Jock Romeo

by Sara Ney

  “How so?”

  I swallow before telling him, “Well, my mom wouldn’t have been happy to meet you. She considers all males—romantic interests or friends alike—distractions.”

  “Distractions from what?”

  I shrug, chewing. “From…from…world domination.”

  Roman tosses his head back and laughs, a hearty, pleasant sound that has me smiling around my bun at him, burger in my mouth and all.

  “Your mom wants you to take over the world, huh?”

  “Yup. One football game at a time.”

  “How’s that going for you?”

  “Terribly.” I take another bite before continuing. “I’m the absolute worst at it.” Plus, she would positively freak if she saw me eating a hamburger straight after eating a marshmallow-drenched cereal bar.

  Not that my body is any of her damn business, but she has hovered over me most of my life and watched every calorie I’ve put inside of it, casting judgment.

  Well. Those days are over.

  This semester? I’ll finally be done with cheer, and I can finally live life on my terms.

  Get a job. An apartment. Eat whatever I want.

  Be with whomever I want.

  “I would wager to say I’d be better at world domination than you.”

  My brows go up. “How so?”

  “Duh, science.”

  That catches me off guard. “Who are you now, Gru from Despicable Me? Are you going to have a secret lab in your basement?”

  “Secret lab, man cave—same thing, right?”

  The idea of a house with a basement and a man with a cave appeals to me. A happy home with kids whose parents don’t ride their asses and let them be kids.

  I sigh into my burger bun.

  “That was heavy,” Roman observes.

  “What was?”

  “That sigh. What was it for?” He checks his watch at the same time he asks, probably needing to keep an eye on the time with a class looming.

  Tick tock.

  “Just me thinking about what life could be like as an adult.”

  “Oh? How’s it gonna be as an adult?” He sounds genuinely curious.

  “Normal. With lots of movie nights with snacks and loud noises. And definitely a dog.”

  * * *

  There is sweat dripping down my cleavage, sweat dripping down the center of my back and into my butt crack. We worked hard today at practice, and the air inside the field house was oddly humid. I think it’s because of all the athletes using the facility—it’s a busy season with lots going on. Football is in full swing, the cheer team is in here practicing, then there is the basketball team, the wrestlers, rowers, track team…

  The place is packed.

  Not to mention there’s a pool nearby, which most likely is the cause of the humidity. I wonder if they’ll do anything about that any time soon because man, today was rough. They definitely need to turn up the air conditioning units.

  I decide to take a shower at the gym in the locker room, which is not something I normally do. I love having all of my own shampoo, conditioner, and body wash at my disposal. The stuff they have here just doesn’t smell as good, doesn’t clean my hair as well—it always feels somewhat matted when I’m done. But today I am just too disgusting to put clean clothes on and go home to wash off.

  As I’m rinsing out the conditioner, Kaylee comes into the shower stalls and calls my name over the curtain.

  “Yoohoo, Lill, is that you?”

  She just saw me at practice; granted, we don’t practice in the same space—she’s a flyer and has different coaches—but still, things have been strained between us since Kyle and I broke up, and I haven’t been able to figure out why.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I scrub my armpits, getting them good and sudsy. “I’m so gross I didn’t want to leave without showering.”

  “Tell me about it. I have sweat dripping everywhere. Something must be wrong with the air conditioning units—today was ridiculous.” Her voice comes from the stall beside me, and I hear the water turn on, shower curtain pulled back, its plastic liner dragging against the tile floor because it’s too long. Whoever installed it wasn’t focused on accuracy—only getting the job done.

  My stomach growls.

  Guess that burger earlier didn’t fill me up as well as I was hoping it would.

  “I’m starving,” Kaylee muses out loud as if reading my thoughts. “I ate my last protein bar before we got here.”

  “We could order something.”

  “True.”

  It’s quiet for some time as we both work on cleaning ourselves, and while it’s void of conversation, I step completely beneath the spray and tip my head back, letting the hot stream of water hit my face. Turn so my back is facing the wall; water washes through my hair, weighing it so it falls halfway down my back in a sheet.

