Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

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. Quickly 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.

But I’m not going to argue with my mother, not when my nerves are in full swing, the knots in my stomach wreaking havoc on a gut that’s also growling from hunger.

I’m a mess.

Me: I was kidding, Mom. What’s for dinner?

Mom: Lasagna, and thank heavens I made a big pan of it—plenty to go around.