Jock Row, #1

by Sara Ney

  My friends hesitate.

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to wait with you?”

  This is the first time they ask, and I’m unexpectedly heartened. “No, you go ahead. Have fun—I’ll text you if…you know.” If he won’t let me in.

  “All right. Let us know this time, okay? It’s so cold out here.” Tessa chatters her teeth dramatically, cueing the need for them to hustle inside, both of their gorgeous blonde heads

  disappearing from sight with the slamming of a screen door.

  Rowdy and I stand wordlessly, listening to the noises from within at the same time my butterflies flap their pesky wings.

  I inhale an anxious breath, wondering what he’s going to say when he finally speaks. Exhale, watching the small puff of steam float away.

  His mouth opens. “Three weeks in a row, eh?” Rowdy clasps his hands. “I can’t decide which one of us is a bigger glutton for punishment, can you?”

  “It’s definitely you.” I laugh. “We both know you could easily assign someone to babysit me—it doesn’t have to be you.”

  But I’m glad it is him. I wouldn’t have shown up if I thought it was anyone else, and I certainly wouldn’t have stayed—not in this weather. I’m not a total sadist.

  I’ve looked forward to seeing him every Friday since we met.

  Rowdy is goofy and entertaining and witty, not to mention his handsome face and ridiculous body.

  It’s no hardship being sequestered on the porch with him, and if he took me inside right now, I’d be indisputably

  disappointed.

  He’s wearing a hat tonight, too—black knit, in a style similar to mine—pulled down over his ears and short, shorn hair.

  Rowdy is masculine, even with that winter hat on his head. He gives me a gentle bump with his shoulder when I reach the top of the porch.

  “Where did you find that hat?” I ask, setting my tote bag on the ground, same as I did last Friday, and same as I’ll probably do next Friday.

  “Bought it.”

  “When?”

  He’s still for a few heartbeats. “Yesterday.”

  “We kind of match,” I point out, poking the air with my mitten, tilting my head to study him.

  He shifts on his heels. “I’m surprised you showed up again. You’re like a puppy dog that keeps getting kicked but comes back for more.”

  “That is an appalling analogy.”

  “But accurate,” he counters.

  “Be honest—you’re not one bit surprised to see me here.” You bought a hat so you’d be warm, too.

  My heart skips a few rhythms, hands go to my hips, sinking into my puffy coat. I wave my mitten around. “You should know by now I can’t resist a challenge.”

  He leans against the house, a cocky lift to his lips. “You consider me a challenge?”

  “No, I consider getting inside the house a challenge.”

  “Is that the only reason you keep coming back?”

  It’s cold, and we’re both breathing hard, our breaths mingling in gray swirls, shoulders knocking every few footsteps.

  “What other reason would I have?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to reply.

  When he doesn’t, I make a little humming sound, aware that each beat of my traitorous heart is pounding in my chest, my throat.

  “I’m not a mind reader, Scarlett—if there’s another reason you come here every Friday night, you’ll have to spell it out for me.”

  We size each other up, like two gunslingers reaching for their six-shooters, neither willing to bend. I don’t know what he wants me to say, and I refuse to be the first one to admit to…whatever this is I’m feeling.

  It’s way too soon.

  It’s strangely silent then, the stereo momentarily cutting off inside the house. Voices die down. The indelicate sound of Rowdy’s snarling stomach breaks the spell of our stare-down.

  Seriously, does this guy not eat enough during dinner?

  “You know what I have for you?”

  “There are about five different ways I could answer that.” He eyes my bag. “But please tell me you brought food.”

  If I was a peacock, I’d be fluffing my brilliant feathers about now with what I’m about to present to him.

  “Not only did I bring food, I brought the good stuff.” I unzip my tote, glancing up at him coyly. “Any guesses?”

  “Spaghetti and meatballs?”

  I glare at him. “Are you trying to make me gag?”

  “I get delirious when I’m hungry—you already know this.”

  “When aren’t you hungry?”