  Ugh this feels so good.

  Body aches.

  Muscles hurt.

  Brain tired.

  “I can’t wait until this season is over,” my roommate moans in the stall next to me, shutting her water off, followed by the sound of the towel being yanked off the shower bar. The slap of her rubber flip-flops against the floor.

  “Same. I feel like I’m getting too old for this.” I laugh to make it sound like I’m joking, but deep down inside, we both know I’m not. It’s no secret between Kaylee and me that my mother pushed me into this sport—unlike hers, who couldn’t care less if she’s on a team.

  “Let’s just watch movies tonight and order pizza. We’ve earned it.”

  “Deal.”

  I stay in the shower, basking in the steamy goodness for another fifteen minutes, letting myself get drenched. Letting my muscles loosen. Letting my worries wash down the drain.

  Dress quickly in joggers and a hoodie.

  Slide into broken-in Converse.

  Hair wet.

  Backpack on.

  I come up short when I shove the door to the women’s locker room open, an unwelcome but familiar figure against the opposite wall.

  Kyle leans there, one long leg bent, heel of one chunky black combat boot planted against the cement cinder block.

  He stands up straight when he sees me, full attention.

  I glance up the hall and down the hall. Is he here to see me?

  I’m confused, we haven’t spoken in two weeks, and for good reason; he’s a gaslighting liar and I want nothing to do with him.

  “Hey.”

  I inwardly groan. What the hell is he doing here? Is he seeing someone on the cheer team? “Were you waiting for me?”

  “Yeah.” So cool. So casual.

  So cringe.

  “What do you want?” I walk past him and head toward the exit, doing my best to ignore the six-foot-three giant next to me.

  He stops short of the heavy, glass doors leading to the parking lot.

  “Are you avoiding me, Lilly?”

  “Yes!” I snort. “Yes, I’m avoiding you! We broke up, Kyle. You were sending people dick pics and sliding into random girls’ DMs, remember?”

  His eyes go wide when I use the word dick, probably from shock; he’s never heard me use profane words like dick or cock because I always thought I had to watch my language in front of him.

  Also, why am I explaining to a grown-ass man why he should leave me the hell alone now that we’ve broken up?

  Grown?

  Ha! He still acts like an adolescent boy.

  “It was a mistake.”

  I snort again, stepping out into the cold, fall weather. Wet hair suddenly seems like a terrible idea—instant regret.

  “Kyle, I don’t care what your reasons were—you showed me time and again the kind of person you were, and I’m never going back to that place. Maybe someday, you’ll grow out of the phase where you need your ego fueled by random girls sucking your dick and getting on all fours.” I shift the backpack on my shoulder to the other side, drained. “You’re gross.”

  “I’m gross,” he de
adpans.

  “Take your dirty dick somewhere else.”

  His jaw drops—pretty sure somewhere inside his head, his brain has been knocked loose and is rolling around in there, uselessly.

  No offense to Kyle, but…

  “Uh…” he cavemans. “Can’t we at least be friends?”

  “Friends?”

  “You know.” He wiggles his bushy brows suggestively, and I want to throw up in my mouth a little.

  Ew.

  Ew, ew, EWWWW!

  Barf.

  He doesn’t mean friends, he means… “Friends with benefits? No thanks. I’m not looking to catch any STIs, but thanks.” His next girlfriend can worry about that. “You have some fucking nerve.”

  “Where is all this coming from?” he has the audacity to ask, as if I were the problem here. As if I don’t have the right to be bitter.

  “You made me wake up and see my worth. And you…” I look at him from top to bottom. “Don’t deserve me.”

  With my head held high, I leave him standing inside the open door staring after me.

  Snap.

  7

  ROMAN

  Should I text her, or should I not text her? That is the question.

  I pace around my bedroom, walking back and forth from one end of it to another, contemplating whether or not to send Lilly an invitation to have Sunday dinner with my family and me. I told her I would invite her again—and my mother followed up after our FaceTime chat in the student union the other day by continuously asking after Lilly. Constantly berating me to invite that pretty girl to dinner.

