Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

I used to have a playset like this one in our backyard growing up—back when I was carefree and worry-free. Back before I started dancing and doing gymnastics, before my mother wouldn’t let me play on it anymore for fear that I would get hurt and no longer be able to perform.

She worried I would break my arm and not be able to compete in pageants, and things never got better as I grew older; she only became more controlling—your stereotypical stage mom, wanting her daughter to be famous. I don’t know what on earth she thought I would do with my life, but being in the entertainment business or being a professional dancer certainly wasn’t, isn’t, and never will be my dream come true.

We’ve already established the fact that I am only on the university’s cheerleading team so I can pay my bills.

I release the curtain, letting it fall into place before turning back to Roman’s bedroom. My fingers graze the top of his dresser, skimming along the wood the same way they grazed the banister rails. He has a small tray with change in it—a few pennies and some quarters—and a guitar pick. I glance around the room and don’t see a guitar case anywhere, and I wonder if he got this from somewhere or if he actually plays.

Next, my eyes take in a few receipts, crumpled up and discarded. A pair of black-framed glasses. A bottle of cough medicine.

And a bracelet.

A bracelet.

It’s a braided friendship bracelet, and it looks old and worn and oddly familiar—the same familiarity I felt when I first laid eyes on Roman and wondered if I knew him. The bracelet is made of my favorite colors and I used to make them all the time, painstakingly weaving them in my free time and giving them away to people, stacking them on my wrist one after the other. At one point, I had twenty-three bracelets on my arm.

I gave him this bracelet.

I gave Roman this bracelet when we were freshmen, and he kept it all these years.

Taking it from the dresser, I hold it between my fingers and sit myself down at the foot of his bed, working the fabric between my fingertips as if I were playing a tiny violin. The yarn has worn as if he’s been doing the same thing over and over these past few years.

Threadbare.

Did he recognize me last weekend when we met, down in the kitchen? Did he already know my name? He didn’t introduce himself as Rome that night at the party when we were sitting on the stairs talking, but honestly, the two variations aren’t distinctly different at all, so I’m embarrassed I didn’t make the connection.

He must think I am a ditz.

He must recognize me; I don’t look that different than I did three years ago. I mean, sure, my hair is a lot longer than it used to be, and yes, I’ve had it highlighted and dyed more times than I can count since then. But I am the same person—my face is the same, I am the same height.

Roman, on the other hand…

He’s gotten taller, a little bit bulkier, and has ditched the glasses. Not to mention his hair is longer and unkempt.

Making myself comfortable, I kick off my shoes and relax further onto his bed, positioning myself to rest against the wall. Locate the remote control for the TV and hit the power button—it goes on way easier than the living room television did.

I can’t concentrate on anything except this bracelet in my hands, and I think about it the entire time I’m lying here propped up on Roman’s fluffy pillows.

If he recognized me, why didn’t he say anything? Why did he let me think we’d never met? Does he not want to be associated with me because I’m not smart? Is he the type of guy who only associates with intellectuals socially?

I’m not completely oblivious; I know there are people like that in this world—perhaps he is one of them.

No, Roman isn’t like that. I don’t know him well at all, but…my gut tells me he is a sincere person. He comes off as very humble, with his priorities in order. Most people would’ve gotten angry or upset that their trophy was all but destroyed, but he took it in stride, not losing his cool. Trying to make Eliza and me feel better when we expressed our remorse.

That is a man with his priorities in order.

People over things.

Roman is a good person.

His room? Neat as a pin.

Tidy, like he is, except for his unruly hair.

He had it back tonight, in a kind of man-bun.

I make myself even more comfortable, flipping through the channels, readjusting the pillows beneath my back and head as if nesting. The bracelet is still in my hand, and I make a mental note to put it back before I do something stupid like fall asleep with it in my hand.