“Get the tofu fries and yogurt dip,” I interrupt. “They’re delicious. Actually, get two orders and I’ll eat whatever you don’t.”
His lips quirk up again, as if he’s not at all irritated that I cut him off. “Okay, two orders of tofu fries and then we’ll be eating. Together. You do know what together means, right? Close to or in the proximity of another person.”
“Very nice, Mr. Dictionary.”
He folds his arms on the table and leans across. He’s so tall, and the tables at Crowerly’s are so small, he’s virtually touching me.
“I’m your man if you need some SAT words for your papers.” A naughty grin spreads across his face. “I’m a verbal guy. I like saying things almost as much as I like doing them.”
He doesn’t explicitly define what “things” are, but I’d have to be a total newb not to get his gist. He’s talking about sex things. Dirty things. Hot things. The image of this guy bent over me whispering exactly how he’s going to touch me, feel me, be with me? I’m going to need a pitcher of water not a mug of coffee. The whole idea of Matty—geez, am I really calling him Matty now? He’s in my head, and I need to push him out.
“How is that even true?” I say skeptically. There’s no way he enjoys talking as much as he enjoys screwing some girl.
“Never enjoyed a little dirty talk during your fun time?” He looks disappointed.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I think talking is overrated. Maybe you should practice one aspect—such as the physical—before adding in another component,” I say in my most clinical and repressive tones, but even as I utter those words, I know what he’s going to say in return. The problem here is that Matt could probably turn anything into a sexual innuendo.
“I’m a big believer in “practice makes perfect,” and I don’t get my feelings hurt in the face of criticism, which is why you should test out both my physical and verbal skills. Say, tomorrow night?”
I’m saved from answering when the waitress appears with our two big mugs of coffee. Matt shoves his aside and places his order for fries and dip—Crowerly’s version of it, at least—and a glass of water. The water appears moments later, as if the waitress can’t stand being away from him for even a second.
“I’m busy tomorrow night. I have mock trial practice.”
“Nice. I like that. A real excuse. It helps soothe the sting.” He rubs his chest in mock pain, and I have to force myself not to stare at how well defined his muscles appear even under his T-shirt.
You don’t like muscles, I remind myself.
“Let’s go back to this no-dirty-talking experience. What kind of guys are you dating?”
“Nice ones.”
“I’m a nice guy, and I love a little dirty talk. If you sat on my lap right now, I might say something like ‘I’ve been waiting all day to have your ass in my hands,’ and you could reply with ‘Matty, you’re so big.’” His falsetto brings a reluctant smile to my face. “I like big, hot, strong as adjectives. Just an FYI. And then I’d pull you closer so I could nuzzle your neck and say—”
The bell tinkles as the restaurant door opens and four girls walk in. I grab Matty’s water and gulp it down. His little tame sampler of dirty talk made me uncomfortably warm. This is exactly why I don’t date guys like him. I’d have to take an extra glucose shot every day just to keep up.
The girls must have spotted Matt because they bypass three open tables to walk by ours. As they pass, there’s a contest of who can flip her hair over her shoulder the hardest. I swear the last two eyefuck him so hard, it’s a wonder they make it to their own table upright.
To his credit, he’s more interested in the yogurt and tofu the waitress delivered.
“This is tofu?” he asks enthusiastically between giant bites. It only takes two for the entire thing to disappear into his mouth. He wipes off his mouth before telling me, “Tom Brady eats a lot of vegan dishes during the season. Says it keeps him healthy. I should try more of this stuff. I didn’t realize it tasted so good.”
I’m partly relieved the food has distracted him from his discourse on dirty talking but also partly disappointed. He’s...well, dammit, fun to talk to. Ugh. Why? Why can’t I smoosh Keith and Matt together? Matty’s personality with Keith’s safe and quiet attractiveness?
I eat my soup, which somehow tastes better than it ever has before, and I know it’s not because there’s a new chef. It’s because I’m enjoying myself so much.
