by Ney, Sara
Plus, he’s athletic and I’m not—as if that makes a difference? Shouldn’t he just be naturally good at everything physical while the rest of us mere mortals have to work at it?
With me on top, he’s buried to the hilt—thick and deep, and I moan because the sensation is…incredible.
“Charlotte. Fuck, Charlotte,” he moans, because really, are any other words necessary? Is there anything else to say?
“You feel so good, baby,” I murmur above him, lost in him. Lost in us. Lost in the fact that I love him. “Are you gonna come?”
“Yes.” His nod is jerky. “I think so.”
He thinks so, he thinks so. He’s not sure since he hasn’t done it before and that fills me with a strange sense of pride. A sense of satisfaction that no other girls have come before me.
I am his first and always will be.
A Gameday
Jackson
“J, your dad is downstairs in the kitchen.”
My what? Did I hear Tyson right?
He gives a knock, sticking his head through the open door, peering down at Charlie and me as we lie on the bed. I’m beat; we just had a game against Penn State—which we lost—and the ice bath did nothing for my sore muscles. I ache, I’m tired, I’m hungry.
Still, I raise myself to a sitting position, running a hand down Charlie’s slumbering thigh.
“Your dad, in the kitchen?”
“My dad is here?” That’s freaking weird. What’s my old man doing here? He never said anything about coming to the game.
“I mean, yeah? Looks like you but way angrier?”
Yeah—that’s Pops all right.
Shit.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and stand, pulling on my discarded Iowa t-shirt, grateful the bastard didn’t come into my room unannounced. The last thing I fuckin’ need is him walkin’ in on me with a girl in my room. He would absolutely lose his shit.
Bending, I kiss Charlie on the temple and she rolls, half naked in my direction, cracking an eyelid. It’s the third time this week she’s spent the night, and I’ve lost count of the times we’ve fucked.
I kiss her again.
“Wait here, I’ll be back.”
Her smile is groggy, her little wave sleepy. Her hand flops up then back down on the mattress, and I give her one last glance before slipping through the door and closing it softly behind me.
Hit the stairs, making my way to the kitchen.
My father is standing by the sink, staring out the window, out at the street, hands on his hips. He looks more like a drill sergeant than someone’s father, brisk and at attention. All business and no pleasure.
“Pops. What are you doing here?”
He makes no move to hug me.
“Came to see your game against Penn.” He turns, pulls a chair out from the table, and sits, legs spread, thick arms folded across a chest that used to be as broad as mine. Years of not going to the gym and eating crap have worked against him, adding about thirty extra pounds and loads of pent-up resentment.
Pops always wanted to play ball; just never had what it took. If he did, he’d still be in shape instead of a burnout living vicariously through his son.
I lean against the counter.
“What’d you think?”
“I think you should have won.” He plucks a grape from a bowl in the center of the table, the fruit Rodrigo’s sister brought when she got here this morning to tailgate with her friends.
Yes, we should have won, but we didn’t.
I don’t know what to say.
“You played for crap.”
Actually, I didn’t—I had one of my best games of the season, running the most yards. But I keep my mouth shut because it will only serve to piss him off if I defend myself. He’s just sore I’m playing for Iowa, and not at Notre Dame or USC.
I wait patiently for him to bring those schools up, his standard lecture on the rare occasions he comes to visit.
“You don’t seem upset,” he criticizes.
“There’s nothin’ I can do ’bout it now.” What’s done is done—the game’s been over for hours.
“Have you watched the tapes back yet?”
He knows we won’t watch those until practice this week. “Not yet. But I will.”
“Send them to me.”
Not likely, but, “Sure. I’ll see what I can do.” The air is filled with silence, and I rack my brain for a way to change the subject. “Where’s Ma?”
“Home.”
Well no duh. Why didn’t she come along? “Oh.”
“She had to work.”
Right. Because her job at the craft store is so goddamn important she couldn’t make it to one of her son’s football games. I try not to begrudge her, but it’s fucking impossible; Ma should have been my saving grace against my father, but she didn’t have the spine to stand up to him, either, letting him ‘have’ me instead. Our relationship isn’t normal, and I’m just now realizing it.
Depressing.
“I’m gonna need two tickets for my friends Daryl and Patsy for the game against Ohio in October. They’ll be in town visiting her cousins that weekend.”
No please. No thank you. “Sure.”
“Send ’em to the house so they don’t have to get them at will call.” He talks at me like I’m his employee.
God forbid his friends retrieve their free tickets themselves. Or actually pay for them.
“You hungry?” he finally asks. “Got any food in this place?”
Yes, but I didn’t pay for it and I’m not going to let him root around in the fridge and eat shit on someone’s else’s dime.
“No. We’d have to go out.”
He grunts, unsatisfied with that answer. Pops could easily lean forward and pry open the fridge, but he’s too lazy to make the effort.
We regard each other a bit longer, letting the strain mount. It’s always present when he visits; no amount of time in the other’s company has ever bridged the gap that’s been widening over the years. Not since I realized my independence regarding attending a college of my own choosing and living in housing with my friends.
