Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  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—whose lips I can see pursing at the interruption—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.

  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 J
ennings 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.”

  “Mmhmm.” 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 a
sk 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 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.