  It can’t hurt to reach out, right?

  She said we’re friends, and this is what friends do—feed one another food. Introduce them to family.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve been friends with a female; I believe the last girl friend I had was Ariel Sanders back in third grade. She was very interested in biology and frogs and wanted to be a marine biologist at the time; we spent hours upon hours in the pond behind her house with small nets and microscopes.

  Lilly said ‘next time.’

  Tonight is technically next time.

  Would I be rude not inviting my roommates along also? My parents haven’t met them either—not that Mom is planning on an entire crew at the house. She might lose her shit with two additional guests.

  Best to keep it small, I rationalize.

  Sticking my head out my bedroom door, I give a listen to see where the sound is coming from. Hear someone in the bedroom and cross my fingers that person is Jack.

  “Jack?” My inquiry is hesitant, just loud enough to be heard without straining.

  “Yeah?”

  Great—it’s him. Last thing I want to do is ask Eliza for her best friend’s phone number. Don’t want her to get the wrong idea…

  Jack appears in the doorway holding a shirt but not wearing one.

  “Do you happen to have Lilly’s phone number? I have something to ask her.”

  “Sure do, mate.” He fishes a phone out of the pocket of his track pants, thumbing through it then rattling off a number. “I’ll send you the contact, eh? Easier.”

  My phone pings a few seconds later. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He goes to put on the shirt—a long-sleeved tee—but stops short. “You going to be ’round for supper? Eliza and I are off to the cinema if you want to join. Popcorn, crisps, and the like?”

  “Uh—thanks, but I’ve got plans.”

  Jack nods. “You settling in alright?”

  “Totally. The place is great. Thanks again for letting me move in last minute and for being so cool. Wish I’d have moved out years ago.”

  “Years?” He doesn’t look as if he believes me.

  “I tried, man—parents weren’t supportive.”

  He nods at that. “I get it. It’s rough when your mum can’t let go. Never really lived with mine, so it was different. Still strange, but that’s how we do it across the pond, yeah?”

  I think he means he must have been in boarding school most of his school years, which makes sense—that’s common among wealthier Brits. My mother would rather lose a limb than ship me away to school—look at how long it took her to agree to let me live on my own.

  Jack and I stand in the hallway shooting the shit for a few more minutes before his phone goes off—it’s Eliza, checking on his status, which instantly puts him on autopilot, shrugging into his shirt and grabbing his jacket from his closet.

  I watch as he bounds down the stairs for his movie date.

  Glancing down at the new contact in my phone, I return to my bedroom and flop down on the bed. I’m completely dressed for dinner, just have to do this one thing.

  Me: Hey Lilly, it’s Roman Whitaker. We had lunch in the union? I’m Eliza’s roommate. Anyway, I’m just checking in to find out if you’re hungry—heading to my parents’ for Sunday dinner and my mom has extended another invite. Let me know if you’re at all interested.

  I stare and stare at that message, change it around a few times, rewording the last sentence.

  You interested?

  That sounds way more chill and less enthusiastic. Or does it? Maybe it sounds way too chill and not enthusiastic enough? Jeez, I’m way overthinking this. It’s just a simple invitation to spaghetti dinner with my parents and dumb brother, not a proposal to visit the Vatican.

  Lying on the bed, fully dressed and ready to roll, shoes included, I wait for her to reply.

  Lilly: Of course I know who you are, silly. You don’t have to explain!

  I sit up on the bed. She knew who I was?

  Me: Jack gave me your number, I hope you don’t mind.

  Lilly: It’s totally fine!

  Me: Anyway, sorry to bug you if you’re in the middle of something—wasn’t sure if you had practice today or not, but

  I delete that first part. It sounds passive aggressive and a bit insecure—less take charge.

  Me: Anyway, I’m leaving soon for my parents’ place for dinner—wasn’t sure if you had practice today or not, but if you want to join me for Italian, I could swing by and grab you.

  There.

  Perfect, eh?

