Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  “You’re turning into a giant nerd with all that reading,” Natasha sasses.

  I stare pointedly at her. “This from the girl who didn’t even bother buying textbooks last semester.”

  She flips her long black hair. “I’m trying to save money.”

  “You are here to read books and study. That is literally what college is.”

  She points to her ears and shakes her head. “What? I can’t hear you, sorry! The game is about to begin!”

  The little…

  As if on cue, the marching band begins playing the school fight song, and the field is cleared for the national anthem. Everyone roars, players are announced, coins are tossed, the teams take position.

  It’s all very loud and exciting with tons of pomp and circumstance, and I wonder why I don’t come to games more often.

  I raise the binoculars and locate number eighty-two. Find him on the sideline, pacing, hands on his hips. A completely different aspect of him than I’m used to seeing.

  This Jackson Jennings is intense. Huge. Serious. Aggressive and ready to take the field.

  I can feel his energy radiating from here, all the way up in the stands. He’s like a caged tiger at the zoo desperate to be free.

  Instinctively I know once Jackson takes the field, he’s going to be unstoppable.

  Ten minutes later, I’m proven right.

  Ten minutes later, Jackson Jennings—all six foot three of his imposing height and weight—goes charging down the field, football tucked under his right armpit.

  How can someone so big run so fast? It seems impossible—I don’t know much about football, but aren’t guys in his position usually a little smaller? Shorter? More built for speed? I would have pegged Jackson as a lineman or a tackler or something. Like I said, I know nothing about the game, the positions, or how it’s played.

  Not really.

  Barely enough to register what’s going on in front of me unless everyone around me stands, cheers, or freaks out because of what’s happening down on the field.

  I would make the worst girlfriend for him.

  Why that thought pops into my head is beyond me, especially when I can barely tolerate the guy. Fine. Okay. Yes, he’s had a few moments where I second-guessed my loathing for him, like when he was squatting next to me on the side of the road, helping me fix a flat tire, then bringing me a new one? Then checking up on me afterward to make sure I felt good about the work I’d done.

  Really nice of him and totally unnecessary.

  He could have left me there and let me call roadside assistance.

  But he didn’t.

  He parked, got out his tools, helped.

  Not to mention, when he leaned in close and got up in there…he smelled fantastic. Like cologne and shampoo and a bit dirty, like he’d showered but not that well? As if he’d rushed through it, had been so sweaty from working out he couldn’t be bothered to wash it all down the drain.

  Like man.

  A hard-working man who cares more about getting shit done than smelling good doing it.

  I recall how his shirt tightened around his pecs when he reached forward to show me how to tighten the lug nuts, how the fabric hid nothing of his tight, toned upper arms. They’re ridiculously strong—not bulging, exactly, but buff. There is no other way to describe it, and for a hot minute I was tempted to curl both my hands over his biceps and cuff his muscles, just to see if my fingers could wrap all the way around.

  I doubt it.

  We’re too far up for me to see what’s going on down on the field, so my eyes stay glued to the giant screen suspended over the end zone at the far end of the stadium. The faces of young players stare down at us when one of them has the ball, their stats and information broadcasted during each short lull.

  Music from the sound system and music from the band play intermittently.

  It’s loud—so deafeningly loud, especially when a touchdown is scored.

  “How are you not banging him?” Natasha shouts across our small group of friends, and my eyes dart around to see if anyone has heard.

  We’re surrounded mostly by other students and families, so Jesus. Keep your damn voice down!

  “You don’t just bang a guy because you want to,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes. Besides, Jackson is a virgin and isn’t gonna give it up for just anyone. According to him, he isn’t banging anybody and has zero plans to.

  He has no time for girls, or dating—that much he has made clear.

  I doubt he’d make an exception for me. Not that I want him to.

  I’m hardly on the market, and if I were… My eyes stray toward the field, searching for number eighty-two. Would it be with a guy like that?

  * * *

  Jackson: Did you show up?

  Me: To what?