My pops is chewing gum, and he gnaws on it with his mouth open, filling the air with his smacking gums.
My ass cheeks clench, eyes hitting the staircase when Charlie appears, barefooted and sleepy-eyed, her tentative smile growing shy when she lays eyes on Pops.
Fades, unsure, especially when his speculative scrutiny lands on her. There is nothing welcoming about him, nothing friendly, every sign he’s throwing out a warning.
Charlie sidles up next to me, bumping our hips in an attempt to be cute.
“Who’s this?” He silently judges her, mouth slipping into a frown, lips finally closing in distaste around his spearmint gum.
“This is Charlotte.” Tentatively, I slip an arm around her waist. Pop’s eyes don’t miss any detail—how my fingers loop inside the waistband of her jeans, how close she’s pressed into my side.
He’s aggravated. “Fine. Can you tell your friend this is a private conversation?”
“Pops.” I try to slip a warning into my voice, but it comes out weak instead. Like a boy still intimidated by his father.
“Pops, what? I want to talk to my son—I don’t need no jock chaser standin’ here while I do it.” He flicks his gaze at Charlie. “No offense, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re a great girl.”
Did my father just imply that my girlfriend is a slut who sleeps with anyone who’s an athlete? Yeah. I think he did.
“Charlotte isn’t a cleat chaser.” I feel the need to explain, though it’s pointless—he’s going to believe what he wants to believe, because he doesn’t want me dating. Charlie could be standing here in a nun’s habit and he’d still hate her on sight. Nothing I say is going to resonate with him. “We’re datin’.”
Pops leans back in the chair, balancing on two legs. Releases his hold so they crash back to the ground with a loud thud of his weight and metal.
“Sin
ce when are you allowed to date?” The arrogant asshole looks smug.
“I’m twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-two,” he mocks in a placating voice. “You think you have it all figured out, do ya? Are you sleepin’ with her?”
Why is he doing this in front of Charlie, where everyone else in the house can hear us? Not many guys are back from the game yet, but they will be, and the last thing I want is them walking in on this argument.
It makes me look like a pussy with no control over his life, a boy whose father tells him what to do.
Because I’ve always allowed my father to tell me what to do.
“I asked you a question, son. Are you sleepin’ with her?”
Beside me, Charlie’s fingers dig into my hips—a warning squeeze I can’t translate. Does she want me to be honest, or does she want me to lie? Or, does she want me to say nothing at all? I can’t fucking tell.
“Charlie’s my girlfriend.”
“You’re datin’ a girl with a boy’s name?” He studies her crudely, as only my father can do. “You ain’t one of them alternative girls, are ya?”
Jesus Christ. Could it get any worse?
“My son is not allowed to date. I hope the ride was worth it, because the fun is over.” Pops shoots me a look over the top of her head. “Grab your bags—we’re movin’ you out of here. If you can’t focus, we’ll find ya somewhere you can.”
It’s official; Pops is nuts. “I’m not leavin’.”
“I’ll call in a favor. We’ll get you in an apartment.”
“I’m not moving into an apartment.” Then I do something I’ve never done before: I roll my eyes at my father.
Pops stands. Rises to his full height and attempts to look me in the eye.
Charlie grips my waist harder.
Shit, she’s anxious. I can feel the stiffness in her grasp, even without looking down at her. I squeeze her back, offering up some reassurance; it can’t possibly be comforting, but it’s the best I can do if she wants to stay standing next to me. I actually have no damn idea how this is going to end, but one thing’s for damn sure: it’s not going to end well.
“If this is the behavior you’re goin’ to exhibit while having a goddamn girlfriend, then you won’t fuckin’ have one.”
I pull a face; is he seriously trying to tell me to dump Charlie? With her standing two feet away? My father is officially off his rocker. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m breakin’ up with my girlfriend because you’re tellin’ me to.”
“You’ll not only do it, you’ll do it today, before I leave this house.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “Whatever.”
Jackson Jennings Senior’s nostrils flare, pure contempt shining in his blue eyes. He looks like me—or rather, I look like him—and it’s freaky as fuck watching him as his blood boils. It used to scare the shit out of me as a kid, but now that I’m taller and bulkier, it’s not so scary.
“Pops, you should probably go.”
“What did you just say to me?”
I swallow, choking down the fear rising in my throat. I’ve never so much as spoken down to my father, let alone kicked him out of my house. The thought of it makes me want to vomit all over the fucking kitchen floor, nerves destroying my stomach.
“I said, you should probably go.”
He laughs, tipping his head back like I just did. “You keep talkin’ to me that way and I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be spittin’ ’em out single file.”
Jesus Christ—does he have to talk like this in front of my friends? Rodrigo’s sister is in the corner of the living room, eyes wide as she pops a potato chip in her mouth, totally watching the action with interest. Horrified.
I mean, Rodrigo’s been in some loud fights with his family in the main rooms of our house, but his parents have never threatened to bash his teeth in in front of his friends.