He eats all but two of the fries and pushes the plate toward my side of the table. “Let’s trade. I want to see if I like squash soup because it sounds disgusting and looks a little like the pureed carrot shit I had to eat as a baby.”
We exchange dishes, but I don’t eat anything. Instead I watch as he uses my spoon to taste the soup. He pulls the spoon from his mouth with a pop, and I swear my entire body starts tingling. “Mmm. Good. A little spice and a little sweet. Don’t know how much of that is you and how much is the soup, though.”
This is like foreplay. I’m going to have to douse myself in a glass of water. Under the table, I squeeze my thighs together, but that movement only serves to remind me how little action I’ve seen downstairs. Between him licking the spoon and telling me he wants to taste me, I’m more turned on than I can ever remember being. Which really, really sucks. “Why are you flirting with me?”
He gives me a look that says I can’t be that dumb, but apparently I am. I blame it on him. “Because you’re smoking hot and I’d like a taste of you directly from the tap.” He sets my spoon down. “The better question is, why won’t you go out with me? I’m not bragging because there’s something between us.”
“Where do I start?”
He laughs. He actually laughs at that. “Geez, you have that many. Hold up for a sec. Need to put my big boy pants on.”
I roll my eyes. “How about you answer a question of mine?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Why are you trying so hard?”
“Honestly? Because it’s fun.”
I raise a brow in pretend confusion, but I know exactly what he means. “Fun?”
Cheerfully, he eats more soup, still using my spoon, before answering. “Haven’t had to try this hard in ages. Again, not bragging. It’s just the truth. I don’t need to work for it anymore. Girls come to me.”
“Right, you’re so not bragging.”
“I’m not.” He shrugs. That’s just how it is.” He pauses. “I play football.”
“I know.” His eyes light up, and I know what he’s thinking. I hold up my hand. “I didn’t ask around about you. I recognized you after you left last night. Why didn’t you tell me you played football?
“It didn’t seem important.”
“Bullshit. Being a Western State Warrior is a big deal on campus. Girls fall all over themselves to be with you.”
“Sure, but is that what kind of guy you think I am? Or maybe the better question is whether you’re the type of girl who’s impressed by that? Because I don’t see it.” He arches an eyebrow.
He’s got me there. “I’m not impressed by that stuff. It’s the other way around, actually.”
For the first time tonight, he frowns. “That’s why you won’t go out with me?”
“You could talk anyone you want into dating you. You could probably sell ice to a polar bear.”
“If that’s true, why are you still resisting?”
I think about my deal with JR, which was pretty much a non-issue until this moment. Promising to stay away from football players wasn’t exactly a sacrifice on my part—I have nothing in common with Ace’s teammates, and their lifestyles don’t mesh with mine. I’m not a prude or anything, even though Ace has accused me of being one from time to time. Having sex in public isn’t my thing. Nor is getting so drunk I can’t remember who I slept with the night before. I’m not a party girl. And I’m not interested in party boys.
Matthew Iverson, as attractive and as tempting as he is, definitely falls into part
y boy category. Or at least I think he does. I mean, he plays for Western—he has to be a party dude, right?
He’s also waiting for an answer. I settle on, “You’re not my type.”
By the way his brows shoot upward, I can see I’ve surprised him. “You’re anti-football or anti-athlete?”
“I’ve never dated either, so I can’t tell you.”
“It’s not fair that you’re anti-football player. It’s discriminatory. I’m going to need to speak to the Honors Council about this,” he jokes. “Who is your type?”
I toy with the last tofu fry. “I dated Keith, my co-worker at the Brew House.”
“Keith?” Matt’s forehead furrows as he tries to remember the rather unremarkable Keith. “He looks like a Ken doll. His hair is all—” Matt rubs his hand over his own perfectly mussed black locks.
“He uses a lot of product,” I admit.
“So you like metrosexuals?”
“No.” It never occurred to me that Keith is a metrosexual, but he did have more products in the bathroom than I do. “I guess I thought he was…” I don’t have a better word, so I just say it. “Safe.”
