Jock Hard
Page 56
Oh, you’re gonna be surprised all right.
“Right.”
Not interested in small talk, Charlie bites back a smile, turning her head and facing the window so I can no longer see her face. Watching as houses and campus pass us by, watching all the way until we’re at the city limits and driving out of town.
Toward the country.
Finally, she turns to face me. “Are you taking me to the woods to murder me?”
I laugh. “Hardly.”
“Because you could use this giant truck as the perfect way to haul my dead lifeless body to the middle of nowhere.” She presses the lock and unlock button a few times, testing it against the moving vehicle.
“Lucky for you, I wouldn’t want the seats in here to get stained from your blood.”
Charlie gives a little humph. “Where the heck are we?”
“What month is it?”
“October?” She looks perturbed at my question for her question.
“What holiday is comin’ up?”
“Um…Halloween?”
I laugh again. “You sure ’bout that?”
“Just tell me where we’re going!” She’s impatient now.
“See that sign right there?” We’re about to pass a giant wooden pumpkin sign that’s been pounded into the ground in the middle of a cornfield that’s already been harvested.
“Yes…” The word trails off. “That’s where we’re goin’.”
“A pumpkin farm?”
I can’t look her in the eye, not knowing how she’s going to react. “Yup.”
“You’re taking me to a pumpkin farm.”
“Yup.”
I catch her glancing out the window again. “Huh.”
I tilt my head. “Huh—what’s that mean?”
“That’s actually really…nice. Cute.”
Cute. There’s that word we keep throwing around. “You think?”
“Yes. I…” She casts her eyes downward at her bare legs. “I
really wish I’d worn jeans, but this is going to be fun!”
Then Charlie does that thing girls do when they’re excited— she claps. Claps a few times and gets out her phone and snaps a photo when we pull into the farm, dust kicking up behind us as we wind down the gravel road.
“Oh my god, look at that corn maze.” She oohs. Gasps. “Oh my god, Jackson—a petting zoo!”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Honestly, all I planned on doing was taking the hay wagon out to the field and grabbing a pumpkin or two. Wasn’t planning on petting baby goats and feeding calves and shit.
But.
Damn she looks thrilled. Adorable.
“Jackson! Look! We can dip our own caramel apples or stuff our own scarecrow.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Can we do that?”
Like I’m going to tell her no.
“Is that a hay wagon?” She’s practically bouncing in her seat as a wagon full of families wheels by, orange pumpkins in their laps. “Are we going on that?”
“Yup.”
It takes me a few more minutes to find a decent parking spot, one that’s not too far away from the entrance and activities. I don’t need Charlie walking a long distance and spraining her ankle on this rough road full of potholes. Not that I’d mind carrying her, but still—it would be because she’d injured herself, and not because I was trying to be romantic.
I know what a sprain feels like, and it fucking sucks. “Maybe you should put your jacket on before we get out.”
She complies, shrugging into the denim, smiling at me once she’s completed the task. “All set.”
Sweet and glowing, the freckles on the bridge of her nose are bright today, the tip of her pert little nose begging to be touched by the tip of my finger.
Soon, we’re lined up for the wagon; I climb up behind Charlie, my hand at the small off her back in the event she topples backward. Ass parked on a hay bale, it’s hard not to feel a thrill when our thighs make contact from the jostling of the wagon. Hard not to feel a stirring in my groin when Charlie’s palm lands on my inner thigh to steady herself when the wagon hits a hole in the road, sending us bumping into each other.
She laughs, supporting herself by holding on to me, a bonus I hadn’t accounted for when I was planning this date.
The wagon stops, the red tractor shifting into park with a jolt, its driver giving us instructions for choosing our pumpkin, where to wait once we find one, and how much it’s going to be per pound.
Charlie takes a selfie, holding up two fingers and kissing the air.
Jesus.
Even that’s adorable.
I meander over to where she’s standing, already hovering over a medium-sized pumpkin with a ridiculously long stem.
“I found mine.”
“It’s been two minutes. You sure you don’t wanna walk around more?”
“Nope. This here is my guy.”
Her guy. Her pumpkin with the long, thick stem.
Typical female.
“You don’t want one that’s bigger?”
“Nope.” She jerks her head once, nodding stubbornly. “I’m committed to this one. Size isn’t everything, you know—he might be small, but he’s mighty. Look at this stem! I can paint it or bedazzle it, or put a bow on it…” Her eyes search the ground. “You still have to pick yours out.”
I do, but I’m in no rush, because who gives a fuck about a pumpkin.
Except, Charlie is eyeing me expectantly, and I’d feel like a horse’s ass disappointing her since this is the reason we came.
It was my idea.
That and the fact that I wanted to impress her, and I wasn’t going to do that taking her to a college bar, or to a movie, or down to the bandshell where absolutely everyfuckingbody on campus goes on their dates.
I step three feet to my left and point to a lopsided pumpkin on the ground. “How ’bout this one?”
Charlie rolls her eyes. “Put some thought into it.”
Put some thought into it? How the hell do I put thought into choosing an overgrown gourd? This was such a bad idea.
