Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

I stand ramrod straight, still as stone, trying to keep my dick from getting hard out of sheer willpower as those lips of hers hover over mine, warm breath from her nose and mouth sweeping over my skin. She’s hesitating, eyes searching my face, presumably for the perfect spot to land her kiss.

  Starting in the corner of my mouth, a gentle press of her mouth hits the small indentation. Pulls away.

  Hums quietly, a delicate little hmm before moving in a second time.

  Kisses the cleft in my chin she loves so much.

  It tickles and I stifle a giggle—what am I, five? Jesus, Jackson, concentrate.

  Charlie’s eyes are trained on my mouth—I can see them despite the light shining from behind her and into my eyes, blinding me. I might not be able to see anything but her silhouette, but I can still see the interest in her gaze.

  The light suddenly flickers—goes out, the sound of the light bulb popping the only indication that someone didn’t shut it off from inside the house.

  It’s dark. So dark, we stand waiting for our eyes to readjust, the only sounds our breathing and a car slowly passing by. I watch in my peripheral vision as it stops at the light, sitting far too long, its driver most likely texting.

  Charlie’s hands cup my jaw, reminding me how good that felt when she did it earlier, only this time, it’s almost as if she’s memorizing the lines in my face now that she’s unable to see them.

  I can finally see her better, better than I could with the porch light blinding me. The moon is full, and she’s alert, interested, beautiful. Intent on her goal, almost as if I’m not standing here with her, though I’m the focus of her mission.

  I suck in a breath when her lips finally hover over my mouth. Actually suck in a goddamn breath, inhaling like someone laid their freezing hands on my stomach. Or shocked me with a Taser. Or…was about to kiss me full on the mouth.

  God, I’m such a damn child. My stomach positively churns from nerves—I’m in my twenties, for fuck’s sake, not a freaking boy.

  Charlie finally—finally—presses her mouth against mine. Firmly, our top and bottom lips meeting. Warm. Soft. Pouty. Full.

  She stands there, unmoving, letting the simple kiss simmer, tattooing my mouth forever with the imprint of hers.

  It burns. Singes. Electrifies me.

  Yet I don’t move, instead letting my hands hover at the sides of her waist, almost touching her but not quite, too afraid to go anywhere—a deer caught in headlights.

  I’m never as passive as I am right now, normally decisive and full steam ahead. A decision maker. The receiver on the team and the guy running the ball. A leader.

  Not this bullshit where I’m letting some silly girl push me against the wall on her porch, calling the shots and taking control. That’s usually my job.

  It’s refreshing.

  Charlie’s sweet mouth cracks open, and mine automatically does, too—just the barest of a fraction, our intentions the same: tongue.

  They touch tentatively, mine hesitant, wanting and needing her to lead the way. Goddamn I wish I knew what I was doing.

  Nature takes over, my tongue surprisingly meeting hers without fumbling; it’s all things honey and sugar and sexy and wet. Innocent, but not quite, as Charlie opens her mouth wider so I can move my tongue deeper.

  When she sucks on it, my dick stiffens in a way I haven’t felt before—hard. Painful. Blood rushing from my goddamn brain to my cock. I wonder how I’ll walk straight to my truck when this is over.

  My hand moves up her body, gripping the back of her head at the base of her neck, pulling her closer. Her hands leave my shoulders to grip the waistband of my jeans, fingers hooking through the belt loops and tugging.

  Our pelvises don’t line up—I’m too tall for that—but they’re close enough to alleviate this throbbing between my legs as our lips and tongues clash.

  A bump on the wall digs into my ass, but I couldn’t care less. All I care about is Charlie kissing me. The little moans coming from her throat. The fact that we’re alone, the only two people who matter right now.

  What team? What coaches? What career? Nothing matters.

  There is no one but Charlie Edmonds.

  A WEDNESDAY

  JACKSON

  I couldn’t sleep for shit last night. I can’t eat at breakfast.

