Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  “Jennings, we’re your family when you’re not home.”

  Jesus Christ with this guy—what’s he trying to do, make me start crying again? I can live without the waterworks in public.

  I wipe my eye.

  Shit.

  “Look at you. Should we change your name to Sally?”

  “Shut up, Rodrigo.”

  “Aww, aren’t you cute when you’re sappy.” He’s giving me shit and it feels great. “Seriously, man—we’re brothers. We play together, work together, and bleed on that field together. Remember that when you’re feeling lost and alone.”

  Damn, the kid could write speeches. “What are you, a lit major?”

  “Nah, international studies.” Rodrigo stands, stretching to the full six foot four his bio boasts in the football program. “I wanna be a translator for the government.”

  “Shit, Carlos. What the fuck? How did I not know this?”

  “You do now, and that’s all that matters, eh, amigo?” His open palm gives me a smack on the cheek then pats it twice. “You have nothing to cry about. Count your blessings, asshole.”

  He’s right; it’s time to count my fucking blessings.

  * * *

  Me: Hey, what are you up to?

  Charlie: Not much. You?

  Me: Lots of thinking and now I can’t concentrate. You want to come over?

  Charlie: Um, to your place?

  Me: Lol yes. To my place.

  Charlie: Are your roommates home?

  Me: It’s Wednesday, so yeah. Is that a big deal?

  Charlie: No! No. I just wanted to know what I’m walking into.

  Me: Everyone is either eating or studying. It’s quiet, safe to come over. Hint hint.

  Charlie: Well since you put it that way…

  Me: I have something I want to talk about.

  Charlie: Oh crap. You want to TALK??? What guy ever wants to talk? Answer: none of them. Are you sick? Do I need to take your temperature?

  Me: Lol no I’m not sick. But you could come take my temperature.

  Charlie: Are you sure? It’s a rectal thermometer.

  Me: A WHAT?

  Charlie: Rectal. You know, you insert it up your **wiggles eyebrows**

  Me: Don’t ever say the word rectal and wiggle your eyebrows in the same sentence ever again.

  Charlie: You’re a virgin—how do you know you wouldn’t like a rectal?

  Me: How dare you rub my virginity in my face.

  Charlie: I’m not rubbing it in your face! I’m just asking how you know you wouldn’t like it.

  Me: Um, I don’t think you can just bring up butt stuff randomly—this escalated so quickly.

  Charlie: Oh? How so?!

  Me: Uh, I asked you to come over and talk, and now you’re discussing rectals…

  Charlie: Oh. Shit. That’s right, you did ask me to come over…sorry. Sometimes I get off track.

  Me: Lol I don’t even know what just happened there. Weirdo.

  Charlie: I’ve been called worse things than weirdo.

  Me: Seriously?

  Charlie: Well. No…

  Me: Lol

  Me: You coming over or not?

  Charlie: When?

  Me: Now?

  Me: You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It feels like you’re stalling.

  Charlie: I’m not.

  Charlie: It’s not like this is a date and I have anything to be nervous about **nervous, crazy laugh**

  Me: Guess that depends.

  Charlie: Oh shit.

  Me: Just get your cute little ass over here.

  Charlie: Whoa. WHOA. I cannot believe you said that.

  Me: Neither can I.

  …STILL WEDNESDAY

  CHARLIE

  Okay. This feels strange.

  I raise my hand to knock on Jackson’s door—nay, the door of the football house—and pause halfway up, clenched hand poised just beneath the rusty, brass doorknocker.

  Do it, a little voice whispers. Stop being a chicken. Knock.

  Low, masculine baritones are the only sounds I can hear. They’re not raucous or wild or loud, so I know nothing crazy is going on inside. I mean, Jackson already said the only thing happening is studying, but I don’t think I actually believed him.

  They’re football players, for heaven’s sake; why would they be sitting quietly around their house on a Wednesday night?

  You’re being ridiculous, Charlie. Knock on the damn door.

