.”

  “What. Ever. I was hardly checking him out.” Not even a little—not even today when he came ambling toward me in that cutoff t-shirt and faded jeans slung low on his hips.

  Brown leather flip-flops. Hair blowing in the—

  Ugh, stop it, Charlie! He is not your type!

  “Is that the whole story?”

  “No. I told him to give me ten bucks for a burger.”

  “That’s extortion.”

  I laugh. “That’s what he said, and I told him it was supply and demand, but then he paid for all the food and I got a free lunch. So who was the loser in that game? Not me.”

  I’m on a budget; I’ll take a free meal no matter what form it comes in.

  “Anyway. He goes his way, I go mine, and I didn’t think I’d see the asshat again, but I did the following Friday.”

  “I’m sensing a theme here…”

  “I know, right? I need to start staying home on Fridays because I can’t seem to stop running into JJ Jennings.”

  “So you ran into him again last weekend?”

  “Yup. On the corner of University Drive and Darter. He’s all up in my shit—again—but this time I’m livid. Fuming, like, I’ve never been so freaking mad. So I slam on my brakes and get out of my car because I have to give this butthole a piece of my mind.”

  “You did not get out of your car! You could have been murdered.”

  Solemnly, I nod. “I know. It was dumb.”

  “What happened?”

  “I storm the truck and he rolls down his window and it’s him.
Ugh, that smug face.” I frown, remembering how pleased he looked to see me beside his vehicle. “I don’t know what the hell kind of game he and his buddy are playing, but it makes no sense. Seeing him on the side of the road like that, something has to be going on—I mean, isn’t that weird? Tell me that’s not weird.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence?”

  “Please—three Fridays, same strip of road cannot be a coincidence. They’re up to something.” I tap on the steering wheel, deep in thought now that the idea has taken root in my mind. “I’ve heard of this kind of thing, where they play for points and stuff—I wonder if it’s like that.”

  “I think you’re being paranoid. Back where I’m from, the big thing to do on the weekend was drive up and down Main Street because there is literally nothing else to do. People have been doing it since my parents were teenagers, and they’re still doing it today. It’s like ‘see and be seen.’ Triple J must be from a small town—bet you anything he is.”

  “I’m not going to ask him and find out. NO thanks.”

  “It’s one way to find out what he’s up to.”

  Why does she always make so much sense?

  And why am I still thinking about Jackson Jennings?

  * * *

  Jackson

  “That’s that same girl.”

  “Yup.” It sure is.

  “She doesn’t like you.”

  “No shit.”

  Tyson gives me side-eye. “Do you like her?”

  “What? No.” Is he being serious? “You know I’m not datin’.”

  “I didn’t ask if you want to date her. I asked if you like her.”

  “I don’t know her.”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds, thoughtful—likely putting some bullshit sentence together in his mind before saying it out loud. “Didn’t look like you don’t know her, and you sure do run into her a lot.”

  That I do.

  Weird.

  This is the fourth time she and I have clashed, bumped into each other randomly and gotten into a tiff.

  “She’s cute. I wonder if she’s single,” Tyson muses out loud.

  I roll my eyes, not about to fall for his tactics. He’s feeling me out and trying to see if I’ll get jealous. Which I won’t.

  My shoulders rise into a shrug. “Don’t care.”

  He replies by tapping on the window ledge and staring out the at the administrative buildings on campus as we pass by them. The library. The registrar’s office. The alumni house.

  We pass the stadium, which rises out of the ground like Goliath.

  I love that fucking stadium; it’s the very reason I fell in love with Iowa and the school. New, shiny, and state-of-the-art, it was like nothing I’d ever seen.

  Certainly not in the small town where I grew up, though our high school stadium wasn’t your typical playing field, either. No one hosts football games like Texans.

  “Not even a little bit interested?” he inquires.

  “Not even a little.”

  I can feel him staring at my profile and keep my gaze trained on the road ahead of me. I’m taking him to his place before heading home; we’ve had enough fun for the night and I’m beat.

  That little blonde on the side of the road lost all her appeal once Charlotte and her traitorous friend pulled up. That friend of hers liked me, that I could tell—she at least knew who I was.

  Charlie sure as shit didn’t, and Charlie couldn’t care less.

  Charlotte.

  The name suits her. It’s feminine and beautiful and a bit old-fashioned, just like she seems to be.

  Fifth Friday

  Jackson

  Well, well, well, what do we have here?

  Charlotte Edmonds and her crappy beige car, broken down on the side of the road, that’s what. Not a safe place to pull over, but with a flat back tire, doesn’t look like she had much choice.

  How do I know her last name? Easy—I looked her up and crept on her pretty hard for someone who thinks she’s a bit too salty to taste.

  Charlotte Edmonds. Twenty-one. Junior. Business major who plays intramural volleyball. Kind of tall for a girl at five foot seven. Her Instagram gallery shows her doing all kinds of cutesy, adorable shit, like baking cupcakes in her tiny kitchen for the Fourth of July and volunteering at the local humane society. Spraying a hose at some little kid, wearing a bikini—that one I really could appreciate.