  I can’t do anything but let my mind drift.

  It’s the first time I’ve been this distracted in my entire life, at least that I can recall.

  My ass has been lodged on the same weight bench for the past ten minutes, except I haven’t lifted a single barbell or weight.

  One name plays itself on a loop in my mind: Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.

  Shit, what happens if I sleep with her? What will that do to my football career? I have no fucking idea, and I’m not sure I’m brave enough to find out. My entire life I’ve been told by Pops and my coaches that girls are nothing but a distraction—career killers.

  The wrong girl can make or break you, the way my pops blames Mama for him not playing college ball, although I can’t imagine getting some girl knocked up doing that much damage. You do what you have to fucking do and hustle harder.

  That’s the difference between my father and me—he obviously never had the drive, instead blaming his shortcomings on the person closest to him: my mother. She didn’t get herself pregnant, but he blamed her my whole life.

  Which is why he pushes me so hard not to screw myself by screwing women.

  That’s not what this is, though. Charlie isn’t… Our relationship isn’t the same.

  She wants what’s best for me, and if I told her tomorrow that I wanted space, she’d back off and give it to me.

  Charlie would disappear.

  The thought makes me fucking sick to my stomach, along with the thought of being alone for the rest of my life.

  Sure, when I make a pro football team, I’ll have more money than I’ve ever seen—more than I’ll know what to do with, more than my family has ever seen. I know my parents expect me to support them after I’m drafted; that’s the motivation behind my father’s big push.

  Then what? I pay off their house, buy a swank pad of my own—and sit in it alone? I immediately envision a backyard with a pool, grill, and lots of space. Inviting friends over and watching them with their children and families while I’m off to the side watching.

  Jealous.

  Cleaning up the mess, alone. Going to bed, alone. Waking up in the morning, alone. Heading to practice and coming home to an empty house.

  Sounds fucking awful.

  All because I’ve been told and taught a relationship will squash my goals.

  What’s the worst thing that could happen if I stick my dick inside Charlie? We give each other a few orgasms and go on our merry way.

  Easy.

  It’s not like I’ll get attached to her. Boom, one and done. Okay, maybe twice.

  Liar.

  You’re a fucking liar, Jackson. You’re already attached or you wouldn’t be thinking about sleeping with her at all.

  You’d be doing what you’re supposed to be doing—these squats.

  I’m staring off into the distance, at a banner hanging from the far wall, down the cinderblock confines of the giant workout facility. It’s a blown-up photo of one of the rowers on the women’s crew, her expression one of elation as the team crosses the finish line first at a meet.

  I pan to another banner: baseball. A grunting pitcher on the mound, face pinched, one eye shut as he takes aim before releasing the hard ball.

  Wrestling. Dark and broody Zeke Daniels, an alumna. Kind of a bastard, if my memory serves me correctly; I’ve only met the guy a few times, but he wasn’t pleasant. I believe he’s engaged to be married. Which means he had a girlfriend when he was winning championships. Their other team captain did too.

  Legs spread, a white towel in my hand, I wipe the sweat from my brow, mind ticking through a mental roster of my teammates—which of them have serious girlfriends?

  Devin S
anchez, linebacker. Peter Van Waldendorf, quarterback. Stuart White, linebacker. Kevin O’Toole, tight-end.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. What have I been doing the past three years? No personal life, just football. No going out, just football. No drinking, no sex, no nothing.

  Just football.

  I lean forward, burying my face in my hands, drying my sweaty forehead on the towel. Close my eyes and breathe.

  This isn’t my fault.

  I did what I thought I had to do.

  But for what?

  For your career, idiot, I argue.

  But why? You’re twenty-two, not fifty.

  Because that’s the only thing I’ve been taught.

  There—I just saved myself hundreds of dollars on a shrink and therapy, because Lord knows I probably need one after the head case my father has turned me into.

  Damn him. Fucking Pops.