  I pull at the hem of my shirt so it’s down over the waistband of my jeans. Then fuss with my hair for a few seconds, smoothing down the strands though I can’t see what they even look like. I’ve gone from my place to my car, then from my car to this porch—there’s no way it could have gotten mussed.

  Still.

  I’m nervous.

  More nervous than I was for the biology midterm I had to take and pass so I could begin my application to enter the nursing program. (Totally aced it, by the way.)

  Knocking on the front door of the football house is weird. The last time I was here, I entered with Jackson, which made me feel protected.

  I feel like a sitting duck here on the porch by myself.

  Ugh, why did I wear these stupid shoes? Heels.

  Well, fine, they’re wedges—high or tall or however you want to describe them, and I wore them because Jackson is crazy tall and…dammit, I’ll probably wind up taking them off as soon as I step into the foyer. Shouldn’t have bothered.

  So why did I?

  Because you want him to think you’re pretty.

  This isn’t a date, and we’re not buddies—I don’t think? Fine, we’re friends…I’m just not sure what kind. Being here is an odd place to be. I have no idea what to expect when I get inside. Who’s going to be sitting around, what they’re going to say, how I’m supposed to be behave…

  …like a normal person?

  Wow. Calm yourself, Charlie. Get into the house and overthink it later.

  I text him to let him know I’m standing outside.

  Me: I’m here

  Jackson: K

  Ugh. I hate when people use the letter K as a reply. It’s enough to send me over the damn edge, but I get it; what kind of reply was he supposed to give me? He needs to come get me like, right now, because I am about to start actually talking to myself out loud.

  The door swings open, but it’s not Jackson standing there; it’s the outline of the Hispanic guy I remember from the pumpkin-carving party.

  “Hey Charlotte, what’s up?” He pulls the door open wider so I can step through, and I’m shocked—shocked and in awe that he remembers my name.

  They must have dozens of girls here on a weekly basis.

  “Triple J is upstairs, probably wanking it to cheap porn.” The guy smiles—for the life of me I can’t remember his name and I feel horrible about it—not flinching at what’s obviously a lie.

  Jackson wouldn’t be jerking off knowing I was downstairs, would he?

  Nah.

  “Right.” I laugh, feet on the small patch of hardwood floor closest to the door, looking around to see who has their shoes on and off. A large dude is sprawled out on the couch, yellow headphones around his neck, glasses on his nose, laptop glowing, fingers typing faster than mine do.

  Another guy is in the kitchen nearby…washing dishes?

  A sight I wouldn’t have expected to see, but there you go— football players do chores. Who would have thunk?

  “You want to go upstairs? His lady dungeon is the second room on the left.”

  When he says lady dungeon, I laugh again, his speech laced with a sexy Spanish inflection.

  Muy caliente.

  Stop it, Charlie. Focus.

  Up the stairs and to the left.

  “Thanks, I’ll just…” I point to the staircase, and the big guy closes the door behind me.

  “You kids behave yourselves. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”

  “And wrap it up!” the guy in the kitchen shouts. “No p
umping and dumping. Keep that shit on lockdown.”

  Jeez. With friends like these, who needs enemies? If Jackson were down here, he’d be positively red, I’m certain of it.

  I climb the staircase slowly, hand gliding along the shiny wooden railing, counting them out.

  One…four, five.

  Nine…twelve.

  When I’m at the top I go the only way I can go: left. Pass one room then stop at the closed door, wondering why Jackson hasn’t come crashing through it yet, knowing he needed to come get me from the front porch.

  For the second time tonight, I raise my arm to knock.

  And just as my hand hits the solid wood door, it goes flying open, Jackson Jennings filling the entire space. Broad. Huge.

  “Hi,” I say dumbly. “Your friend let me in.”

  “Sorry, as soon as I sent that last text my mom called.”

  Oh?

  “She never calls, so…”

  He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his track pants and steps aside. “You comfortable chillin’ in my room? Or we could go downstairs?”