“Fine.” I point again. “That one?”
My date wrinkles her nose. “Too bumpy. Plus, it’s covered in dirt.”
Oh my god.
“That one looks good.”
Charlie examines it then shakes her head again. “Meh.”
“Whose pumpkin is this? It ain’t yours, so why don’t you let me figure it out?”
“Because you’re just pointing to random ones. Don’t you want it to mean something?”
“Mean something? It’s a pumpkin.”
“I know, but when we get back to your place to carve them, don’t you want to—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “Back to my place to carve them? Slow your roll, Charlotte.”
She tilts her head and crosses her arms. Willfully. Shit. I know that look; I’ve seen it before on my mama.
Charlie is about to dig her heels in for the long haul, and I doubt it’s an argument I’m going to win. Not if she has her mind set on comin’ back to my place, which it seems like she does.
“We can’t carve these at my place,” I insist, kicking at a rock with the toe of my brown leather boot.
Her arms are still tight across her chest, hair kicking up from a passing breeze. “Why not?”
“No knives.”
“Oh my god, shut up.” She laughs. “You do too have knives.”
“Nope. No knives.”
She considers me a few moments, gauging the sly grin pasted on my face, looking me over from head to toe, starting from the tips of my boots. Up the front of my jeans. The clean, navy polo I’ve only worn one other time and that looks brand new. Her eyes take in my broad shoulders, thick neck, and the humor playing in my eyes.
At least—I hope she interprets all that, because she’s not saying anything and neither am I, and it’s fucking cold and I still haven’t chosen a damn pumpkin.
“Why don
’t you just pick one for me?” I suggest.
“Why don’t we pick one out together?” she volleys back. “How about we get a cute one and carve it together.”
A cute one? Jesus.
Going back to my place and carving that little bastard sounds way too fucking domestic, and I’m not looking to be tied down.
Fun, yes.
Relationship, no.
Then what are you doing on this date, smartass?
Still…
I cave. “Fine. We’ll get one.”
She takes her time with the selection, dragging me around the pumpkin patch, one hay wagon having come and gone, picking people up and dropping off a few more.
Charlie has me by the elbow, using me for support; her heels or sandals or whatever get caught up so many times in divots, she’s resigned to hang on to me—not that I’m complaining. Fingers pressed into the crook of my arm, her blonde hair hangs in a wave, catching light and glowing as the sun slowly begins setting in the distance.
Together, we critique different sizes and shapes of orange pumpkins, discussing various ways they could be carved.
“This might be fun with a football on it. You could put it on the steps outside with a candle inside. That would be cute.”
Cute.
“It would get smashed within ten minutes.”
“Ugh, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes get wide. “Oh, Jackson! How ’bout that one?”
Fuck. I love it when she says my name.
Jackson. Not JJ, or Triple J, or Junior, like everyone else calls me, including my parents and my friends. I’ve always thought it was kind of impersonal in a way, though great for keeping people at arm’s length.
Keeps me focused.
Keeps my eye on the prize.
Keeps my eye on the end goal: the pros.
But when Charlie says my real name, when she says Jackson—the way she says it? It makes my stomach curl, as if I’ve just done a hundred crunches and worn out my abs.
Her fingers unfurl from my arm and, on shaky legs, she makes her way to a round, smooth pumpkin, a cheery shade of orange all over with a long, coiled stem.
It’s damn near perfect.
“It’s almost perfect!” she exclaims, mimicking my thoughts. I grunt. “That the one you want?”
“What do you think?”
I don’t give a fuck, I want to say, but I don’t, because it would hurt her feelings. She’s way too jacked up about this pumpkin. “Looks good.”
“So you like it?” She’s hopeful.
“Sure.”
“I do, too—let’s get this one.” We both look down at it. “Can you carry it?”
Obviously I can—I’m Goliath. Nevertheless, it makes me feel like a badass that she asked, and that she did it with a little twinkle in her blue eyes while eyeing up my biceps.
Dang, if she keeps looking at me that way—with those soft eyes and sweet smile—I’m going to forget myself and catch feelings for her, or something equally foolish.
It’s bad enough that I’m about to take a goddamn pumpkin home to the house and carve it in my fucking kitchen for everyone to see.
I’m going to catch a rash of shit about it from the guys, no question.
I squat instead of bending over, scoop up the heavy vegetable, then tuck it under one arm, supporting its weight with my palm like I would a greased up baby pig, or a baby goat, or—
“The wagon’s already coming back around,” Charlie is saying next to me as she pulls at the collar on her denim jacket, shielding herself from the wind that’s been picking up since we got here. The skirt of her dress picks up, blown up by the breeze.
Standing side by side, we wait patiently for the hay wagon to position itself. Stop.
The driver climbs off the tractor and pulls down the stoop, placing a wooden block under it like he did when we originally scrambled on, and Charlie steps one heeled foot onto it now. Then the other, until she’s back up in the wagon, settling her fanny onto a hay bale. Smooths the skirt of her dress down with the palms of her hands, holding it in place when it gets kicked up by a gust of wind.
I heave myself up after her, plopping down beside her. Legs spread, I try to ignore it when she shivers.