  He’s at home sitting in his recliner, armchair quarterback for the past two decades, calling shots on my life from Texas while I bust my ass in Iowa. Me. Injuries, arguments, grunt work—for him. Sweat, plenty of tears, and sometimes blood.

  Speaking of tears…

  The white terrycloth towel absorbs the salt dripping from my tear ducts, and I squeeze my eyes harder, willing the little bastards to stop.

  Shit.

  “Hey man, you all right?”

  When I lift my head, Rodrigo is standing there, head cocked, dark skin bright red from overexertion, muscles bulging.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to piss off, but he actually looks concerned, and if I’m being honest, I haven’t let myself become friends with these guys. Always keeping a safe distance for whatever reason—who the fuck knows.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

  “Do any of us?”

  Yes, actually. I think Rodrigo plays ball because he’s talented, but he loves it, too. It’s in the way he runs on the field, how he digs his heels into the turf before dashing during sprints, the look on his face when someone scores.

  Do I love this as much as he does, or am I so programmed I sleepwalk through it? A member of the Jackson Jennings Senior cult—the one and only acolyte.

  Rodrigo—first name, Carlos—stands hovering above me, and if I don’t say something soon, he’s going to put his hand on my shoulder to console me, I just fucking know it. Dude is sensitive, having been raised with three meddling sisters and a mama who occasionally brings enchiladas to the house on game day. Stocks the fridge with water bottles and snacks, hands down discipline better than any coach in the locker room.

  Typical mother.

  Actually, that’s not true; my mama hasn’t come to visit once, not even to move me in freshman year. Pops told her to stay home, but she could have insisted. Looking back at all the mothers on move-in day, mine was noticeably absent and has been every year since.

  I’m not bitter about it.

  “Yeah, Carlos, I do think most of you know what you’re fucking doing here.”

  He doesn’t know what to say, so he continues lingering near me like an unwanted fly; the truth is, I don’t mind it.

  “Dude, were you crying?”

  My shoulders shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  I shrug again.

  “Hey, I cried last weekend when my parents and sister left.”

  Twist the knife in my back, why don’t you?

  “Oh.”

  “Seriously, man—what’s wrong? You look sick.”

  I am sick—sick of the bullshit around me and needing a change.

  A weak smile crosses my lips. “I’ve just been overthinking everything, that’s all.”

  Rodrigo doesn’t believe me, and he does what I didn’t want him to do: touches me. Places a mammoth paw on the ball of my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Get it out, man.”

  “Are you tryin’ to therapy me, man?”

  “Probably.” He shifts on his heels. “This is why it sucks having three sisters—turns you into a pansy ass.” Pauses. “I was the same way when I had a girlfriend. Fucking sap.”

  I lift my chin. “Girlfriend? When was this?”

  “Last year. She dumped me for someone else. Holy fuck, I was in bad shape for a while after that.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “That’s because I didn’t say anything to anyone. I went home when it happened and mi madre baked for me all weekend, fed me, and listened to me lloriquear como un bebé.”

  “Huh?”

  “I whined like a baby.” He laughs.

  “But you didn’t play ball like shit.” Our coaches always warn us about the pitfalls of a relationship, one of them being a breakup. Falling off the wagon as a player and having a shitty season because you lose focus. No one wants to be the dickhead crying in the corner because his girlfriend dumped him or he’s hung up on some girl who strings him along. No one wants to be the guy who gets mixed up with a gold-digging user.

  Rodrigo looks nonplussed. “No. I was too pissed off about it. I channeled it into positive energy, bro.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know—meditation?”

  Meditation? Huh, who knew.

  “I didn’t realize you had a girlfriend. Sorry I wasn’t there for you, man.” What a shitty friend.

  “Yeah, her name was Sunny. We met at a party.”

  “Was she a jock chaser?”

  “No. The guy she broke up with me for is in the drama department. She was…” He trails off. Swallows. I feel shitty that we’re talking about someone he obviously hasn’t thought of in quite some time; it’s clear in the quiet way he’s measuring every sentence. Sunny was special.