  Jackson: Haha

  Me: YES, Jackson, I showed up. I love hot dogs—how could I resist pigging out on a ballpark frank?

  Jackson: You’re joking, right? It’s NOT called a ballpark. It’s a stadium.

  Me: I’m joking. Obviously I knew it wasn’t a ballpark. That’s where they play hockey, right?

  Jackson: You’re not even a little bit funny.

  Me: Oh come on—I am a little bit tho. Plus I’m kind of cute, too. Amirightoramiright

  Jackson: I’m ignoring you now.

  Jackson: But wha’d you think? Of the game.

  Me: Congrats on the win! It was fun. I haven’t been to one in a while.

  Jackson: Why not?

  Me: Don’t know. My friends aren’t really big into sports, so there’s never a reason to. We haven’t tailgated since our freshman year, and I’d forgotten how crazy all the alums and fans get.

  Jackson: They really do, but it’s not as bad here as it is at some schools.

  Me: We saw more than a few black and yellow painted RVs parked in the lot with grills going. Die-hard fans, much?

  Jackson: More like die-hard parents.

  Me: Do your parents ever come?

  Jackson: My dad, sometimes. Mom not usually unless it’s a playoff game—she can’t really afford it.

  Me: Well…I’m glad I came today. Thanks for the invite. It was funner than I thought it would be.

  Jackson: Funner? Is that a word?

  Me: Don’t be the grammer police.

  Jackson: *grammar

  Me: OMG!

  Jackson: Sorry. Had to.

  Jackson: Where’d you end up sitting?

  Me: The cheap seats.

  Jackson: Where are those?

  Me: Are you being serious? You don’t know where the cheap seats are?? Were you raised in a bubble?

  Jackson: Dude—when do I have the chance to sit in the stands? Duh.

  Me: Don’t you ever go to other games? Even baseball? The cheap seats are at the 50-yard line and 50 yards up. Haha. Nosebleeds I guess you’d call them—like when you go to a concert and are up near the ceiling. Those.

  Jackson: Shit, sorry. I should have left you tickets at will call.

  Me: Why on earth would you do that?

  Jackson: So you had better seats—so you can see? lol Those seats high up SOOK balls man.

  Me: We could see just fine. My friend Natasha brought boynoculars.

  Jackson: What the fuck are those?

  Me: Binoculars meant specifically for staring at boys with.

  Jackson: Girls are so weird.

  Me: Really, Jackson?? And you cruising the strip because you’re BORED isn’t?? Instead of partying or studying or staying home like a normal person, you drive up and down the street doing nothing.

  Jackson: Oh, like my house is so quiet? And so conducive to studying?

  Me: Have you ever heard of the library???

  Jackson: First of all, stop using so many question marks.

  Me: Second of all?

  Jackson: Yes I’ve heard of the damn library. I’m there almost every Sunday night.

  Me: Bull crap, you are not.

  Jackson: Wanna make a bet? Me: Yes.


  Me: No.

  Me: Yes. Where do you study?

  Jackson: Top floor, study room on the left at the end of the second row. There’s a table in it with four chairs. That’s my spot.

  Me: Are you being serious?

  Jackson: As a heart attack.

  Me: Guess I’ll just have to take your word for it.

  Jackson: Or you could join me.

  Me: Lol

  Jackson: What’s so funny?

  Me: Me coming to study with you. Like it was a date.

  Jackson: If I was askin’ you on a date, trust me, you’d know.

  Me: Well thank goodness you’re not.

  Jackson: But what if I was?

  Me: But you’re not.

  Jackson: Are you always like this?

  Me: Always like what?

  Jackson: So argumentative.

  Me: Probably. I swear to you I’m not doing it on purpose…

  Jackson: Let’s get serious for a second. What would it take to get you to go out with me?

  Me: I thought you didn’t date.

  Jackson: Pretend I’m fixin’ to make a few exceptions.

  Me: Starting with me?

  Jackson: Yeah, starting with you.

  Me: Should I feel flattered by this pretend attention?

