Jock Row, #1

by Sara Ney

  Rowdy sighs. “Mom, we’re going on vacation tomorrow and you’re sticking us in a private room for two nights.”

  “Because you’re not a teenager anymore. I don’t want to trust you—I have to trust you. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to be listening for strange noises tonight.”

  “Oh my god, Mom.”

  She clicks her tongue. “What happens on the high seas stays on the high seas—as long as what happens doesn’t come back to haunt us in nine months. Ha.”

  He isn’t amused. “Do you honestly think you’re being funny?”

  “Yes, I honestly think I’m being funny.” She titters. “It’s my job as your mother to humiliate you and make you uncomfortable as long as I roam this earth.”

  I can hear him rolling his eyes. “And another thing: please don’t watch everything we do with a calculating look on your face.”

  “Calculating—good word, sweetie.”

  “Mom, I’m being serious.”

  Her sigh is drawn out. “Why do you think I’m watching you? I see Iowa isn’t doing your ego any favors.”

  “Come on, I know you’re using us for research.”

  “I am appalled by the accusation.” His mom huffs dramatically but doesn’t deny it.

  “Well, is that what you’ve been doing?”

  “I might be…just a little.” Another pause. “Count yourself lucky I’m not taking actual notes—this little back and forth between the two of you is romance novel gold. I can feel the tension in my soul.”

  “Jesus, Mom! This is why I never bring anyone home.”

  “No, that is not why you never bring anyone home. You never bring anyone home because you’ve never liked anyone enough, not even Chelsea Newman, and she was such a lovely girl.”

  “I hate when you do that,” Rowdy groans. “Stop bringing up my ex-girlfriends.”

  “You were seventeen and she was your girlfriend for all of ninety seconds—that hardly counts. You barely held hands.”

  “We did more than hold hands.” He chuckles deep in his chest at his joke.

  His mother ignores him. “I’m just illustrating my point. You haven’t brought anyone home since high school, and this one you had fly in from another state during the holidays?” It sounds like she’s taking a long sip from her coffee mug, followed by the telltale sign of it hitting the table’s wooden surface. “Want to tell me what that’s all about? Dad and I have been dying from curiosity.”

  “Dad is not dying from curiosity.”

  “Fine. I’m the one dying—tell me what’s going on.”

  “We’re friends.” He’s grinning, I just know it.

  “Does Scarlett know you’re just friends?” his mother teases.

  Long silence. “I didn’t say we were just friends.”

  “What are you saying, exactly?”

  My breath hitches, honestly it does, and I become a cliché from a movie, leaning closer to the doorjamb, straining for his next words. He’s suddenly gone quiet, thinking. The silence drags on an agonizingly long time—or just a few seconds, I have no idea, but it’s torture. Waiting in this hiding spot I’ve accidentally found myself in is sheer agony.

  I’m hiding like a damn creeper, but I cannot pull myself away.

  “We haven’t slept together, if that’s what you’re asking.”His mom laughs. “That’s not what I was asking, but thanks for the intel. Oh, while we’re on the subject, please tell me you’re using protectio—”

  “Stop. Don’t say it. Jesus.”

  I imagine her casually raising a brow, just like her son does. “Be safe, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “You gave me this speech two years ago.”

  “Well it’s never been more necessary. The last thing you want is your paycheck going toward child support.”

  “Scarlett isn’t like that—we haven’t…” It sounds like he’s clamping his lips shut, blowing out a puff of air. “Mom, can I ask you something and have you promise you won’t freak out?”

  “When do I freak out?”

  “Uh—all the time.”

  “Hmm, I’m sure that’s not true.”

  Rowdy’s sigh is loud. “Can I ask you something or not?”

  “Of course! And I promise I won’t freak out.”

  A drawn-out silence fills the kitchen.

  My palms begin to sweat.

  “Do you believe someone can fall in love in a few short weeks?” He asks so quietly, I swear my ears are playing tricks on me. “Because I’m about to lose my mind here.”

