Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2)

by Jen Frederick

  “They got enough people to sign their maintenance petition, so an exterminator crew is coming next Tuesday. You can keep your stuff here, but you’ll have to find a place to stay.”

  I do a quick calculation in my head. Five days. I’m not even convinced that they saw a cockroach. I don’t like changes in my routine. I can already feel my anxiety ratcheting up. Change is not my favorite thing in the world. I live by my routine. Hell, my health depends on it. “That’s bullshit.”

  “I know,” Charity says glumly. “I’m staying at the house. I asked if you could come, but they’re so strict. We’re still in pledge mode, so only full sisters can stay.” Charity belongs to the Alpha Phi sorority whereas Sutton and I are those Goddamned Independents or GDIs as Charity calls us affectionately. I’d have pledged a house if it didn’t cost an arm and a leg. I have to save those limbs to pay for graduate school.

  “Where are you staying?” I ask Sutton.

  “I’ve decided that Luke is worth a second night,” she admits. “Basically I’m sexing him up so I have a place to stay. Let’s hope he doesn’t expect a third time around because if tomorrow is anything like Saturday night, I’m going to have to diddle myself to have an orgasm once he falls asleep.”

  “I think I’d rather stay here and be exterminated.” I grimace. “I suppose I can stay with JR. He’ll be back by then and there’s so many bedrooms in his house that at least one will be free.”

  “Speaking of our vaunted Western State Warriors, guess who finally showed up in my Public Safety class.” Charity waggles her eyebrows.

  Apparently someone hot and sexy. “Dunno. Coach Lowe?” I tease.

  “No! Matt Iverson.”

  “Who’s that?” Sutton doesn’t know a thing about football. She fell asleep during the one game we watched together here in our apartment. And the live games? Forget about it. She left after the first quarter. Charity sometimes attends with her sorority sisters if it’s part of some fraternity exchange party but otherwise, they have zero interest in the game. The players, on the other hand? They are interesting but JR—or “Ace,” as everyone here at Western calls him—and I made a pact. No pissing in the other’s pool. I don’t date football players and he doesn’t mess with my roommates.

  “He’s on the defense,” I explain. “Linebacker. Will be a pro after his senior year.” I look at my spoon and then down into the half-empty carton of frozen yogurt. I should probably stop.

  “He’s this huge mountain of sweet male meat,” Charity shares with Sutton. “He’s got this longish black hair that stops around here.” She waves her hands under her chin. “And the bluest eyes. I swear they’re fake. Are they?” The question is directed at me.

  I drag my attention away from the icy treat and to my two roommates who are looking at me with intense interest. “I have no idea. I’ve never talked to him. Ace hangs out with the offense, mostly Ahmed and Jack Cameron, more recently.” Ahmed’s the running back, and Jack Cameron is a new guy—a tight end with magic hands that never seem to drop a pass and with sticky feet that somehow always manage to stay inbounds. “I think Iverson is best friends with Hammer Wright and Knox Masters. According to Ace, anyway. I don’t hang out with his teammates.”

  Well, I did once. Operative word being once. The one time I went to the Gas Station, the preferred hangout place for the football team, Ace was swallowed up by well-wishers. He forgot I was there, and I had little interest in being shoved around by the mass of people trying to slap his back.

  He’d apologized the next day, but I didn’t go out with him again. When we do hang out, it’s usually here although I’ve been over to his house a few times. I try to avoid that because nine times out of ten, someone is having sex in the living room or the kitchen. JR—I mean Ace—says it’s because sex is an athletic activity, no different than lifting or running.

  “Ohhhhh,” Sutton breathes out. “I had Intro to Communications with Hammer Wright first semester sophomore year.”

  “Sutton, are you blushing?” Charity exclaims. Sutton is not a blusher. She can rip off the bawdiest statement as if she’s standing in church reciting the Lord’s Prayer, so this slight reddening of her cheeks is highly unusual. “You are! What did you and Hammer get up to?”

  “Nothing.” Sutton grins ruefully. “Unfortunately. I threw myself at him several times, but he never noticed.”