  Lilly: You know what, Rome? I could eat.

  I could eat? What does that mean? Does it mean she’s excited and would love to come, or does it mean she has nothing better to do so why not? Either way, it sounds like a yes?

  Lilly: What time were you planning on leaving?

  Me: Soon-ish? Unless that doesn’t work for you; I know this is last minute. I should have texted you sooner.

  Lilly: Gosh, no worries. You actually caught me at a good time, I’m already showered and just got done blow-drying my hair. I could be ready in a jiff…

  Me: Is 15 minutes too soon for you, or do you need more time?

  Lilly: How fancy do your parents get? You had a polo on last weekend.

  Me: Not fancy—right now I’m wearing a hoodie.

  I fly out of bed and rip off my polo, tossing it to the closet floor and at the same time yanking a t-shirt and hoodie off their hangers.

  Look at my reflection in the mirror at my pressed khakis and begin the dance of removing those. Grab a pair of jeans and pull those on.

  Lilly: Oh great! In that case, yeah—15 minutes totally works.

  As I’m lacing up my sneakers, the next text to come through is her address.

  Me: Awesome. See you in a few. It’s only a 20-minute drive.

  Lilly: PERFECT because I am starving!!!

  Me: I’ll let my mom know we’re arriving ravenous.

  Lilly: LOL ravenous. I love it when you use big words.

  She loves it when I use big words? When do I use big words? Rarely, yet I make a mental note to use more of them. Can’t hurt to impress a beautiful girl every now and again, can it?

  In a t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans I’m not sure my mother is going to fully approve of, I hustle to the kitchen and fetch two water bottles from the fridge for the ride—one for myself, one for Lilly. Quick
ly toss last week’s leftovers in the trash, dumping the noodles and sauce into the garbage before squirting shit tons of dish soap into each container and swishing it around.

  Rinse.

  Dry.

  Couldn’t hurt to return Mom’s containers on the off chance there are more leftovers tonight and Lilly and I can snag a few to feed us throughout the week.

  I wonder if it’ll be spaghetti tonight. After my mother suggested—for the thirtieth time—that I invite my friend Lilly to dinner and I said I would, it’s entirely possible that she’ll switch up the menu.

  Steak perhaps, to impress? Seafood?

  Burgers aren’t her style for a Sunday, and I doubt she’d serve those to a girl I’m bringing home for the first time. Not fancy enough.

  Salad, for sure.

  Bread? Absolutely—my dad and Aunt Myrtle love carbs.

  Aunt Myrtle.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit—why didn’t I think of her when I was shooting off my invite? Calm down, bro, she might be on a date.

  Or she might have a date at the house.

  I text my mother, heart racing.

  Me: Mom, please tell me Aunt Myrtle isn’t going to be home tonight.

  Mom: Aunt Myrtle is going to be at dinner tonight. She lives here and she is eighty-three, where else would she be?

  Me: I don’t know—on a date?

  Mom: Why are you asking?

  Me: Because Lilly is coming and I have a feeling this is going to be a train wreck.

  Mom: Lilly is coming! How wonderful! Of course this isn’t going to be a train wreck, why would you say that? You talk as if we don’t know how to conduct ourselves.

  Me: Alex and Aunt Myrtle DO NOT KNOW HOW TO CONDUCT THEMSELVES.

  Mom: I can put your brother in the kitchen with his food.

  Ugh. That will only make him worse. No way will that little shit stand for being stranded in the kitchen by his lonesome while there’s a cute girl in the house.

  No way.

  Me: Ugh, whatever, don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m trying to impress her. She’s just my friend—I don’t need to hide my weird family.

  Mom: ROMAN HENRY, WE ARE NOT WEIRD!

  She has her opinion, I have mine—it’s not exactly typical having an eighty-three-year-old woman living in the house who acts as if she’s a twenty-year-old single out on the prowl, swiping on anything with a pulse and bringing him to the house. It’s not typical that her trusty sidekick is a twelve-year-old or that the two of them together are a sassy sarcastic duo.