Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  And goddamn am I hungry.

  I wad the chip bag in my fist, leaving it in my hand so I remember to pay for it. There’s a line at the griddle, but I doubt anyone will object if I cut it and skip to the front.

  No one complains out loud, but a few resting bitch faces judge me.

  I slide in after a girl with long, blonde hair. She’s bouncing on the heels of her—I glance down—brown boots. A baby blue backpack is hooked over her right shoulder. Impatient, she continues to check the watch on her wrist every few seconds, as if the action is going to speed up the process of cooking meat.

  I eyeball the grill, debating about what I want. One chicken breast, lean. Two hamburger patties, fatty. Three hot dogs.

  Chicken it is.

  The girl checks her watch again, and I stare at the back of her head, down at the crown, into her shiny hair. It’s long and a bit wavy, and I haven’t touched a girl’s hair in so fucking long, I’m tempted to rub a few strands between my fingers for old times’ sake.

  Weird, right?

  She doesn’t so much as cock her head to the side, so I have no idea what she looks like. I just know she has a few vulgar pins on her bag and a touchable blonde mop.

  The chicken is flipped once more by the bored student running the cooktop, his sweaty and acne-covered face only accentuated by the thin black net covering his hair.

  He uses the same spatula to turn the remaining meats, which I’m sure might be some health code violation—cross- contamination or some shit? Yes? No? Well, it should be—I don’t want hot dog jizz on my chicken.

  I groan out loud when the kid presses the spatula onto the chicken breast, squeezing out all the juice. Jesus Christ, rule number one of grilling—don’t fucking dry out the meat by choking it to death.

  Next, he slaps several buns onto the grill. When one is ready, he palms it, slapping the chicken into the center. Closes it, wraps it in foil. Extends his arm, holds it over the counter and into my waiting grasp.

  I snatch it, immediately unwrap it, and shove the first warm bite into my mouth.

  Holy shit, it’s pretty damn good.

  “Hey! What the hell—that was mine!”

  I look down at the girl in front of me, who has spun on her heel to give me the dirtiest look anyone has ever given me. She is as mad as a hornet.

  I turn to walk away. “You snooze, you lose.”

  “I was literally standing here waiting patiently for that thing!”

  “How’s that workin’ for you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Bein’ patient.” I take another bite of my sandwich, moaning with pleasure because it’s so delightful and just what I needed. “How’s that workin’ for ya? Seems to me that maybe if you were more assertive, you’d be standin’ here eatin’ this sammich and not me.”

  One more bite goes down my gullet as she stands there sputtering.

  “Grab me a burger when he’s done with ’em, would ya?”

  This sandwich isn’t exactly going to fill me up, and my next meal won’t come for a few hours.

  “Get your own sandwich, asshole.”

  “Whoa, no need for name-callin’, darlin’—I’m just tryin’ to be polite.”

  “Polite? You are so rude! You stole my lunch!”

  “Was it yours though?” I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t pay for it.”

  “Neither did you—and you didn’t order it, either.”

  Gripping the chicken and bun in my giant palm, I hold it toward her. “Want a bite? It’s good.”

  “Oh my god, shut up.” She spins on her heel, facing the kid behind the counter grilling the meat. He and I lock eyes, but he quickly averts his gaze, loading a hamburger patty onto the bun.

  “You want cheese?” he asks the girl.

  “No! And I don’t want a burger. I wanted chicken, but you gave it to this Neanderthal!”

  The kid opens his mouth; no sound comes out. Good—I don’t need another opinion thrown into this conversation.

  “I’ll take that burger,” I tell him over the girl’s head.

  She whips around. “That burger is for the girl behind you.”

  She glances around me, shooting a pointed look at the mousey little co-ed standing directly behind me. “Do not let him take that hamburger.”

  I shoot the girl a smile. “I’m totally taking this burger.”

  She returns my smile with a feeble one of her own, her mouth contorting into…I’m not sure what the fuck her look is supposed to mean.