  “He’s a dog. You are better off,” I offer comfortingly. I don’t know the defense well, but most of the single guys, Ace included, freely partake of what their elevated social status provides—a never-ending line of college girls wanting to know what it’s like to sleep with a star. It’s one reason I’d never date a football player. They don’t know how to hit the “off” button once they’re not on the field anymore. Life’s a big fat game to them, and girls are just objects they move around on the board.

  “A hot one,” Sutton admits.

  “And his hot dog has probably been licked so many times he’s on the WHO list of dangerous diseases,” I retort.

  Charity waves her hands, the multitude of bangles clanging cheerfully against each other. Charity would never be able to sneak up on anyone. She wears too much jewelry. “Who cares? I can’t stop staring at this Matt guy. He’s always wearing short-sleeved shirts, no matter how cold it is outside, and when he takes notes, his biceps muscle flexes. I swear the room gets ten degrees warmer when he walks in. I’d love to give him a little ride.”

  “It’d only be for one night,” I caution.

  Charity shrugs. “Again, who cares?”

  Sutton disagrees. “Here’s my theory. I think guys do one-night stands because their egos can’t take the blows that a more sober second hookup would deliver. They don’t want to hear they are bad in bed, so they do one-time-only events.”

  “What’s our excuse for our lack of regular companionship?” I joke.

  None of us has had a decent relationship since we came to college. I broke up with my high school boyfriend a month into my freshman year. Sutton has tried to date guys on and off, but when none of those relationships panned out, she’s settled for random hookups with guys like Luke. Charity was madly in love with one of the Western basketball players, but he graduated in December and hasn’t called her since, thus confirming my anti-athlete bias.

  “We’re looking for the unicorn,” Charity says. “The guy who’s a good lay and decent out of bed.”

  “I had a good lay once,” Sutton informs us. “Two years ago. Spring Break. Greece.” She fires out details like they’re bullets shooting from a gun. “That guy from the Philippines had a tongue like a snake.”

  “That’s a terrible visual.” I shudder.

  Sutton is undeterred. “It felt amazing. He licked places I didn’t even know had nerve endings.”

  “Two years ago was your last good sexual experience?” Charity asks with genuine concern.

  Sutton nods. “With a partner. I can get myself off fine, but that’s about two minutes and then what?”

  I nod. She speaks the truth. I miss having sex with a guy I have feelings for. I think that’s why my relationships here at Western have failed. I can’t summon up the requisite…passion for any guy. I keep trying. Keith is the fourth guy I’ve tried with, but the sex is so bland I’m better off masturbating. Alone.

  Charity shrugs. “I’ve had good sex with partners. You have to be more vocal and take charge though. Most of these guys think just jabbing you is going to get it done. Not to mention the opposite end of the spectrum, where they think they’re awesome and want to show off their amazing moves.”

  “No, the worst is whiskey dick where they keep going and going and you’re willing to do anything for them to either come or get the fuck off,” Sutton interjects.

  “Jesus, we’re jaded.” Maybe I should start looking at sex like exercise. Lord knows, with the increased stress in my life from mock trial, my glucose levels are going to be completely out of whack. I’m going to need to do something besides eating right to mana
ge my blood sugars. And gobbling a tubful of frozen yogurt isn’t the way to go about it. I get up and shove the nearly empty container back into the freezer.

  “It’s all part of growing up. Welcome to adulthood,” Sutton jokes.

  Sadly, though, I think she’s not too far off the mark, which is yet another reason why turning down the gorgeous guy at the Brew House was a good idea regardless of how sultry his lips looked forming my name or how his rough hands scraped against my softer, more tender skin. I have a sinking feeling he’s good in bed. He’s got a way with his body—graceful despite the size—that said he was comfortable in his own skin.

  “What’re you thinking about now?” Sutton asks.

  I give myself a little shake. I really need to stop dwelling on this guy no matter how blue— Oh, god. I turn back to my roommates.