  “Never not hungry, but I’m not always hungry for food.”

  Startled, my mouth falls open and I gape at him like a fool;

  it’s the first innuendo he’s made toward me, and I hardly know what to do with it.

  “O-Out of curiosity,” I stammer, “are you planning on waiting outside for me every Friday?”

  “Only until you can come inside that house.”

  “And when will that be?”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” I finger the plastic utensils inside my bag. “What if I decide not to come? How long would you be willing to wait for me to show up?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Liar. Try again or I’m not showing you what’s in here.”

  “I don’t know, Scarlett—eight minutes.”

  My brows rise doubtfully at how specific the time is, and he rolls those big, beautiful green eyes at me.

  “Fine. I’d wait an hour.” Pause. “Maybe a little longer if I knew for sure you were going to show up.”

  He’d wait an hour for me? That’s an eternity in college guy years.

  Satisfied, I dig out two white cardboard containers of Chinese takeout, still piping hot, fresh from the joint down the road. I had it delivered right before leaving the house, the rice and chicken and noodles heating my hip on the walk over.

  If Tessa or Cameron noticed the smell, neither of them mentioned it.

  Rowdy’s eyes damn near bug out of his skull he’s so excited.

  “You have got to be shitting me. Are you serious? Scarlett, you’re fucking awesome.”

  I blush beneath my winter jacket, smiling inside the collar, yet I hold the carton of Asian noodles hostage, out of his reach. “You can have this when you tell me how you knew I’d be here tonight.”

  He’s desperate, so he folds like a house of cards in a soft breeze. “I sat next to the window like a damn dog waiting for its owner to come home. Now gimme.”

  I removed my mittens before digging in my bag of tricks, so our fingers touch when I hand him the food, eyes locking before I pull away, brushing away an invisible lock of hair against my cheek.

  “Staring out the window like a goddamn puppy.” He shoves a forkful into his mouth, grumbling.

  “Good boy.” I reach over and pat him on the shoulder. “I hope you like General Tso’s chicken. I wasn’t sure so I just brought two of my favorites.”

  “I’d eat anything, including the ass out of a dead skunk—this is perfection.”

  This whole night is perfection, and if it was something other than what it is, tonight would have been the perfect date.

  We eat in silence as I mull over what the ass of a dead skunk might taste like, and where the hell he comes up with his analogies, and how he had the balls to eat meatballs out of a dumpster.

  “Oh shit!” he laments. “I’m the worst host.”

  Rowdy stands, dragging the cooler closer to the stairs, patting the top with the palm of his hand. Cajoling. “Here, have a seat.”

  I plop down, container in my lap, steam rising into the night air, forking the noodles into my mouth.

  “What’s that you’re eating?” He’s staring rudely into my container, making love to it with his wanton gaze.

  “Shrimp lo mein.”

  Rowdy licks his lips, interested. “Would it be uncouth of me to suggest a trade?”


  Uncouth? Honestly, what guy talks like that?

  “You want to trade? Now?”

  “Not right now—you eat half of yours and I’ll eat half of mine and then we’ll switch.”

  “You’re not afraid of germs?”

  One thick brow goes up, along with the right side of his pouty lips. “Remember that story about how I ate meatballs out of a dumpster?”

  “The visual will linger in my mind forever.”

  “I’m clean, promise.” Two of his fingers get lifted in the air. “STD and drug free, tested monthly.”

  “My god.” I laugh, choking. Wave my hands around for air, dying dramatically. “Water! Water!”

  “Watch your back, I might let you choke—I’m that hungry.”

  I shoot him a glare, still coughing. “You”—cough—“are”—cough—“the worst.”

  Cough.

  “So you keep pointing out.”

  He sees an opportunity, seizing it to capitalize on my weakness, grabbing my carton as I hunch over on the cooler, choking and laughing and gasping for breath.

  Stabs his fork into my lo mein, piercing a shrimp and popping it into his fat face.

  “You horse’s ass, give me back my dinner!”