  His mom is quiet, too. “I write romance novels, sweetie,” she says slowly. Carefully. “Of course I believe you can fall in love fast.” She pauses. “Is that how you’re feeling about Scarlett?”

  Another long, tortured pause, and everyone holds their breath.

  “I don’t know. She’s all I can think about, ya know? I can’t concentrate on anything when she’s not around, which is most of the time, and all I want to do is spend time with her.”

  His mom hums out a cryptic, “Hmmm.”

  And now Rowdy is on a roll, having gotten the words out. “At first, she was just this girl I had to keep out of the baseball house for the night, right? Because the guys are such dumbasses…” His voice trails off, irritated. “Anyway, is this normal? I dream about her and shit.”

  I’m all he can think about?

  He dreams about me? He’s said it before, but it’s always when we’re joking around.

  “Sure it’s normal, when you’re attracted to someone—”

  “I’m not just attracted to her, Mom. It’s like…I don’t know, it’s like…”

  “It’s like what?”

  He groans, frustrated. “I don’t know.”

  “Love doesn’t make sense, honey. Maybe you should ask your father.” She chuckles. “God, he had no idea what he was doing when we started dating. It was such a train wreck.”

  “I’m not talking to Dad about my love life.” He’s horrified by the thought.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I think I’m in love with her,” his voice confirms, repeating the words, stunning everyone. “Or falling in love with her, whatever. Feeling something. I don’t fucking know what’s happening to me.”

  He’s laughing now, and the deep timbre has me pulling back in shock. Falling slack, back against the wall, my hands press against my flaming hot cheeks.

  Rowdy is falling in love with me?

  He loves me.

  Oh my god, he’s in love with me?

  Say it again, Sterling, I silently beg, greedy for the words. Just one more time.

  “Have you discussed it with her?”

  “God no!” He screeches. “Are you nuts?”

  I have to press a palm to my mouth to stop from giggling as Mrs. Wade laughs. “Why not?”

  “I’m not ready to confess that shit to her, Mother. I don’t know what she’ll say and I’m not a masochist.”

  “I’m just asking, Sterling, relax. You’re so sensitive.” Mrs. Wade chuckles again. “Please stop staring at me with that look—you’re being ridiculous.”

  It sounds like he’s crossing his arms, slumping in the chair. “I’m not discussing my feelings with her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” His voice is stern, resolute. “I don’t think she feels the same way. It’s been two months.”

  “Why would you say that?” she asks gently, and I imagine if I stuck my head around the corner, I’d see her hand resting on his forearm, comforting. “Two months is a long time.”

  “Scarlett is…” His voice trails off. “Smart and beautiful and…she’s intimidating.”

  Intimidating?

  Me?

  I intimidate him? Is he delusional?

  I’m five foot five on a tall day, couldn’t get into my dream college even after applying and appealing the rejection twice. Half the time I’m wearing yoga pants, and the other half he’s only seen me in puffy winter jackets.

  W
hat’s so intimidating about that?

  Sterling Wade is six foot two of solid muscle and tan skin. Smooth planes and masculine lines. He’s intense and funny and I’ve been dreaming about him every night since we met. Dreamed about meeting a guy like him when I was younger, imagining the perfect match for myself.

  He is as close to perfect as a guy could possibly be.

  And sweet Jesus, that boy loves me.

  His voice, a deep baritone that never fails to send a shiver down my spine, is soft as he describes me to his mother.

  “She’s independent, doesn’t really give a shit about me playing baseball or that I’m, you know—popular or whatever.”

  I cringe. That part makes me sound like such an asshole. Is that what he truly thinks? That I don’t give a shit about him playing baseball?

  My hands are shaking as I bring them up to my face, cool palms pressed against my flaming hot cheeks, embarrassed by that last part of his assessment.

  What is he doing to me?

  What do I do with myself now that I have this new information?

  I can’t walk into the kitchen and act normal, as if I haven’t just overheard him emotionally unload to his mother.