  Jackson: No, you should just say you’ll let me take you out.

  Me: Are we still pretending? Because it sounds like you’re actually asking me out.

  Jackson: For grins, let’s say it’s for real.

  Me: All right. Where is this real pretend date taking place?

  Jackson: It’s a surprise.

  Me: Oh brother *eye roll* Jackson: Is that a yes?

  Me: It’s not a NO…

  Jackson: Friday then? We have to be in early because we have a game on Saturday and it’s in Ohio so I leave buttass early, but I figure if you don’t have any classes in the afternoon Friday it could still work.

  Me: Wow. You’ve actually thought this through.

  Jackson: Go big or go home.

  Me: Fine.

  Jackson: Fine?

  Me: Yeah, sure. Fine.

  Jackson: Gee, try not to sound so thrilled.

  Me: Do you want me to go on a date with you or not?

  Jackson: Do. But could you show a little enthusiasm?

  Me: All right, how’s this: OMG JACKSON I WOULD LOVE TO GO OUT WITH YOU, LET’S GET MARRIED AFTERWARD AND HAVE BABIES!!

  Jackson: Sarcasm, Charlotte? Really?

  Me: Some sarcasm. Lil bit. But if you really want to take me out, I can’t make any promises about what’s gonna happen.

  Jackson: What do you mean?

  Me: I mean—don’t go falling in love with me is all I’m saying.

  Jackson: This isn’t a movie. That’s NOT going to happen.

  Me: That’s what they say in ALL the movies…

  Jackson: Guarantee that’s not going to happen.

  Me: Great. So Friday afternoon then?

  Jackson: Yeah, Friday—if that works. 3:oo?

  Me: You sure you wouldn’t rather be trolling the strip in your babe-mobile?

  Jackson: No. I’ll be outside your house gunning the motor until you come outside.

  Me: Oh god, please don’t.

  Jackson: Then you better not keep me waiting.

  Me: SUCH a Neanderthal.

  Jackson: You said it, not me. And no, Charlotte, I will not fall in love with you—as long as you promise not to fall in love with me.

  Me: Don’t make me laugh.

  Jackson: Stranger things have happened, babe.

  Me: Do me a favor and cool it with the ‘babe’ talk, ’kay? I just gagged in my mouth.

  Jackson: Sorry, it just slipped out of my fingers. It made me gag, too.

  Me: At least we have one thing in common. Jackson: Should I start a list and add that to it? Me: Very cute, very cute.

  Me: Hey. I’m sorry this entire time we’ve been talking, I totally forgot to ask how your game was.

  Jackson: You were there.

  Me: I know, but how do you feel?

  Jackson: Feel? Uh, I have no idea how to answer that lol

  Me: Are you sore?

  Jackson: Ohhhh, THAT kind of feel, for a second I thought you wanted to discuss how the quarterback on the other team hurt my feelings. My one feeling.

  Jackson: But yes, I’m sore as hell. It’ll be fine though, it always is.

  Me: Are you glad you won?

  Jackson: One step closer to the championship with every win.

  Me: Do professional teams only want players from championship teams?

  Jackson: No, but winning games is the entire point.

  Me: Ahh, I see…

  Jackson: You’re adorable.

  Me: First I’m cute as a button, now I’m adorable. Stop, I’m blushing.

  Jackson: No you’re not, don’t lie.

  Me: Fine, I’m not. But close. I came real real close…

  Jackson: I should probably say good-night before I pass out on you.

  Me: Right. Well. See you Friday at 3.

  Jackson: I mean—you’ll probably text me before then, you won’t be able to stand it.

  Me: **rolling my eyes**

  Jackson: Don’t fight it, Edmonds.

  Me: Wow. WOW.

  Me: Have a good night’s sleep, Jennings.

  Jackson: It’s a date, Little one. We have a date.

  Me: Please don’t remind me.

  SEVENTH FRIDAY

  JACKSON

  What the fuck am I doing?

  This is nuts—and if my pops found out I was taking a girl on a date during the football season, he’d tan my hide.

