Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  “Yeah, now that just sounds like assault.”

  “You’re not actually going to bang them—you’re just earning points.”

  Is he in a skeevy fraternity and I don’t know it? Who comes up with shit like this? Assigning a point value to a girl because she’s ugly is fucking mean; I might not give two shits about dating one, but I know enough not to be a dick about what they look like.

  Who the fuck am I to judge? I’m no cover model myself. I was raised on a cattle ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere, rarely had clothes that fit me properly, was always dirty, and needed braces but never got them.

  “Yeah—still no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Tyson, I ain’t doin’ it.”

  “Why?” he parrots himself. “They’re getting out of their cars anyway—we should judge them for it. Five points if they scream at us, three if they just bang on the window. One point if they get out of the car but chicken out.”

  It sounds like he’s given this some serious thought. The point values make actual sense, despite there being no way in hell I’d play a game like that.

  “Think about it dude. It’s such a good idea.”

  “Horrible, really.”

  He goes on, warming to the topic. “Fifteen points if the person recognizes us. Twenty if it’s a girl and she starts flirting.”

  “Tyson. Stop.”

  “I’m just saying y’all could be fun.”

  That makes me laugh, despite myself, and I shake my head at his rambling on and on, especially his misuse of the word y’all.

  “Dude. I just thought of another good one.”

  “Would you give it a rest?”

  “I can’t. Dude, I can’t.”

  He’s just called me dude four times—not a record for him, but close. Tyson is from the West Coast, California, and judging by the tan, long blond hair, and loose lingo, he spent lots of time surfing and on the water before returning to school for training camp.

  His parents are boosters—wanted him to go to school locally. They wanted him under their thumb, in the family business rather than playing football.

  We’re opposites, he and I.

  For whatever reason, the kid wouldn’t leave me alone when he was recruited and has been my sidekick since. He doesn’t always use the common sense God gave him, but man is he one loyal bastard. I rue the day someone tries to screw me over. Dude has my back. Fuck. I just said dude.

  “Can you drop it for now?”

  He grunts. “Fine.” Pauses. “But what if I put all this down on paper, just in case?”

  “Do what you want—makes no difference to me.”

  STILL THE THIRD FRIDAY

  JACKSON

  “Triple J, tell us about your angry little friend.”

  “My what?”

  I pretend I have no idea who McMillan is talking about though I know damn well he means that chick on the side of the road, the one whose food I took last week and who I pulled up behind tonight.

  Tyson must have said something—he’s a little washwomen, gossiping when he has a nugget of information; the more personal the better.

  Awesome.

  “Your friend.” Why is he saying it like that? It sounds creepy.

  “She’s not my friend.” I lift two forty-pound weights off the rack and begin doing squats. “I don’t even know her name.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Someone else butts in from off to my right—these guys are washwomen, fueled by gossip and carb-loading the night before a game.

  “No one.” I grunt, bending my knees and going down as far as my legs will allow without falling. Standing. Squatting.

  “Triple J has a girlfriend.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Tyson.” I take back every nice thing I was thinking about him before—right now I need a sock to stick in his loud mouth.

  “She was—what did you call it? Spitting mad at you?”

  “What’d you do to her, buddy?” Another one of my teammates joins the conversation from out of nowhere, and I swear, these guys are worse than old biddies with their gossiping. Always need to be up someone’s ass with their meddling.

  “Nothin’.” I’m trying to block them all out, but it’s like we’re having story time and they’ve all gathered ’round.

  “He got all up in her grill—literally and figuratively,” Tyson informs them with authority—the factotum with all the details. “We came up with a game to play while we’re cruising in The Bull.”

  The Bull—he must be talking about my truck.

  “Would you stop?” I pause. The longer I stand here blabbing nonsense, the heavier the weights in my grip become. Fuck it’s heavy. Before I drop them completely, I manage to set them down and rise to my full height, the belt around my waist cinched and tightened. It supports my lower back, but it doesn’t prevent the sweat from dripping down my spine, down into my ass crack.

  “He means there could be a game if he’d let himself have fun for once in his boring life.” Tyson cackles, garnering laughs from the rest of the lemmings.

  “Tyson, give it a rest.”

  “I can’t—it’s such a good idea.”

  “What idea?” someone finally asks, and I sigh, unable to stop the momentum of Tyson’s foolish meddling.

  “Enough!” I roar. “There’s no game! Me and the guys back home used to cruise the strip in town every weekend ’cause there wasn’t anything else to do, and I’ve been doin’ it here with Tyson because... You know I don’t party, and there ain’t anything else to do during the season. It makes me feel like I’m home.”

  “Cruising the strip?” A rookie wrestler by the name of Griffin Torenson scratches behind his ear and looks up at me from the bench. “What strip? We have a strip?”

  “You know—Jock Row or whatever y’all call it.” I pull a pair of gloves out of the pocket of my shorts and pull them on, one at a time, tightening them around the wrists. “It reminds me of home to drive it back and forth.”

  When I say it out loud, it sounds dumb, and my face reddens, embarrassed.

  “Awww, big guy has a boner for his hometown.”

  Tyson slaps his hand on my shoulder as he passes by to hit the shower. “You homesick, Triple J?”

  Holy shit, his tone is sincere. He’s not playing around.

  I shrug his hand off. “No, I’m not homesick,” I scoff—even though I am, just a little. Who wouldn’t be? My Aunt Beth makes the best caramel apple pie, and the family on Mama’s side gets together every weekend for Sunday brunch and to watch football. I’m too fucking far away to ever visit, even a few times a semester.

  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 a
lone, 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 put the windows down and crank the music 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 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 cretin—one with a serious set of balls, I’ll 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 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 nosy.

  “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, taking his attention away from a girl in a red compact car, 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.