  I can’t.

  I’m bright red from head to toe, still pressed to the wall in my hiding spot around the corner, next to the kitchen, just feet away from where they’re sitting.

  Mrs. Wade hmphs, unimpressed. “She doesn’t give a shit about you playing baseball? Baseball is your future—is she supportive? What does she care about?”

  “Relax, Mom, that’s not what I meant. I just meant she isn’t dating me because I play ball. She’s into marine biology. Graduating, I guess. She hates parties.”

  What? I don’t hate parties!

  Not much.

  Fine, I do—but they’re a necessary evil if I’m determined not to become a hermit, sequestering myself inside the tiny hovel I call home.

  “I thought you said you met her at a party?”

  “I did.” He’s shifting in his chair. “But she was just coming off of a cold and her friends dragged her there. That whole night didn’t end well. I don’t know why she kept coming back.”

  Finally, I hear a smile in his mother’s voice. “She came back for you, sweet boy.”

  “Do not call me sweet boy—it makes me sound five.”

  “You like her because she’s different.” Mrs. Wade sounds pleased. “This makes more sense to me now. Hmm, must be a big change from the usual.”

  I know what she’s referring to: jock, jersey, cleat chasers. Gold diggers. Groupies. Women who only date men because of their status on campus.

  “Yeah, it was weird at first,” Rowdy admits. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say around her anymore, or where to put my hands—like, I just want to hug her all the time and I don’t give a shit that we haven’t had sex yet.” Long pause. “Okay that’s a lie, I totally give a shit that we haven’t had sex, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s so smart, Mom.”

  “Mmhmm, mmhmm.” Now it sounds like his mother is preoccupied. “What else?”

  “I mean, at first when she started coming to the house, it was casual and we just sat there playing games because we were bored. I—” He stops. “Mom! Jesus, you said you weren’t going to write any of this shit down! No taking notes!”

  “What? It’s my job! It’s not like I’m using your names—this is fiction! Besides, I write regency romance, not contemporary, so no one will know it’s you.”

  Rowdy’s mother writes romance novels? That is awesome—how did I not know this?

  I don’t hear the rest of their exchange. Backing away, I tiptoe up the narrow staircase, quiet as a church mouse until reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom. Standing at the foot of Rowdy’s bed, I breathe heavily, staring down at his navy bedspread, the four pillows stacked invitingly against the headboard.

  A lamp glows in the corner, my small suitcase tucked neatly into the corner of the blue room. Navy walls, white woodwork—a total boys’ room.

  My intention was to sleep in the guest room, but Rowdy wasn’t lying when he told his mom we couldn’t find a spare set of sheets. No matter how hard we searched, not a single set was to be found—not that he knew where to look, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask his mom where they were, probably so I’d be forced to sleep with him, I reluctantly admit to myself.

  I’m so clueless sometimes. How did I not know he was falling in love with me at the same time I was falling in love with him?

  Because I was too busy blinking at him starry-eyed, that’s why!

  Removing my sweatshirt, I pull the hem of my threadbare tank top down over the waistband of my sleep shorts. Run a hand along my damp hair, still wet from the shower.

  Freeze as footfalls thump at the top of the stairs, stopping at the bathroom. The door closes, bang echoing in the hall.

  Minutes later, the toilet flushes.

  Faucet runs for what feels like an eternity.

  He must be brushing his teeth, or shaving, or oh my god I wish he’d just hurry up and get back in here already so I can stop fidgeting, pacing like a caged tiger, a ball of nerves.

  The bathroom door opens.

  One step, then two, and Rowdy is standing outside his bedroom door; I can hear him hesitate. Debating. Hear his hand resting on the doorknob, motionless. The three short raps with his knuckles against the wood have my heart skipping like a stone across a lake.

  Electricity crackles that door handle, and I watch it slowly turn.

  “Yeah?”

  Why is he knocking? It’s his room.

  And why did I just say Yeah, and not, Come on in!