  Which is why I haven’t told anyone, least of all my parents.

  Mama—she’d flip. Start planning the wedding and asking me all kinds of questions, but Pops?

  Fuck to the no.

  I have the route to Charlie’s memorized since it’s a straight shot from Jock Row, and I pull into her driveway a few minutes later. Seven minutes tops from door to door.

  She’s waiting on the porch, wearing a floral, off-the-shoulder sundress. It’s pretty and dainty, her jean jacket thrown over one arm, little brown purse on the other. Wedge sandals.

  A bit too summery for the season, and a bit…chilly for where I’m taking her, but I’m not about to send her back inside and get my ass chewed out for not telling her to dress warmer in the first place.

  Jeans would have been better, but those legs…

  Damn she has great calves; my eyes can’t help but admire them. Tan and long and smooth. I bet she’s shaved within an inch of her life.

  My fingers flex over the steering wheel as I watch her before putting the in park and cutting the engine so I can walk to the porch and help her in; this is a date, after all, and even though it’s maybe not going to amount to anything, I’m the Southern gentleman my mama raised me to be.

  Most days.

  In reality, I’m hardly—if ever—a gentleman, but occasionally I’m willing to bust out a few moves reserved for special occasions, like weddings and funerals.

  When I step out of the truck, Charlie rises from the concrete stoop, a full four inches taller than normal and the perfect height. The dress is short, hitting her mid-thigh, and it’s dark navy with small pink, white, and beige flowers on it. Brown belt. Brown sandals.

  Yeahhh she’s going to fucking kill me when she finds out where we’re going. But in my defense, it is almost fall.

  Blonde hair down, it’s straight, not fussy or curled. Fucking pretty. Too fucking pretty for me.

  I feel ten feet tall and eight hundred pounds standing next to her, a giant lummox. Clumsy and aloof, I couldn’t catch a ball right now if it were handed to me from one foot away.

  “Hi.” She shifts on her feet, which causes me to glance down at her toes.

  Hot pink glitter.

  Bracelets jingle on her wrists when she lifts an arm to brush back a strand of hair and tuck it behind her ear. The gold hoops in
her lobes catch the light and wink.

  “You look…” Nice. Gorgeous. Great. Fantastic. Breathtaking. “Fine.”

  A low laugh escapes her lips, as if she’s taking pity on how pathetic I am.

  “Thanks. You also look…fine.”

  I didn’t put nearly as much effort into it as she has, mostly because we’re headed to a farm and I knew I’d need sturdier shoes.

  I do have on clean jeans with no holes, a long-sleeved, navy polo shirt, and my usually unkempt hair is brushed and held back with a rubber band. Face is shaved. Deodorant under my pits.

  So…only slightly douchey.

  “Do you realize we match?” Charlie lifts the end of her skirt, letting it flow through her fingers. “We’re both wearing blue.”

  Shit. It is indeed the same color blue.

  And I’m in danger of looking like one of those pansies who gets pussy-whipped by his girlfriend and led around by his dick when he starts a new relationship.

  “What were you doin’ out on the porch? You’re gonna catch a chill.”

  “The girls are home and Savannah needed the bathroom so I wanted to get out of her hair. No room.”

  The house is tiny.

  “You’re gonna need that jacket,” I inform her, walking to the passenger side door and pulling it open. Giving her ass an appreciative glance when she hops up.

  “I have mittens in the pockets just in case, but I figured we’re going to be inside.” She smiles brightly. “Right?”

  Wrong. So wrong.

  My smile is weak as I shut the door on her, watching through the window as she buckles her seatbelt across a great pair of boobs.

  As soon as I open my door— “So, where are we going?”

  “Uh…you’ll see.”

  I can feel her checking me out in my peripheral vision, up and down, her blue eyes damn near penetrating the skin of my arms, thighs, and profile.

  “Never would have pegged you for the kind of guy who likes planning surprises.” The jean jacket on her lap gets spread out like a blanket, but she doesn’t put it on.