  I can’t even swat at him, I’m laughing so hard, eyes watering.

  Rowdy pushes at my forehead to keep me at bay, to keep me from grabbing my dinner back like an annoying older brother, the palm of his giant hand singing my skin.

  I can’t stop laughing, not even when he tips the container toward his face, shoveling the contents into his open mouth, spilling noodles on his jacket in his haste to beat the clock.

  It’s disgusting.

  It’s hilarious.

  When he finally comes up for air, his face is a mess, chunks of celery and carrots stuck to his chin, just below his bottom lip.

  “I can’t even look at you right now. You’re so gross.”

  “I told you I was hungry. I wasn’t fucking around.”

  “I’m never bringing you food again,” I lie. “You have zero manners, and I didn’t bring any napkins—I wasn’t expecting you to be such a slob.”

  He couldn’t care less. “Come on, that was funny.”

  “Maybe this is the reason you’re single,” I tease, watching as he tries to lick the sauce off his chin, pink tongue darting out. “Who would kiss that face?”

  “I’m not single because I have bad manners, and trust me, plenty of girls have wanted to do more than kiss this face.” Sadly, he’s not even bragging; he’s just stating a fact, and we both know it.

  “Everyone knows jocks make bad boyfriends.”

  “What the hell would make you say that?” His head gives a sad little shake at the same time he stuffs more noodles into his waiting mouth. “Where are you getting your facts?”

  “The power of observation.”

  “Fact: plenty of those guys inside are in relationships.”

  My brows go up, interested. “Is that so?”

  “Well…no.” He laughs. “But that doesn’t mean they’d make shitty boyfriends.”

  I smack his arm, palm lingering on his forearm.

  “If you had to guess how many guys on the baseball team were in actual, committed relationships, how many would you say it was? Ballpark it.”

  “Haha, very punny.” He tosses his white carton into a giant garbage can at the end of the porch, trying to grab mine back. “I don’t know, five?”

  My laugh cuts into the dark, clear as a bell, rising above the sound of the music from inside the house. “Out of how many players?”

  “Thirty?”

  “Well…” I smirk, digging my plastic fork into the white container, digging around for what’s left of my noodles. “You are pretty damn adorable, I’ll give you that.”

  Rowdy cups his ear with his giant man hand to better hear me with. “Say again? Talk into my good ear.”

  I demure, avoiding his blazing green eyes. “Say what again?”

  “You just admitted you think I’m sexy.”

  “I never called you sexy.”

  I laugh. Nudge him in the bicep when he scoots closer on the cooler beside me, taking up most of the space with his massive thighs.

  They burn holes into the legs of my pants, from the tops of my thighs down to my ankles.

  Zing.

  Sizzle.

  “Your mama better get you to the otolaryngologist and have your hearing checked—I said you were adorable. God, you and your giant, inflated ego. I’m surprised you haven’t drifted off into the clouds.”

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot see the difference between adorable and sexy.”

  I mean, really—how does a person not roll their eyes at him a million times?

  “I think you’re adorable.” He’s leaning forward, hands braced on his knees. Neck craned toward me, green eyes unflinching.

  “Cute adorable or sexy adorable?” I almost choke again, holding my breath, waiting for his answer, heart beating so fast I actually lose oxygen.

  His nostrils flare. “Scarlett…”

  But we’re interrupted, just like in every cliché movie where two people sharing Chinese takeout who are about to kiss for the first time in the freezing cold always are.

  Two girls push through the front door, and for a split second I think it’s Tessa and Cam. It’s not. Both girls are decked out in high heels and short dresses, way too skimpy for the cold, pre-winter weather we’ve been having, and I bury myself deeper into my puffy coat, self-conscious.

  These girls are blatantly flaunting their sexuality while I’m bundled up like I’m waiting for the blizzard of the century to hit town, holding a steaming pile of carbs with a side of soy sauce.

  Slightly embarrassed for the first time in three weeks, I pull at my gray knit cap, annoyed that I even care, that I’m having insecure thoughts in the first place—it’s so unlike me.