  Little Miss Priss will not be deterred from her mission: keeping me from eating my damn lunch.

  “Oh no you will not!”

  “You’re cute.”

  Her arms cross. “Don’t you dare insult me.”

  Calling her cute is an insult? This is news to me.

  “Since when is it an insult to call someone cute?”

  “It’s an insult when the person complimenting you is an asshole.”

  “Darlin’, you’ve just got your dander up. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”

  Her pretty face is smug. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me? Oh my god, where were you raised?”

  “Texas.” Don’t fucking mess with it.

  She rolls her eyes. They’re bright blue.

  “I’ve been to Texas—no one there talks like that.”

  I’m close to polishing off this entire chicken breast.

  “Talks like what?”

  “Like a hick.”

  A hick? The fuck…

  “You think name-callin’ is nice?”

  “Name-cawlin’,” she mocks. Now who’s the asshole?

  The kid behind the grill has two foil-wrapped burgers in his hand, suspended in midair—unsure of what the hell to do with them as I stand here verbally sparring with this little hellcat.

  “I’ll take them both,” I tell him over her head.

  “I’ll take them both!” she counters, leveling me with a stare. “You said you didn’t want no burger.”

  “I don’t have time to stand here and wait for another chicken sandwich, jerk—this is my only option.”

  “You’re gonna eat two burgers?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “You can’t take them both just to spite me.”

  “I’ll do whatever I want—I’m at the front of the line.” She turns her back on me, hair damn near flinging me in the face, my nose catching a whiff of shampoo. “If you give him those burgers, I will find your manager and…and…”

  The bastard hands her both burgers, and I take the opportunity to shoot him a death glare, hoping he wets his pants a little.

  I tail the blonde to the cash resisters, pilfering a banana, two protein bars, another bag of chips, and a rice krispy treat from a nearby snack rack as we pass it by.

  “Come on, just give me one of the burgers.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of us really do need to learn the hard way,” she says to no one in particular, ignoring me completely.

  “You’re not going to eat both of those.”

  This time she does acknowledge me. “So? They’re mine—I can do whatever I want with them.”

  “You ain’t gonna waste them. You’re not the type.”

  “Thanks for stereotyping me as not a waster.”

  I roll my eyes. She is as prickly as a cactus and twice as pretty as one in bloom—which is the weirdest metaphor I’ve ever thrown out, but there you go.

  “That was a compliment.”

  She shoots me a look over her shoulder and keeps walking. “Are you still following me?”

  “Yeah—I’m still starvin’.”

  The little shit rolls her eyes and throws a thumb toward the buffet. “Get in line like the rest of the general population.”

  “Gimme one of them burgers. Please.”

  She stops in her tracks at that, spinning on her heel to face me, and it’s then that I get a really good, hard look at her. Wavy blonde hair fr
aming a heart-shaped face. Blue eyes, so bright they’re like a clear Texas sky on a summer day. Freckles dotted across a pert little nose and high cheekbones. Pink skin quickly dented by a small dimple appearing on her right cheek. Well fuck me sideways and color me surprised. This little spitfire is full of gumption and prettier than a peach. Beautiful, especially now that she’s good and riled up.

  “You can have the burger for ten bucks.”

  “Say again?” I can’t have heard her right.

  “I said—give me ten dollars and the sandwich is yours.” It stays clutched in her grip; she makes no move to hand it over.

  It’s getting colder by the second, and nothing gets me grumpier than cold food.

  “That’s extortion.” I’m fucking starving and she damn well knows it!

  “No,” she smugly informs me. “That’s supply and demand. You would know that if you attended classes.”

  “I attend my classes.” Just like everyone else.

  “Oh yeah, which ones?” The brows above her dark eyes rise. “How to be a Jock 101?”

  They have a class called How to be a Jock? Weird. “I’m an ag major—we don’t have classes like that.”

  “What’s an egg major?”

  “Ag—as in agriculture.”