  “Yeah, this is fine. I doubt you’re going to put the moves on me, haha.” Jackson is barely a womanizer; there’s no doubt I’m safe going into his… “Your roommate called this your lady dungeon.”

  “My what?”

  “Lady dungeon?” I laugh; it sounds so stupid leaving my mouth.

  “Jesus Christ, what does that even mean?”

  “No clue. It sounds more like he’s referring to my lady business.” I point to my private parts as a joke then catch the look on Jackson’s face. His brows have shot up into his hairline, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oh relax, I’m kidding.

  But it does.”

  He stares at me for a few awkward seconds. “Er…’kay. Well, come on into my dungeon.”

  I cross the threshold of his bedroom, busying myself by setting my purse on the desk against the far wall. Slowly, I let myself look around, taking in my surroundings.

  “This looks more like a lair than a dungeon, if I’m being honest.”

  “No it doesn’t.” His deep laugh echoes in the space that’s way too small for a guy his size. He dwarfs the room, larger than life.

  It’s painted deep forest green, the trim a golden brown. It’s a dark man cave with a studious, library vibe. Two bookshelves flank the desk where I set my things, both of them filled edge to edge.

  “You moved all these here from Texas?” I finger the spines of the books sitting on the third shelf down, the majority of them paperbacks.

  “Some. The rest I’ve read over the past few years. I’ve lived in this room since I was a freshman.”

  “You’ve read all these?”

  “Most, yeah.”

  “Huh. Another layer to your onion.” I smile, toying with a tiny action figure. “Who is this?”

  I glance at him over my shoulder; Jackson still has his hands jammed in his pockets.

  “Um…He-Man.”

  Hmm, never heard of him. “And this?” The next figurine looks like a wolverine.

  “That’s Wolverine.”

  “Oh.”

  The entire collection is organized neatly in a straight line, lined up one by one toward the front of the shelf. Tiny toy soldiers. A piece from a Monopoly board game—the dog, to be exact.

  “What’s the significance of this?”

  “Stole it.”

  “Why?”

  Jackson shrugs. “I don’t know. Dumb, right?”

  Yeah, kind of, but who am I to judge? I once stole the head from a Pez dispenser and had it on my desk for the longest time. Some things have no logic behind them.

  More trinkets. Tons of football memorabilia: awards, medals, articles. I pick up a newspaper clipping about Jackson and a teammate named Adam who passed away from an aneurism. It’s dated two years ago.

  “Did your mom frame this?”

  “No. I did.”

  I glance at him again then back at the myriad of articles; not all of them are about him. “Did you frame all of these?”

  “Yu—” He stops himself. “Yes.”

  Interesting.

  Jackson is sentimental.

  And sweet.

  He looks…lost, standing there watching me, unsure what to do with himself as I invade his space. Insecure, as I felt on his porch, uncertain whether to knock or turn tail and run.

  I set down a newspaper article about some bowl championship and give him my full attention. Take the few paces to the bed and plop myself down on the mattress. Lean back on my elbows and stare up at him.

  His eyes scan my body, starting at my denim-covered knees and working their way up my torso. Over my abs and stomach. Stalling on my breasts.

  They’re full—mostly because I’m not the thinnest girl around and always seem to carry around a few unwanted pounds, but sometimes, it’s nice having a decent pair of boobs. Times like this, when an attractive boy is paying them attention, staring at them as if they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.

  And he hasn’t even seen them naked.

  My chest heaves, adrenaline coursing through my veins from a sudden rush of blood through my quickly beating heart— how easily Jackson is able to make it palpitate. I wish I could calm it, pressing my right hand to the left side of my chest, taking a few steadying breaths as he continues watching me.

  Studying me sitting on his bed, I must look like a foreign object to him, out of place. Blonde and light in contrast to this dark bedroom filled with memorabilia and guy stuff.

  Green walls. Dark wooden trim and shelves. Headboard. Deep, navy blue bedspread with plaid pillowcases. It’s lodge-y and homey and I bet super toasty in the winter.