  One of the girls—she’s beautiful and willowy and aggressive, if her stance is any indication—stops when she sees Rowdy, jutting out her hip, posing, toe of her high heel pointed at the floor.

  “How’s it going Rowdy?” She’s chewing gum and lets it snap.

  He takes a few seconds to reply, whole demeanor changing. “Vanessa, right?”

  She nods, pleased when Rowdy spares her a glance, flipping her platinum blonde locks to one side. Posturing.

  “You inside with Levinson?” he asks the question slowly, deliberately.

  Vanessa’s red-lipped, self-righteous smile falters. Fades like the ombre tips of her hair. “Yeah.”

  I dig into my Chinese food with my fork, pretending not to listen—but if I were a GIF, I’d be the Michael Jackson eating popcorn in a movie theater one, so engrossed am I.

  Rowdy shifts on our makeshift bench, his thigh pressing tighter alongside mine. It’s thick and warm and—right there. Touching me.

  He covers my hand with his, stealing away my fork, eyes never leaving Vanessa’s face as he delivers his next line:

  “Want me to tell his girlfriend you say hello? She’s out of town with the cheer team—but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  Stabs my fork into a shrimp, lifting it to his lips with a wolfish smirk.

  Jesus.

  Her dark lips part, throat chuffs. “You are such a dick.”

  Vanessa grabs her friend by the arm, dragging her toward the steps, hightailing it down the stairs, lumbering on their perilously unsteady shoes.

  Only when they’re finally out of sight do I speak.

  “Wow.” I steal back my fork. “You really go for the jugular.”

  He shrugs. Brushes his jacket against mine, the two fabrics scratching together. “The dude Vanessa is fooling around with has a fucking girlfriend. I can’t stand girls like that—she pisses me off.”

  “He’s the one cheating.”

  The glare he gives me is sharp. “Right, but she knows his girlfriend personally and just keeps on fucking him. That’s what pisses me off. No loyalty.” I jam a sh
rimp into my mouth, chewing as he continues venting. “I really fucking like Holly. I just wish she’d wise up and dump Levinson’s useless ass.”

  “Why doesn’t she?”

  He pauses, leveling me with a blank stare. “Seriously Scarlett? Why do you think?”

  Why is he staring at me like that?

  “What did I say?” I ask in a small voice.

  “Levinson is going to the major leagues. Holly is never going to dump him—he’s her golden ticket to WAG status. Everyone knows it.”

  I feel my mouth turn downward into a frown. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “You don’t know what a WAG is? God, you’re so naïvely sweet.” He pitches a thumb over his shoulder, toward the two girls who just walked off. “Why do you think that girl Vanessa is all over Levinson’s jock strap? He’s not even that fucking great. Gold digger. What do you think your friends keep coming back for, week after week? Gold diggers. Some of them are ‘lucky’ enough to get themselves knocked up—meal ticket for life in the form of child support payments.”

  “Girls get pregnant on purpose?” I sound appalled because I genuinely am.

  “Haven’t you ever heard the stories about girls poking holes into condoms?”

  “Um…no.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  More food gets shoveled into his mouth from my container. He chews. I chew.

  We both swallow.

  Rowdy takes a swig of beer, washing it all down, while I take a chug of my water.

  Then, “That’s the way it goes around here.”

  “That’s really depressing.” I pause, trying to catch a glimpse of his profile. “Doesn’t it get old?”

  “Real fast.” He stabs his fork into the rice. “Why do you think I moved out of this house?”

  “You don’t live here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why did I think you did?”

  Rowdy stands, walking to the edge of the porch, peering off into the yard, though it’s hard to make out anything past the street.

  He speaks with his back to me, hands braced on the bannister rail. “Communal living is fine when you’re a freshman or sophomore, but athletes on this row party a little too fucking hard. The random people hanging out at all fucking hours of the night are fun for one hot minute. The noise and…well, all the bullshit that comes along with living here? Not fun. Not anymore.”