  A snicker bubbles out of her throat; she sure is a snotty little thing, something I don’t appreciate.

  I reach for a hamburger.

  She pulls it back, out of my reach. “Ten bucks.”

  “Five.”

  “Eight.”

  “You haven’t even paid for these yet,” I remind her.

  “How about you pay for all of it and let me keep these two?”

  “How about I pay for all of it and you give those both to me?” I nod toward the burgers.

  “I haven’t eaten yet, you animal, and you’ve already had a chicken sandwich—my chicken sandwich.”

  Dammit, that’s right—she hasn’t eaten yet. I’d be a real asshole if I didn’t at least buy her lunch.

  “Fine. Give them here.”

  “Nope. Not until you’ve paid.”

  “Fine,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “But I get one of those.”

  “A deal is a deal. I said I’d give you one and I will—after you pay for everything.”

  Together, we make our way to the cashier, and just like before, I skip to the front of the line.

  No one objects. Except her.

  “You cannot keep doing that.”

  “Doing what?” I feign ignorance, head held high as I hand the cashier all my shit, including the empty wrappers, and point to the two burgers in Little Miss Priss’s hands. “Those, too.”

  * * *

  CHARLIE

  This guy is the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever met. Stubborn. Rude. Barbaric.

  Handsome—if you’re into crude and uncultured.

  And the Southern accent…it’s cute—and he’s so very good- looking. Obviously corn-fed; a down-home, bona fide country boy. A hick? So country I can’t resist giving him shit about it, and it actually makes my stomach churn a little. I’ve met people from the South, but never with an accent this deep and never this pronounced.

  The twang is thick, and I love it. I hate him.

  Clearly he hasn’t been taught any manners, and if he has, he chooses not to use them. Or he simply doesn’t care. I thought boys from the South were supposed to be all yes ma’am and no ma’am and gentlemen?

  Doesn’t give a fig. I chuckle to myself at my own use of the Southern metaphor.

  I stand idly beside him, holding the two burgers I snatched from the griddle.

  A guilty wave passes over me at my manners, which were as bad as…his. Shoot. He made me completely forget myself, and I’m ashamed I grabbed both burgers without caring who they belonged to, so hell-bent on proving a point.

  Ugh.

  The Neanderthal retrieves a wallet from his back pocket, pulling out cash instead of a student ID.

  “Don’t you have a meal plan?” I ask, because I’m nosy, and— I’ll admit it—a bit snarky and snotty.

  “No.”

  “Why?” It’s rude of me to ask. Maybe he can’t afford it. Maybe he never eats on campus. Maybe—

  “I play football. We don’t usually have to eat this shit, but I was desperate.”

  Well then. “Um…okay.” I pause. “What does that even mean?”

  He turns his hulking body toward me. “It means we have our own cafeteria where we get awesome food, not this slop.”

  I glance down at the “slop” in my hands. Two foil-wrapped burgers, no pickles, no onions, no anything. I’m a bit offended he’s calling this garbage when it’s the only option I have for food on campus.

  “Well aren’t you special,” I goad, shooting him another eye roll, this one heavy and almost causing me to get lightheaded. Wow. Better watch that, or my eyes are going to get stuck in the back of my head. “Where is this mythical, magical place where they feed the lucky few who get to graze there?”

  “Back of the stadium.”

  Wait—is he serious? They really have a special place where they feed the student athletes?

  “For real?”

  He spares me no glances as he takes the little bit of change he’s offered by the cashier. The girl is gawking at him, wide- eyed and slightly spellbound.

  Ugh, gross. “Yeah, for real.”

  “What’s up there?”

  He holds a hand out for a burger now that he’s paid. I slap one in his palm, secretly hoping it gets squished a little bit.

  “I don’t know…stuff. Food.”

  “Be specific.” If he’s going to throw down about this cafeteria being total crap, he better give details.

  “Salad bar. Seafood. Pasta bar. Lean chicken and steak.”