I’m kind of embarrassed at how weak my reasoning is. It doesn’t sound good stated out loud. I feel my cheeks starting to burn. Scrambling, I try to articulate a few better excuses. “You’re funny and attractive and any other girl would be thrilled to be sitting where I am right now.” I tip my head toward the table of four girls who still can’t tear their eyes away from Matty. “But I’m busy, you look like a lot of effort, and I don’t think you’re a good risk.
He bobs his head as he considers my defense. “Those are all good reasons, but they don’t really apply to me. The busy thing I can buy—hell, I’ve used that myself. But I look like a lot of effort? And I’m not a good risk? What the hell does that mean?”
I sigh. “You’re like a really expensive designer purse. I want it but know a) I can’t afford it and b) even if I could I’d be so obsessive about checking the condition that I wouldn’t even enjoy it. Plus, everyone else would want to touch it, hold it. Someone might even want to steal it, and that’d be a certain kind of stress I wouldn’t want to deal with.”
“You’re overthinking this, Luce.”
“I don’t doubt that I am. I look at things from all angles. Every. Single. Angle. Maybe that’s weird, but that’s what I do.” What I have to do. My whole life is about risk assessment. Can I eat this new food or that new food? Can I have one drink or two tonight? Did I get enough rest? Enough walking in today? Will tonight be the night my glucose levels go haywire and my roommates have to call 911 because I’m in a coma? I don’t want to explain this to Matt, so I choose a different story. “I’m this way about all of my life decisions, even the small ones. I was breaking out last year because of my shampoo, so I needed to switch. I spent a week researching dozens of different brands. After culling the list to ten, I made up a matrix listing all the ingredients, their function, and the comedogenic rating before settling on one I could still buy at the drugstore but wasn’t going to break me out. The process took three weeks.”
Matt looks a little winded by my example, so I hit him with another one.
“Remember how hot it was last fall?” He nods. I’m sure he does. Ace cursed about it every day, saying he’d rather play for a cold climate team than a hot one. “My roommates and I went to Lake Wanachakee. There’s a little private watering hole on the north side. My roommates, Sutton and Charity, decide to strip down and go skinny-dipping despite the big white sign that says ‘No skinny-dipping, punishable by a fine of up to $500.’ They yelled for me to get in while I considered all the scenarios of getting arrested, of being dragged down the beach without any clothes on, of how many snakes were in the water. I’d read an article about a woman getting leeches up her girl parts.” Matt blanches at this as any sane person would. “And since it wasn’t chlorinated, how many people had peed in it? But I was so hot, and the water looked so good.”
“Did you do it in the end?” he asks, but he probably knows the answer.
I shake my head. “By the time I decided to take my clothes off, Sutton and Charity were cold and got out.”
He sighs. “Sounds like your risk assessments keep you from having fun as opposed to keeping you safe.”
“I don’t look at it that way. The odds are in my favor. Risky behavior is labeled risky because there’s a chance someone is going to get hurt. There’s nothing negative with wanting to avoiding being hurt or injuring someone you care about.” I find myself explaining my reasoning in elaborate detail. Is it because he looks interested? I wish I could shut up.
“You don’t regret not swimming with your friends? Because it kind of sounds like you do. That was a wistful note when you said the water looked so good.” He leans toward me again. “How about this. I’ll take all the risks and you just come along for the ride.”
“Matt, dating isn’t the risk. You’re the risk.” I lay down a few bills for my meal. “I’m not unhappy with how I live now. There’s nothing wrong with making measured decisions and weighing the risks versus the benefits.”
He watches me while I pull on my coat. “You’re right that there’s nothing wrong with how you’re living. I’m not judging that. I’m just saying maybe your life could be happier. And that sometimes taking a risk gives you big rewards.”
“And you’re that big reward?”
He smiles wide. “You won’t know unless you give me a try.”