  “Is it safe to come in?”

  “It’s safe to come in.” I let a nervous giggle slide through my lips, hand pressing on my stomach to quell it when it flutters.

  Rowdy’s big body slips through the gap in the door like a mouse squeezing through a crack in the wall, as if he’s tasked with protecting my modesty.

  He stands with his broad back to the door, eyes tracking along my freshly shaven legs, pausing to study the fluffy white sheep on my shorts—if you can call them that. In reality, they’re glorified underwear, barely covering my ass, pale pink, the scallop hem skimming my upper thigh.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” I already know the answer, already know why he’s burning holes through me. Why he’s memorizing my hair and every inch of my body.

  This big, beautiful boy dreams about me.

  Sterling Wade is in love with me.

  The thought warms me from the inside out, lowering my defenses as I lower my arms, uncrossing them from my chest, letting him look his fill.

  He’s never seen me like this before, in my pajamas with barely any clothes on, and look his fill he does, taking every advantage of his viewpoint from the doorway, the low lights casting shadows on us both.

  “Am I staring?” That sexy smile is warm and wide. Those wide shoulders shrug. “Sorry, it’s just—you’re in my bedroom.”

  Oh jeez, he is so sweet.

  “Uh…” I laugh, clearing my throat, stretching out a fake yawn. Pat it with my hand. Point to the right side of the mattress. “Mind if I take this side of the bed?”

  Another slow, cryptic smile. “You take whatever you want.”

  I watch, captivated, as Rowdy’s arms crisscross, reaching down to drag his shirt up and over his torso, tossing it to the carpet.

  “Mind if I take my shorts off? I get so hot at night.” His fingers are already hooking inside the red mesh of his gym shorts, thumbs tugging at the fabric.

  I gulp when he leans over, ab muscles tightening, gaping at one sinewy bicep, then the other. They’re perfection, just barely close to bulging, hot veins running along his forearm to the bend in his elbow, making me want to trace along their path. Making me want to leisurely run my hands along those washboard abs—earned from hours upon hours of conditioning—and damn, even his belly button is attractive.

  Down those
shorts slide. Over a pair of athletic, toned hips, shucked boldly to his feet, feet spread shoulder-width apart before he chucks them to the side.

  Sterling Wade standing in only a pair of charcoal gray boxer briefs challenges the most resplendent national treasure as a thing of beauty, the thin fabric clinging insatiably to his thick thighs.

  Clinging to the length of him tucked inside, laying flat against his inner thigh.

  Sterling Wade is perfect. Raw.

  Beautiful.

  Mine for the taking.

  The reality of that is still so odd to me that I find myself licking my lips like a bad pantomime, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear before remembering myself.

  I am ogling him like a desperate fool.

  Like a groupie—yet not a single soul on earth would blame me, or deprive me of this moment.

  I will never get it back or forget it.

  One of his knees bends, hitting the bed, hands braced on the mattress. Leaning forward, his broad, golden shoulders flex attractively. I don’t know whether it’s an invitation to gawk at him some more, but I do, unable to peel my eyes away from his incredible body.

  Every inch of him is well defined. Flawless.

  Every inch carved of warm, firm flesh, smooth all over. Hair tousled from having just whipped off his shirt, it sticks out in ten different directions, waiting for my hands to run through it—so we can both get the chills.

  Hot skin. Trembling hands.

  I fold back the covers of his dark sheets before my legs give out, wobbly, easing onto the right side of the bed, heart rate fast, as if I’ve just sprinted a mile.

  Rowdy slides in after me, leaving the light on, large body taking up more than half the mattress as he folds both arms behind his head. Turns to study me, wordlessly.

  I war with myself.

  I wanna do more things to this boy than I’ve wanted to do to any one human in my entire life. Which is why I’m a virgin who always settled for gif porn and the occasional solo masturbatory mission.

  I bite my lower lip. God is rewarding me for my patience.

  Am I going to sleep with him this weekend?