I’m so fucking embarrassed, the flush on my chest rises to my cheeks, burning my skin along the way.
Shit.
Charlie’s hands rub my back, but I just need her gone.
Want my dad gone.
Want to disa-fucking-ppear into myself, the drama too much for me to handle.
This is not what I signed up for when I started dating her. Not what I wanted to happen the first time she met my family—not that I expected it to go well, but I thought it would be at least slightly better than this shit show.
“Dad.” I’ve never used that word to address him a day in my life, and it has his full attention now. “Would you calm down?”
“No, Jackson, I won’t calm down. I rode halfway across the damn country to watch you fuck up half your plays, and now I’m standin’ here starin’ at the reason why.” His eyes rake up and down critically, starting at her feet. “She don’t even look worth it.”
That’s not true; I had a great game, and he’s just being a salty motherfucker. She is worth it, and I can’t believe he’d say something like that in front of her.
I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life.
“Pops, tone it down. People can hear you.”
He laughs. “You mean the idiots who lost you the game? Are you forgetting you’re the only one on this team entering the draft this year?”
Not this year, next year—I want to graduate with a degree first. But I haven’t told him that, and I’m not going to do it now.
I’ve never seen Charlie’s eyes so wide. She’s one part terrified, another part disgusted, and fully ready to flee.
“Jesus, Pops, keep it down,” I hiss, desperate to diffuse the growing argument.
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do.”
“Maybe I should go.” Charlie sighs beside me, speaking barely loud enough for me to hear as she slips away. I can’t catch a breath or turn my head to watch her go because my father is in my face, breathing fire.
I throw my arm out to stop her, but my father stops me instead.
“Let her walk away, Jackson. You’ll let her go if you know what’s good for your career.”
Exactly—it’s my career. My life.
Not yours, old man.
I don’t know where Charlie runs off to, if she left out the front door or the back, if she returned to my room and will be there when I finally return—if I return. I have to clear my head. Maybe I should just get the fuck out of here…
This behavior from my father isn’t healthy, I know this. But until the bastard leaves, I deal with it the best I can so he doesn’t lay me out in my own house.
My career, my life. My career, my life…
More of my friends have arrived since this argument started, but—bless them—they’ve cleared the room, giving us our privacy. Besides, they’re just as embarrassed hearing the shit spewing from Pop’s mouth as I am listening to it. No one wants to stand by and watch their friend get railroaded by a parent, but sometimes, it’s best to step aside and excuse yourself.
I know for a fact, any other day, Rodrigo or Tyson or Greg—or anyone else on the team—would have stood up for me. They’re doing me a favor by leaving, and I’ll thank them for it later.
I don’t have any more time to wonder where Charlie is, because my father gets confrontational.
“When’s the last time you spoke to Brock?” He’s asking about my agent, the one I called last week to discuss removing my name from the draft.
“I’m supposed to talk to him this week.” It’s a lie that won’t get me in any more trouble then I already am, and what Pops doesn’t know yet won’t get us into another fight.
“Good. I’m going to call him—I want to talk numbers. He’s getting too much as far as I’m concerned, and I want to renegotiate his salary.”
What? No.
Hell no.
No one is renegotiating my agent’s salary, least of all my father. Brock is the only adult male looking out for me right now besides my teammates and coaches. Not only that, he’s been dealing with my father’s bullshit
from the time I was a junior in high school—the dude deserves his fair cut. I’m not a kid anymore, and Pops can’t touch my contracts now that I’m legally an adult.
Thank God.
“Anything else you want me to tell him?” Not that I’m going to.
“No.” My father is agitated to the point of an impending blowup. “Didn’t I just tell you I was going to call him?”
Jesus, sorry.
Why is being in this room with him making me so damn nervous? I have the upper hand here; he’s living through me, not the other way around. He needs me—I no longer need him.
I straighten to my full height. “Glad you made it today.”
My father nods importantly, pompous and full of importance. “Fucking embarrassment is what it was.”
Wow. Okay.
“Anyway.” I cross my arms and stare at him, nothing more to add.
Pops tilts his head to study me. “You gonna break up with that girl? I want an answer.”
“You already told me I was.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“Fine.” I huff, petulant. “No, I’m not.”
“Jackson, I’m warning you…”
“Warning me about what? What are you gonna do about it, Daddy? Whoop me?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m bigger than you. Ain’t much you can do about it, but you can sure try.”
My father’s face turns ten shades of maroon, heat rising from the collar of his blue, plaid, button-down shirt. It’s tucked into a pair of Wranglers, brown leather belt pulled through all the loops, a championship football belt buckle front and center, almost the size of a dinner plate. He earned it as a child—in high school—after winning the state title and has reveled in it since.
In my opinion, those days are gone. He’s a miserable sod of a man, living in the past, and if I let him, he’ll make me miserable, too.
“Think you’re tough shit, do ya?”
“No. I just think it’s time for you to lay off.”
Jackson Jennings Senior’s nostrils flare in my direction. “Everything you see around you, I helped build.”