  Boobs. Legs. Ass.

  She’s a trifecta of feminine perfection…

  And she hates my guts.

  I pull over and watch her eyeballing me, arms crossed as she leans her hip on the side of her beat-up Chevy, looking like a car model, though she would most likely disagree with that assessment.

  I unfasten my seatbelt and hop out of the truck, my flip-flops hitting the ground, door slamming behind me.

  “Whacha doin’?”

  “My nails,” she says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “What does it look like I’m doing? I have a flat tire, Triple J.”

  She uses my nickname as if it’s an insult, the little shit. As if I didn’t work hard to earn it with blood, sweat, and grass stains permanently embedded in both my knees, with concussions and a few knocked-out teeth.

  “Looks like you’ve done broke down on the side of the road. You have a flat?” I can see that she does—the ass end of her left side is slouched toward the pavement.

  Her eye roll is one big Duh. “Where is your sidekick?”

  “Busy doin’ somethin’ else.” I shrug. “Did you call someone to help you?”

  “Honestly? No.”

  My brows shoot into my hairline. “Why not?”

  “Because, Jackson, I knew you would eventually come along and rescue me. It’s Friday night—isn’t this your route?”

  “You wanted me to rescue you?”

  “Want? No. Need? Yes. I need help putting on my spare tire.”

  “So, no to the rescuin’ you.”

  Charlotte runs out of patience. “Are you going to help me or not? I can call someone who isn’t going to dick me around.”

  Dick me around.

  Hoo-ee, the mouth on this one…

  “Yeah, I’ll help you. I’ll show you how to change your tire, too—it’s somethin’ you should know how to do.”

  She groans. “Fine.”

  “Pop your trunk and let me see what you have back there.”

  Begrudgingly, Charlotte complies, opening the driver’s side door and bending to flip the switch under her dash to release the trunk of her car.

  It pops, opening a fraction, and I lift it the rest of the way up to peer inside. The spare tire is buried beneath a pile of crap: gym bag, water bottle, athletic sandals. A fuzzy purple blanket, one tennis shoe, a few paperback books.

  No tools. No crowbar.

  No jack.

  I remove the spare with one hand, hefting it out and setting it on the ground, slamming the trunk shut.

  “You’re lucky it was me who came along, because you ain’t got nothin’ to take your tire off with. You should get a tool kit and keep it in your trunk.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I will,” she replies in a bored, I won’t tone. “Tool kit—gotcha.”

  I make short work of fishing the tools we need out of the bed of my truck then cop-a-squat next to her flat so I can wedge the jack underneath. Pump the handle until the left side of her car is suspended slightly off the ground, just enough so I can remove the tire and replace it with the smaller, temporary one.

  “Come watch what I’m doin’. Pay attention.”

  She sighs, dragging her feet on the concrete, squatting beside me.

  “First you’re gonna remove all the lug nuts with this.” I show her the tire iron, putting it onto one of the nuts and cranking it counterclockwise. “Sometimes they rust a little so you have to use elbow grease.”

  “Okay.”

  “Next you’re gonna pull the tire off and roll it to the side.” I do just that, propping it against her bumper so it doesn’t r
oll away. “Now go ahead and pop the spare on.”

  “You want me to do it?” Her eyes are wide.

  “Yeah. Your monkey, your circus.”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “Just put the spare on and quit rollin’ your eyes. Didn’t your mama ever tell you they’d get stuck back there if you did it enough?”

  She laughs, arms lugging the heavy spare, struggling to fit it onto the hub. “Yes, she did—all the time.”

  She’s watching me and not what she’s doing, a small smile on her lips.

  Cute.

  Really fucking cute.

  “Now grab the nuts and tighten them until they’re snug, one at a time. Like a star, first that one, then this one,” I point to each spot and the pattern I want her to follow. She hesitates. “Go on.”

  “What if it falls off on my way home because I did it wrong?”

  “It won’t fall off.”

  She’s skeptical. “If you say so.”

  “I do. I’ve changed plenty of tires.”

  “Ty-ers,” she echoes, that smile dancing, eyes sparkling as if I’ve said something to amuse her.

  “Stop teasin’ me and keep workin’.”

  She grunts, her delicate hands now covered with grease and dirt, pink nail polish no doubt chipping from the contact with the metal rim. I reach in to lend a hand, forearms and biceps straining with the motion.

  Charlotte’s eyes stray to my muscled torso, and when I catch her gawking, she has the courtesy to blush so deep I can see it in the dim, dusky haze.

  Busted.

  Looks like Charlotte isn’t immune to me after all. My biceps are pretty damn big; even dudes are impressed.

  She lowers her gaze, training it on the wheel and the task at hand.

  Right. Back to business.

  “Next we’re gonna lower the car to the ground, so grab the handle for the jack and turn it counterclockwise.” I hand her the silver wrench for the jack and she gets to work lowering it. “Okay, good job,” I praise. “Now finish tightening them nuts, tight as you can.”

  “I do that after I lower the car to the ground?”

  “Yup.”

  “All right.” Her fingers nimbly pick up the tire iron. Spin each lug nut. “Done.”