  “Some guy hit on me at the Brew House,” I say slowly as the puzzle pieces click together. Blue eyes. Jet black hair. Muscles so nice they’d get a nun excited.

  “Jon Cryer or Charlie Sheen?” Sutton is a film major.

  I make a face. “How about neither?”

  “Okay, pick your own look-a-like actor.”

  “How about, instead of an actor, I pick Western State football player. I didn’t recognize him last night without the eye black and helmet. Plus, he was wearing glasses.”

  Sutton hoots. “He Clark Kented you!”

  Jingle. Jingle. Charity waves her hand at Sutton to get her to stop laughing. “Seriously, Matt Iverson hit on you last night? What’d you say? Are you going out with him?”

  Sutton jumps in. “I know exactly what she said. He’s not my type.” She turns to me. “Am I right?”

  I shrug. “So I have a type. Sue me. I don’t think liking a certain flavor of unsweetened yogurt is a bad thing.”

  “Sure, if you’re eating yogurt,” Charity cries in dismay. “But this is prime, Grade A manflesh.”

  “We need to hold an intervention.” Sutton sighs. “What was the excuse you gave?”

  I make a face at Sutton who, in turn, sticks out her tongue at me. Fine, I did give him an excuse. “I was working on my mock trial stuff. Plus, he seems like he’d take a lot of effort. Doesn’t matter now. Ace and I have the pact. No football players for me.”

  “There are eighty guys on that team. Who cares what Ace thinks?” Charity’s long hoop earrings swing as she bobs her head in indignation.

  “Agreed. Besides, Ace just made that stupid pact up so he can keep you to himself.”

  I reach into the cupboard so Sutton doesn’t see me roll my eyes. I’ve heard her theory before about Ace’s crush on me. Sounds like she’s still clinging to it despite the number of times Ace has been in this very apartment talking about the girls he’s been banging.

  Charity is beside herself with disappointment. “Other than your extracurricular activities, sixteen hours of school, and twenty hours of work, surely you could make time for someone who looks like that. I’d bang him so hard.”

  “Then you call him. Here’s his number.” I stomp over to my bag, pull out the paper he scrawled his digits on and shove it toward her.

  “He gave you his number?” Sutton says in disbelief.

  “Yup.”

  “I give up on you.” She turns around and folds her arms across her chest in disgust.

  “You’re the one who said good-looking guys are probably bad in bed,” I remind her, ignoring that inner crone voice yelling, Liar! “Besides, most of the single football players go through women like tissues. Look at Ace.” I’m gratified when both of my roommates give reluctant nods of understanding. “Matt just gives off this vibe of someone whose default toward women is always ‘on.’ He’d probably flirt with a tree if he knew it was female.”

  “You know this how?” Sutton challenges.

  “He hit on me. At the Brew House.”

  “You say that like the Brew House is a nun’s sanctuary. I know for a fact that you and Keith hooked up there.”

  “First, we did not hook up there. We work there. And because we work together and spent so much time together, it was natural that we would sleep together. But do I have to remind you how boring it was? How I nearly fell asleep one time when we were having sex? If that’s not a reason to stay away from men turned on by the smell of coffee, I don’t know what is.”

  Charity makes a face. “I suppose. Still, I think Matt Iverson would be worth at least one roll in the hay. You could do it for me. For womankind. You could test out the theory whether really good-looking guys actually know how to satisfy a woman. Report back as to whether he’s a dud or a stud.”

  Stud. Matt Iverson’s hot body looks like he could take some abuse. I keep that thought to myself lest Charity launch herself at me in frustration.

  “Oh sure, let me go and sacrifice my night for you.” She sticks out her tongue at me. “How about this,” I say placatingly. “I’ll fantasize about him. I’ll probably have a better orgasm by myself, objectifying him, than with him.”

  “True,” Charity says glumly. “If he really was good in bed, he’d be the unicorn, and then we’d wonder why he was single. Like, what is so wrong with him that he’s out trolling coffee houses for companionship? He should be able to go to the Gas Station and clap his hands and have a dozen babes at his feet.”

  “Thank you. My point exactly.” But being right doesn’t make me feel better.