6
Matty
“What crawled up your shorts and died?” Hammer bursts into my room the next morning. Hammer isn’t happy I’ve skipped going out with him.
I swivel in my desk chair, hoping my head blocks the computer monitor behind me. “Are you missing me when you go out to the bars? Is it difficult to pick up chicks when I’m not around? I told you that you got to stop using the line about being an advice columnist. That shit isn’t attractive.”
“Are you studying?” he asks incredulously, ignoring my insults. It’s three in the afternoon, and I can smell the booze on him even though he’s ten feet away. Granted, it’s Friday, and off-season Fridays are meant to be days spent drunk and lazy. “Is this because of the girl that turned you down?”
“Nope. Just trying to keep my head down,” I lie. Geez. I’m lying to randoms and to my best friends. The only person I’m being completely honest with is Lucy, and she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me.
But I did take away something other than rejection from dinner last night. Lucy’s approach to risk-taking is crazy as all get out—who makes an extensive pros and cons list about shampoo?—but one thing she’d said had stuck in my mind.
I look at it from all angles. Every. Single. Angle.
Me, I’m a one angle kind of guy. As in, the easiest option available to me. The path of least resistance.
This particular issue needs more finesse. Coach wants me to persuade Ace to give up the quarterback position, for fuck’s sake. And to persuade the guys—including the offense, who are rabidly loyal to their QB—to support this course of action. They say you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, but in this case, I’m smashing the entire frickin’ carton. There’s no way to do this without pissing off some, if not all, of my teammates.
And seriously, when did I become the omelet chef in this scenario? I’m not sure I even want to be captain, dammit. Responsibility makes the back of my neck itch. I’d much rather be one of the happy, oblivious sheep than the stressed-out shepherd who has to guide them.
Except…the thing is, I can’t say no, not when it comes to football. This sport is in my blood. I live and breathe it. I’m good at it. And, corny as it sounds, I think I was meant for it.
I wasn’t ever supposed to play football. I’d been born prematurely, with a weak heart, having been nourished for the last twenty or so weeks in the womb by only a tiny bit of placenta. The rest had detached from the uterine wall. I was lucky to be alive.
My mom coddled me, and my dad watched me with worried eyes. I didn’t look like I could run a mile, let alone deliver a hard hit, until I was fifteen.
Somewhere along the line, I shot up like an unchecked weed. Filled out. Starting lifting and took to football as if I were weaned on Gatorade and leather.
One reason I’m so good on the football field is my uncanny instinct to know exactly which weakness I can exploit in the easiest, most economical way, ensuring that my hits at the end of the game are as hard as the ones at the beginning. Part of it comes from hours of film study, which helps me to immediately recognize what play is going to be run based on the position of the offensive players. The other part is God-given talent.
I operate the same way off the field. I don’t have to analyze or overthink the dilemma but just pick the solution that makes the problem go away the fastest. There’s no film study for life. Or if there is, I haven’t found it.
This is why, for the last four hours, I’ve been watching videos of Mr. Texas. The captain’s patch is currently burning a hole in my desk drawer, but I don’t want the captaincy bad enough to dick over my quarterback. I might not always love what Ace does on the field. There’ve been a few games when the offense couldn’t generate more than thirteen points and made the load on the defense fucking hard. And even though we won those games, a few of us grumbled under our breath. But thinking you’d like to kick your quarterback in the ass is one thing; doing it is entirely different.
Hammer studies me and comes to some inebriated conclusion that requires him to drag my reading chair from by the window over to the desk.
He folds his hands and gives me a serious look. “Do you have a fucking test or something? You can’t be failing any classes yet. The semester just started two weeks ago.”
“I’m not failing anything. You smell like you took a bath in a tub of vodka, Hammer.” I wave a hand in front of my nose. “Where were you?”
He lifts his shirt and sniffs. “Fuck, I can’t smell anything. Do I really stink, because I got a girl coming over in”—he checks his phone—“ninety minutes.”
Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2) Page 5