“You cold?”
She shivers again in reply. “A little.”
“Um…” I’m not good at this, but I set the pumpkin on the ground between my feet and put my arm around Charlie. Pull her in closer, tucking her under my armpit like I’d do a football—or a pumpkin. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” She hunkers down a little more. “You’re blocking the wind, which is nice.”
I’m blocking the wind because I’m a fortress of strength and steel and goddamn power, and don’t you forget it.
“You’re like a big brick wall.” Uh.
“I prefer fortress of strength.”
She laughs into the solid wall of my chest, her giggle muffled by my shirt. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“But I am.”
Her body shakes. “Stop it, Jackson.”
What the hell? “You don’t think I am?”
“I mean, even if I did, I wouldn’t call you that. Who says that? Fortress of strength—that’s hilarious.”
I feel myself blush and thank God for the cold and breeze, because now that she’s teasing me, I feel like a fucking idiot for having said the words fortress of strength out loud to this girl.
I respond by grunting, giving her hair a nuzzle on the sly, praying she doesn’t notice.
Charlie pulls back far enough to look at my face. “Did you just sniff my hair?”
Bust my balls a little more why don’t you?
“I couldn’t breathe—you’re suffocating me.” We both roll our eyes at the lie, but when she settles back against my chest, I can actually feel her smiling against my pec.
Huh.
We get jostled and bounced around on the way back to the barn and somehow end up with straw in our hair. We also end up buying two gourds that look like mini-pumpkins and a pumpkin carving kit, stuffing a scarecrow, and noshing on caramel apples on the walk back to the truck.
I am carrying everything but Charlie’s apple.
She happily munches on it while I shove the pumpkin into the backseat of my truck, along with the scarecrow, carving kit, and gourds. I know as soon as I hit the brakes at the next light, those sonsabitches are going to fly off the seat and roll to the floor.
“We should name the scarecrow, don’t you think?” Charlie has her long legs extended, feet propped up on the dashboard with her shoes on as her teeth nibble on her apple.
“You want to name it?”
“Yeah. It needs a name.” She glances into the backseat and I steal a look at her calves.
Nice. Smooth. Sexy.
“It looks like a guy.”
“Are you being serious?” She says it with a straight face, so I can only assume she’s being serious, but it still sounds fucking ridiculous.
“Yes. I think it looks like a dude, so it needs a dude’s name.” Girls are so strange. “Like what?”
“Like…Jackson Jennings the fourth.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Randall?”
I cock my head now, getting into the game of naming our fictional new friend. “I don’t mind Randall, but how about Nathan. Or Kyle?”
“Those seem too…normal. What about Biff McMuscles?” she deadpans, a glint in her eye.
“Biff McMuscles?” I give him a quick peek in my rear-view mirror. “He doesn’t have muscles.”
“I know, but…” Charlie ducks her head as her cheeks darken. “That’s what I called you before I knew your name.” Darts a glance at me. “Is that bad?”
“You called me Biff McMuscles?” I want to barf a little in my mouth as I say it. For real, what the fuck? “Why?”
I mean—Biff?
“You’re all…” Her hands wave around along my torso, up and down. “Fit and buff and huge.”
“You couldn’t come up with a better nickname than that? It’s terrible.”
A sigh comes from the passenger side. “I know, but I didn’t like you at the time so it seemed to fit.”
“You didn’t like me?”
“You knew that, come on.” I get a patronizing pouty face as she mirrors my expression. “Why do you have that look on your face?”
“Uh, because I thought you liked me but you were pretending.”
“Nope. I literally could not stand you. I mean—just enough to curse you out a few times. You’re kind of awful.”
I am?
“I’ve never had any complaints before.”
“Who is going to complain to your face? No one. Yeah right.” Charlie snorts, crossing her legs and readjusting her body. “You’re Triple J, almighty wide receiver—no one is going to tell you no, let alone tell you you’re being an ass or say you suck. Come on, let’s get real for a second.”
My mouth opens to reply but gets clamped shut again as Charlie goes on, warming to the topic of me being an ass.
“Everyone is too busy kissing your ass. When is the last time anyone told you no? Or didn’t give you something you wanted? Or gave you a bad grade?” She makes an unattractive gagging sound in the back of her throat.
“Hey—I get bad grades.” Why am I defending myself?
“Fine, you get bad grades.” She uses air quotes around the word bad, and I get offended all over again. “When’s the last time you failed a class?”
“Are you implying that I’m given good grades?”
Her hands go up, palms facing the ceiling in the truck. “I wouldn’t know.”
“See, this is where you’re wrong. I study—I study my ass off. They might tailor classes for student athletes, but it’s at my discretion to take them—and I don’t. If I get hurt and end up on the injury list, I’m screwed. Then what? My career is shot and I’m left with nothin’—so I study and I study hard, because that’s the other reason I’m here.”
“Football and a degree.”
“Yup.”
“And that’s it?”
My hands tighten over the leather steering wheel, lips drawn into an obstinate line. “Yup.”
“And you don’t cheat?”
I turn my head to look her straight in the eyes. “No.”