  And she didn’t fuck up his game.

  How is that possible? Isn’t that what girlfriends do? Fuck your shit up?

  Superstitions among athletes run deep, and a girlfriend can jinx the locker room, jinx the playing field, and jinx the house football players live in—especially during a losing streak. One loss in a season can be blamed on someone’s new girlfriend, old girlfriend, side piece, or fiancée.

  “Did you ever feel pressure when you were with her?”

  Carlos looks confused. “What do you mean by pressure?”

  “Pressure, you know—to break up with her.”

  He scrunches up his face. “Why would I have broken up with her? I loved her.”

  Now I feel like an idiot for asking, but I go on to explain, “Because bein’ in a relationship can fuck up your game on the field.”

  My teammate watches me, staring down before taking a seat on the weight bench across from me. Rests his elbows on his knees. Clasps his hands and leans forward. “Triple J. Dude— life isn’t all about the game. Other shit is important, too, like family and friends.”

  “Right.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  “Jackson, mi hermano, listen to me.” He leans closer still, and I’m shocked to hear my name on his lips—I honestly wasn’t sure anyone knew my real name. Other than Charlie, who has no problem overusing it. “At the end of the day, the field isn’t the one who is there for you. It’s this.” He points a finger at me, then at himself, running it back and forth between our two bodies. “Family. La familia.”

  Brother, listen to me…

  He reclines back on the bench and scrutinizes me. “Your parents really fucked you up, didn’t they?” His voice is almost a damn whisper, and it makes me twitchy, because yeah—they really did a number on me. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “So were you? Crying?”

  “Yes.” A laugh escapes my throat, thank God, breaking the somber mood. I already look like a pussy; I don’t need him feeling sorry for me.

  “Why?”

  My gaze darts around the workout room, judging the distance between us and the nearest athlete. A few girls— volleyball or baske
tball players judging solely by their height—are loitering by the fridge with the waters, and a few beefy dudes are at the free weights, all of them grunting out reps.

  The sounds of metal barbells clinking, air conditioning units pumping out cold air, and trainers giving directions drown out any conversation I’m having with Rodrigo.

  So I tell him.

  “I feel like I’ve wasted too much fuckin’ time on this sport and not enough time on myself.” Does it sound like I’m whining? Hope not.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have no life, dude.”

  My teammate nods and stays silent.

  “It’s like I woke up this mornin’ and realized…I’m sleepwalkin’ through my own damn life.”

  “Sure.” He measures his next words. “I think a lot of guys feel like that at one point or another.”

  “Do you?”

  He looks embarrassed. “Well, no, but that’s because I’m Mexican. Dude, when I have a birthday party, eight hundred people show up. When I take a dump, mi madre is there to wipe my ass. I grew up in a tiny house with no privacy and we traveled in packs.

  “So…I didn’t have the chance to sink too much time into playing ball, because family always came first.” He smiles at a memory. “Once, I skipped the grand march for my little sister’s homecoming dance, and I caught hell for it. She cried, mi padre cursed. You would have thought I got a girl embarazada.” Pregnant—even I know what that word is in Spanish. “Or committed a felony.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what that’s like.” I don’t recall having a birthday party, let alone attending a homecoming dance…or a dance, period, even though I was nominated a few times for the court.

  Whatever, the past is in the past.

  Is it, though?

  “I’m sorry, man. You can borrow mi familia if you want— they’re enough to make a man loco.” Rodrigo reaches out and gives my knee a tap with the tips of his fingers. “Cheer up, brother. You have all the family you need right here, you know. Do you forget that?”

  He’s talking about the football team, coaching staff, and the community as a whole. It’s been ingrained in us from the beginning that we are one—no man left behind, team spirit, we can’t win alone, yada yada and all that inspirational bullshit—only I never cared to foster any of the friendships at my disposal.