Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

“Yeah, of course it’s okay.” The hands I have stuffed inside my pockets come out so I can wipe them on my thighs, despite the fact that they aren’t sweaty. I feel like they should be, though. God this is painful.

“So…why didn’t you tell me we’d already met?”

“I…don’t know. Eliza and Jack were in the kitchen and I thought it might be weird? I don’t know, Lilly. Half the time I have no idea what I’m doing unless it’s related to school.”

I’m tempted to begin babbling to over-explain myself but stop before any more words come out of my mouth.

“Why did you keep this?”

“I don’t know.”

She twirls it round and around on her hand. “Most people would have thrown it away.”

Yes, they would have, but I’m not most people.

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just…” I clear my throat uncomfortably. “I was a nerdy little freshman and you were nice to me on a night where I felt incredibly awkward at a party I didn’t want to be at.” I shrug my now broad shoulders. “So I kept it.”

Lilly seems to preen at that as if I was giving her a compliment, telling her she’s beautiful or smart or witty. All I did was say she was nice to me once upon a time, and she’s watching me as if I were a saint.

I might live like a monk sometimes, but I am no saint.

“Most guys are assholes.” She plucks at one of the green strands. When she stands up and stretches, I back away, giving her a wide berth, watching when she puts the bracelet back on my dresser.

“You can have it back,” I say feebly for lack of anything else.

Lilly turns her head. “Don’t you want it?”

Yes. “Doesn’t matter. It’s yours.”

“I gave it to you.”

I cannot tell her I’m dying inside and that every single second we spend standing here is killing me slowly, mortification wanting to suck me into the carpet.

“Sorry.”

Lilly leaves the bracelet, ending the discussion, and snatches her shoes before walking to the door. “I should go. I can’t believe I fell asleep. My roommate was pissed when she thought I left without telling her where I was at.”

She bounds back down the stairs.

I trail along behind her.

In the kitchen, Lilly stops short at the sight of leftovers sitting in the center of the island. My mother sent me home with a container of pasta, a container of homemade spaghetti sauce, several small loaves of garlic bread wrapped in aluminum foil, and tiramisu for dessert.

Some of the food is still warm and has already begun smelling up the small kitchen with their aroma, namely garlic of course. Mom used fresh parmesan for the sauce and fresh basil and oregano from her garden out back—the smell is overwhelming and delicious. Lilly tilts her nose up in the air and takes a big whiff.

“What is that smell?” She sniffs again.

“That’s spaghetti. My mom makes it all from scratch, including the bread.”

“Are you serious?” She pauses, still staring down at the food, tongue practically hanging out of her mouth. “My mom hasn’t cooked in years. She usually has it delivered.”

“Well my mom cooks like there are 30 people coming to dinner when it’s just the five of us.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t your grandmother live with you?” Lilly taps her chin in recollection.

“You’re thinking of my great aunt, and yeah, she lives with us.”

Tonight Aunt Myrtle was alone and didn’t have a date with her, much to my mother’s relief. It was a really good time with my mother falling all over me and my brother objecting the entire time because he was being ignored. You would think I’d been gone for a decade the way she hovered around my chair, fetching me things, insisting that I not help with dishes or clean up as I normally have to do when I’m there. There were a few times she tried to convince me to move back home, attempting to bribe me when my father wasn’t within earshot.

“Did you eat dinner tonight?” I ask her as I begin stacking the containers neatly so they’ll fit in the fridge.

“Yes and no.”

I laugh. “What does that mean?”

“It means I had leftover pizza, which was total crap.” Her eyes haven’t left the containers.

I hold them forward as an offering. “Did you want some?”

“I couldn’t possibly.” Her hands go to her stomach, pressing against her belly like she’s feeling it for spare room. “I mean—I am still kind of hungry, but I never worked out today.”

Ah.

I get it now.

I’ve heard rumors about cheerleading and the rigorous restrictions they have, how some coaches and staff are complete dicks, body-shaming and measuring and weighing girls.

“If you’re still hungry, you should eat—it’s not that late, and you’ll probably go home and wind up eating junk food.”