  4

  Matty

  I find myself at the Brew House the next night. When Josie Weeks announced she was forming a study group for our Criminal Practice and Procedure class, I wasn’t interested. When she said they’d meet at the Brew House at seven, I couldn’t get my name on her list fast enough.

  I tell myself it’s because I need to study, but the moment I walk in and set eyes on Lucy’s long blond hair, I admit it’s because I want to see her again. Despite her rejection, I’m still hot for her in a way I can’t remember feeling toward another girl.

  Plus, focusing on Lucy, even if she did turn me down, is a thousand times better than dwelling on the ridiculous task Coach wants me to undertake. He’s the coach. If he wants a player moved, he moves the player. He doesn’t come to a linebacker with that request. I’m ignoring it for now. Ignoring it and, instead, applying my energies in a different and better direction: convincing sweet Lucy to go out with me.

  At Josie’s table, there are two chairs and she’s sitting in one of them. Either everyone else is late or it’s just going to be the two of us. I ignore the way she’s patting the chair next to her and drag one around so I can sit facing the counter. This is a definite two birds, one stone moment.

  “Did I scare everyone away or are we it?” I ask, pulling out my glasses and opening up the textbook. Lucy is mostly blocked by the machines, registers, and glass cases displaying sugary carbs, but I know she saw me when I walked in. I gave her a little wave and she frowned. She recognizes me. I’m taking that as a sign of encouragement.

  “No, it’s just us. Isn’t that nice?” Josie’s words break up my inspection.

  Whoops. Forgot why I was here for a minute. I quickly process Josie’s response.

  “I definitely need a study group,” I answer diplomatically.

  Her smile dims a watt or two but doesn’t completely disappear. “I’m glad I can be there for you.”

  Spring semester is always a little harder for me to stay focused. I only have a few weeks of spring ball, but the rest of the time, my schedule is wide open. Most of the trouble we players get into is when we don’t have a coach breathing down our necks and 7 a.m. full pads practice.

  From my limited study of Josie, I don’t know if she’s interested in sleeping with me or merely bagging, tagging, and hanging me trophy-like in her sorority house. In prior years, I’d have tapped that ass in a heartbeat. Nowadays, I’ve learned to be pickier. If we were at the Gas Station or a post-game party, the rules are pretty clear. Here? She might be angling for something more than I’m interested in giving.

  Jersey
chasers are a dime a dozen, always willing to take a ride on the football side, but you’ve got to be careful with the overly eager ones, the ones who aren’t just trying to make a trophy outta you, but a fuckin’ Lifetime Achievement award. As in, poking holes in condoms and look at that, you’re a baby daddy. I don’t know if Josie falls into that latter category, but she’s a little too eager for my taste.

  Too eager? Since when do I complain about eagerness?

  A husky laugh draws my eyes to the counter again. Oh right. Since the hot blonde turned me down. She makes my dick move. I lean forward, wanting to be part of whatever is making her smile. Josie follows my gaze. Her eyes narrow with laser-like focus.

  “Do you know Lucy Watson?”

  “Nah, I’m not much of a coffee drinker.” I don’t go into my theory about sweat-infused water. My main drink of choice is Gatorade followed by Gatorade and vodka chased with a beer, which is why I’ve set foot inside the Brew House maybe a half-dozen times since I started attending Western.

  “I’m not sure what her major is. Communications. Political Science? Something like that. She’s very strange.”

  I swivel back to Josie, surprised at her bitchy comment. Usually when girls run down other girls in front of me, they have more finesse. It’s more along the lines of “she’d look so much better in a different dress” and not so much with the “she’s an ugly bitch, stay away” because even self-absorbed people realize at some point that those kinds of comments are off-putting. “In what way?”

  “Why do you want to know?” She frowns.

  I’ve spent enough time around women to recognize danger when I see it. Josie’s intuitive enough to sense she has competition. Actually the competition is all in her head, but that’s still a problem. I intentionally draw her attention away from Lucy by tapping my book. “Why don’t we start with the fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine?”