  He tears into the silver wrapper of the burger he just grabbed from my hands, shoving one end into his mouth, biting down and chewing.

  “Seafood?” What the hell! “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  When he says yeah, it comes out as yee-a-ya—three syllables—and there go those flutters in my stomach, despite him being a complete brute.

  He’s tall—at least six foot three—with wide shoulders, a broad back… I let my eyes wander down his torso as he gnaws on his food, down his flat stomach and thick inner thighs. He’s wearing mesh athletic pants, so it’s easy to make out the shape of his legs. Toned. Strong. Thick.

  Did I say that already? Crap.

  His t-shirt is too tight and ill-fitting. A bit too short for how tall he is, but it doesn’t look like he gives a shit about his appearance. Not one little bit.

  His hair is a bit shaggy, pulled back in an elastic, strands escaping around his face. His five-o’clock shadow game is strong.

  He needs a good shave. But…

  That’s none of my business.

  I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and if I were, it wouldn’t be a guy like this—arrogant and offensive with no regard for anyone.

  All right, that’s somewhat of a lie; I would actually love a boyfriend. Like, I wouldn’t be mad about it if I found one; I just haven’t met anyone who felt like ‘the one.’ Or one who felt like Mr. Right Now—he hasn’t found me, either. I’m even willing to do something casual with the right person until someone special comes sauntering my way, preferably in a clean shirt and with a shaved face.

  I sniff, unwrapping my own sandwich. Wondering for a second why I’m always so picky. Why can’t I just have fun and flirt with the first guy who comes along? I’ve been single for two years. My boyfriend from freshman year lost interest when he joined a fraternity and found interest in the sister sorority they partied with every weekend. Whatever. I don’t need a guy like that in my life anyway. When you love someone, your eyes don’t roam—that’s the kind of love I’m looking for. That’s the kind of love I deserve.

  So, for now, I’m single.

  I glance around the cafeteria at the guys scattered throughout the room, seated at ta
bles or leaning against the walls, talking, oblivious to the looming grouch next to me.

  “You’re welcome,” he grunts, sliding his wallet into the pocket of his mesh pants.

  “Do I say thanks to the guy who stole my food?” I wonder out loud, taking a bite of my burger.

  “No, you say thanks to the man who paid for it.”

  The may-an who paid foor it.

  “Do I though?” My musing is thoughtful. “If it’s by default because you stole the first round?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” I chew. “I’m conflicted about the protocol on that.” Walk toward the double doors, toward the exit, leaving him to trail behind me. Push through when I reach them and walk out into the quad.

  The sun hits my face and I look up, basking in it as I eat my free lunch.

  “I ain’t walkin’ away until you use your manners and say thank you.”

  Thank yew.

  God, it’s kind of adorable. “’Kay,” I say. “Bye.”

  I leave him standing there staring after me and wonder if he’s going to follow. Glance back over my shoulder to see him trailing along, stubborn as I am and not willing to let it go now that we’ve both dug our heels in.

  I turn toward the English building. “Where’re your manners?”

  “I ain’t got none,” I say, mimicking his accent and poor grammar. “Where are yours? You took food from me without even asking, ate it without paying, then complained about the facility where I have to eat lunch serving slop.”

  “It is slop.”

  “Well la-ti-da, you eat shrimp scampi for lunch and I have to eat hot dogs.”

  “Shrimp scampi has too much butter. They’d never serve that.”

  How did I not just roll my eyes at that comment? I miraculously restrain myself and pick up my pace, shooting a look down at my watch, searching for the time.

  Shit.

  Five minutes to get to class and get my ass into a seat. Bickering with this dude isn’t going to get me anywhere but locked out by the professor or TA, who are both pompous windbags. They thoroughly enjoy locking tardy students out of the lecture hall.

  I hike my backpack up, scarf down the remainder of my burger, and toss the wrapper in a nearby trash can. He does the same.

  “I’m super glad you’re so special. Enjoy the lobster for your next superior meal,” I sass him.