The Jock Script (The Script Club 3)

“Whoa. Too much.” He shifted his burden with a huff. “All right. I got it. You can let go.”

I didn’t move. In fact, I made a mistake and slid my hand along his forearm. I had a thing for forearms, and Blake’s were especially sexy. They were toned with just the right amount of hair and muscle.

I had a sudden vision of him in the classroom, dealing with unruly students with a firm, no-nonsense tone. A sexy, stern professor fantasy was always a turn-on, but I could work with a coach scenario too, I mused as my gaze traveled from his chiseled cheekbones to his massive chest. His pecs were nicely outlined in his snug-fitted Westgate lacrosse polo shirt.

Shoot. I licked my lips and swallowed hard…because yes, I now had a full-blown erection. Very inconvenient indeed. That was what happened when I misjudged the potential threat of attraction combined with forced proximity and a wild imagination.

If he happened to glance at my crotch, I’d probably keel over from embarrassment. But I also couldn’t walk through a crowded store like some kind of pervert with a flagpole in my khakis.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve reconsidered and decided it wouldn’t be fair for you to carry two boxes. I’ll take one.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let’s—”

“I insist.”

Blake craned his neck around the box and gave me a suspicious once-over, freezing when he noticed my affliction.

“Are you…excited about something, Ash?” he whispered, curling his lips in a knowing half smile.

I blinked in faux confusion. “Nope. Nothing at all.”

“Uh-huh. I need those floor protectors.” He tilted his head at a package hanging on a nearby hook.

“But you have carpet in your bedroom,” I whispered. “You don’t need these.”

“Just carry it to the register. It doesn’t hurt to have extra. That winter coat would have come in handy right about now,” he drawled with a grin.

“Very funny. Can we go now?”

I didn’t wait for his reply. I grabbed two packages of felt floor protectors, then spun on my heels, marching purposefully toward the register with the sound of Blake’s laughter drifting behind me.

I expected him to tease me mercilessly, but he didn’t say a thing. I didn’t have much recent experience with jocks. When I was growing up, I’d steered clear of them, though. I had nothing in common with boys who talked about making the team or scoring all the points. I was small and scrawny—all brain, no brawn…the kid cool guys like Blake made fun of.

But we weren’t kids, and Blake didn’t strike me as the type to use perceived weakness against anyone. If anything, he looked out for me. He stood close, shielding me like a bodyguard. I couldn’t help thinking he was the protector I’d always secretly wished would have jumped out of nowhere to save the day.

We paid for our purchases, then schlepped them to his SUV. Blake rearranged some equipment to make room for the boxes, pausing dramatically when his stomach growled.

“I’m starving. Are you sure you won’t eat fast food?”

“Positive. It doesn’t agree with me. But feel free to stop wherever you’d like. I don’t mind,” I assured him.

“Nope. I’m not gonna eat in front of you, and if you’ve been snacking on nuts all morning, you’ve gotta be hungry too. We can get a rotisserie chicken at the market and make a salad. Sound good?”

“Very good.”

Blake put his hand out for a high five, snickering when I tapped my palm gently to his. He gave me a ten-minute tutorial on how to properly deliver a bro greeting that morphed into an odd discussion about the ritual of bumping body parts…non sexually. Fist bumps, elbow bumps, hip bumps. It shouldn’t have been interesting at all, but we somehow segued into dance moves and wedding traditions as we parked in the supermarket lot.

“My sister got married two years ago at our family’s lake house. The ceremony was heartwarming, the bride and groom were beautiful. Every detail was well thought out and perfectly executed…except the deejay. The guy was corny as hell,” Blake reported, grabbing a basket at the entrance and heading for the produce section.

I inspected the lettuce, shaking excess moisture from the leaves before dropping it into the biodegradable plastic bag he held open. “What was wrong with him?”

“He was Mr. Cheese. I understand that it’s a nice gesture to play songs for all age groups, but he did the hokey-pokey.” Blake rolled his eyes, pointing between the pint of heirloom tomatoes and the larger ones. “Do you have a preference?”

“Um, yes.” I pointed at the pint, adding a red onion and a cucumber. “What do you have against the hokey-pokey? It’s fun.”

“If you’re five.”

I chuckled. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, it is. If I ever get married, that song will be banned from—whoa. Stop. What are you doing with those mushrooms?”