Jock Row (Jock Hard 1)

I’m all he can think about?

He dreams about me? He’s said it before, but it’s always when we’re joking around.

“Sure it’s normal, when you’re attracted to someone—”

“I’m not just attracted to her, Mom. It’s like…I don’t know, it’s like…”

“It’s like what?”

He groans, frustrated. “I don’t know.”

“Love doesn’t make sense, honey. Maybe you should ask your father.” She chuckles. “God, he had no idea what he was doing when we started dating. It was such a train wreck.”

“I’m not talking to Dad about my love life.” He’s horrified by the thought.

“What are you going to do?”

“I think I’m in love with her,” his voice confirms, repeating the words, stunning everyone. “Or falling in love with her, whatever. Feeling something. I don’t fucking know what’s happening to me.”

He’s laughing now, and the deep timbre has me pulling back in shock. Falling slack, back against the wall, my hands press against my flaming hot cheeks.

Rowdy is falling in love with me?

He loves me.

Oh my god, he’s in love with me?

Say it again, Sterling, I silently beg, greedy for the words. Just one more time.

“Have you discussed it with her?”

“God no!” He screeches. “Are you nuts?”

I have to press a palm to my mouth to stop from giggling as Mrs. Wade laughs. “Why not?”

“I’m not ready to confess that shit to her, Mother. I don’t know what she’ll say and I’m not a masochist.”

“I’m just asking, Sterling, relax. You’re so sensitive.” Mrs. Wade chuckles again. “Please stop staring at me with that look—you’re being ridiculous.”

It sounds like he’s crossing his arms, slumping in the chair. “I’m not discussing my feelings with her.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” His voice is stern, resolute. “I don’t think she feels the same way. It’s been two months.”

“Why would you say that?” she asks gently, and I imagine if I stuck my head around the corner, I’d see her hand resting on his forearm, comforting. “Two months is a long time.”

“Scarlett is…” His voice trails off. “Smart and beautiful and…she’s intimidating.”

Intimidating?

Me?

I intimidate him? Is he delusional?

I’m five foot five on a tall day, couldn’t get into my dream college even after applying and appealing the rejection twice. Half the time I’m wearing yoga pants, and the other half he’s only seen me in puffy winter jackets.

What’s so intimidating about that?

Sterling Wade is six foot two of solid muscle and tan skin. Smooth planes and masculine lines. He’s intense and funny and I’ve been dreaming about him every night since we met. Dreamed about meeting a guy like him when I was younger, imagining the perfect match for myself.

He is as close to perfect as a guy could possibly be.

And sweet Jesus, that boy loves me.

His voice, a deep baritone that never fails to send a shiver down my spine, is soft as he describes me to his mother.

“She’s independent, doesn’t really give a shit about me playing baseball or that I’m, you know—popular or whatever.”

I cringe. That part makes me sound like such an asshole. Is that what he truly thinks? That I don’t give a shit about him playing baseball?

My hands are shaking as I bring them up to my face, cool palms pressed against my flaming hot cheeks, embarrassed by that last part of his assessment.

What is he doing to me?

What do I do with myself now that I have this new information?

I can’t walk into the kitchen and act normal, as if I haven’t just overheard him emotionally unload to his mother.

I can’t.

I’m bright red from head to toe, still pressed to the wall in my hiding spot around the corner, next to the kitchen, just feet away from where they’re sitting.

Mrs. Wade hmphs, unimpressed. “She doesn’t give a shit about you playing baseball? Baseball is your future—is she supportive? What does she care about?”

“Relax, Mom, that’s not what I meant. I just meant she isn’t dating me because I play ball. She’s into marine biology. Graduating, I guess. She hates parties.”

What? I don’t hate parties!

Not much.

Fine, I do—but they’re a necessary evil if I’m determined not to become a hermit, sequestering myself inside the tiny hovel I call home.

“I thought you said you met her at a party?”

“I did.” He’s shifting in his chair. “But she was just coming off of a cold and her friends dragged her there. That whole night didn’t end well. I don’t know why she kept coming back.”

Finally, I hear a smile in his mother’s voice. “She came back for you, sweet boy.”

“Do not call me sweet boy—it makes me sound five.”

“You like her because she’s different.” Mrs. Wade sounds pleased. “This makes more sense to me now. Hmm, must be a big change from the usual.”

I know what she’s referring to: jock, jersey, cleat chasers. Gold diggers. Groupies. Women who only date men because of their status on campus.

“Yeah, it was weird at first,” Rowdy admits. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say around her anymore, or where to put my hands—like, I just want to hug her all the time and I don’t give a shit that we haven’t had sex yet.” Long pause. “Okay that’s a lie, I totally give a shit that we haven’t had sex, but I don’t want to freak her out. She’s so smart, Mom.”

“Mmhmm, mmhmm.” Now it sounds like his mother is preoccupied. “What else?”

“I mean, at first when she started coming to the house, it was casual and we just sat there playing games because we were bored. I—” He stops. “Mom! Jesus, you said you weren’t going to write any of this shit down! No taking notes!”

“What? It’s my job! It’s not like I’m using your names—this is fiction! Besides, I write regency romance, not contemporary, so no one will know it’s you.”

Rowdy’s mother writes romance novels? That is awesome—how did I not know this?

I don’t hear the rest of their exchange. Backing away, I tiptoe up the narrow staircase, quiet as a church mouse until reaching the sanctuary of his bedroom. Standing at the foot of Rowdy’s bed, I breathe heavily, staring down at his navy bedspread, the four pillows stacked invitingly against the headboard.

A lamp glows in the corner, my small suitcase tucked neatly into the corner of the blue room. Navy walls, white woodwork—a total boys’ room.

My intention was to sleep in the guest room, but Rowdy wasn’t lying when he told his mom we couldn’t find a spare set of sheets. No matter how hard we searched, not a single set was to be found—not that he knew where to look, and he hadn’t even bothered to ask his mom where they were, probably so I’d be forced to sleep with him, I reluctantly admit to myself.

I’m so clueless sometimes. How did I not know he was falling in love with me at the same time I was falling in love with him?

Because I was too busy blinking at him starry-eyed, that’s why!

Removing my sweatshirt, I pull the hem of my threadbare tank top down over the waistband of my sleep shorts. Run a hand along my damp hair, still wet from the shower.

Freeze as footfalls thump at the top of the stairs, stopping at the bathroom. The door closes, bang echoing in the hall.

Minutes later, the toilet flushes.

Faucet runs for what feels like an eternity.

He must be brushing his teeth, or shaving, or oh my god I wish he’d just hurry up and get back in here already so I can stop fidgeting, pacing like a caged tiger, a ball of nerves.

The bathroom door opens.

One step, then two, and Rowdy is standing outside his bedroom door; I can hear him hesitate. Debating. Hear his hand resting on the doorknob, motionless. The three short raps with his knuckles against the wood have my heart skipping like a stone across a lake.