  Jackson’s blue eyes get darker the longer they stay fastened on me, his bottom teeth pulling at his top lip. He wants to say something but, for whatever reason, can’t.

  Or won’t.

  Or doesn’t know how to. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

  I watch him from my spot on his bed. “What’s a bad idea?” “You bein’ here.”

  “You said you wanted to talk—did you change your mind?” I sit up, straightening, then scoot back so I’m in the center of the mattress, crisscross my legs.

  Jackson looks miserable.

  “What’s wrong?” I cock my head to the side. “Come sit down—you look like you’re going to throw up.”

  He does totally look like he’s going to toss his cookies all over the hardwood floor, the poor thing; probably hasn’t talked about his feelings much like he was intending to tonight.

  I assume that’s why he wanted me to come over. I might never know since he’s stalling so badly.

  Jackson’s gaze burns a hole into the quilt where my hand is patting it down, inviting him to take a seat next to me. On the bed.

  Hesitantly, he shuffles his feet across the floor. Uncrosses his arms and lowers himself to the mattress. It dips from his weight.

  I’m graced with a view of his broad back. It’s wide and strong, the cords from each muscle visible beneath his soft, threadbare t-shirt, which I’m tempted to touch, to slide my fingers across to see his reaction.

  I bet he’d jump clear across the room. The little devil inside me laughs. Maybe you should touch him, just to see…

  When he clasps his hands in his lap, the cotton stretches with movements, which I follow intently.

  That back is a pure power, and I marvel at it while he has his eyes focused on the door.

  The closed door.

  Jackson clears his throat and shifts his rear.

  Turns, back to the headboard, pulling his heavy legs onto the mattress, letting his head fall to the wall behind him. Heaves a sigh.

  I wait, not wanting to steamroll over him. Wanting him to talk and say what he wants to say, because clearly, there is something weighing on his chest.

  His strong. Masculine. Chest.

  I peel my eyes away from his pecs, and he catches me.

  “Jackson, anything you tell me,
I promise not to repeat.” It’s something I feel I have to say, to let him know he can trust me with whatever information he wants to share.

  He shakes his head. “It’s nothin’ like that.”

  “What is it then?” He has a lot on his mind, that much is clear, especially if he asked me to come over. So unlike him. I know he’s never had a relationship, keeps primarily to himself, lives and breathes football.

  He is never going to live and breathe for a girl.

  “So, I’ve been thinkin’,” he begins, voice husky, hands still clasped in his lap. He studies his fingers, head bowed, unable to make eye contact. “Um. About us.”

  Us?

  What’s this now?

  I sit up straighter, at full attention. He wants to talk about us? What us? What does this mean?

  My imagination and mind go into overdrive before he’s gotten any further words out of his gorgeous mouth. Surely he wouldn’t have called me over to tell me our friendship wasn’t working out, right?

  Not his style; he’d ghost me instead.

  “Us,” I deadpan coolly. Nonchalant. Casual.

  Fake as fuck, because my heart has spun into a tailspin, deceiving me.

  Jackson has no idea how to proceed, that much is obvious. His face is pink as a newborn baby’s bottom that’s just been scrubbed in the tub, and he hasn’t raised his gaze to look at me, eyes fastened to the bookshelves in front of us.

  “I was thinkin’ that maybe…” His voice hitches, caught. “That…we…um…”

  Oh my god, he’s so cute I can’t even handle it right now.

  Big and taking up half the bed, I can’t wrap my brain around him being nervous. This boy who is going to play professional football, who’s a head taller than half the people I know. Twice as wide. Stronger and larger than life.

  Because of me.

  I, Charlotte Edmonds, make him nervous.

  Jackson says, “Um,” one more time before tilting his head back and staring up at the ceiling for help.

  “Do you not want to hang out anymore?” I ask innocently, knowing full well the answer is going to be no but providing him a springboard for the words he wants to say. A prompt, if you will…

  “No.” His head shakes back and forth. “I mean, yes. That’s not it.”