Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

Though we’re teammates and he’s a fucking fantastic football player in his own right, he has some odd hero-worship thing where I’m concerned, and I cannot shake the poor idiot.

He tags along when I’m bored and want to go driving, sitting shotgun during my cruises.

“She definitely knew you.”

Yes, she definitely knows me. Not my name, or anything about me—or shit, maybe she does and just acts like she doesn’t recognize me. I mean, it’s not like I’m hiding who I am. I have a reputation on campus and around the country as one of the best wide receivers in the NCAA. Shit, my face is plastered on a banner hanging at the football stadium, in color and fifty feet tall.

Granted, my face is covered by the facemask of my helmet, but it’s there, nonetheless.

“She’s not the first girl to get out of her car because lights were shining in her eyes,” Tyson says, staring out his window and tapping on the door.

No. She’s not.

My truck is jacked up so high, no doubt it does blind anyone I sneak up behind. A few brave souls have gotten out of their vehicles—dudes included—to chew my ass out, but what am I supposed to do, go spend twelve hundred dollars on a new set of smaller tires?

I don’t fucking think so.

I wouldn’t do it even if I could afford it. Which I can’t.

“You know, we could be onto something,” he says cryptically.

“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” The last thing I need is him getting us in trouble with some dumb idea, but when I put on my blinker and cut back into traffic, my passenger is keyed up with an idea. Sits up a bit straighter in his seat, looking excited and mischievous.

“I’m just thinking out loud here, but what if…” He lets his voice trail off mysteriously. As if I’m going to be intrigued enough to ask questions.

“No.”

“Let me finish.”

“No.”

I head toward our house, trying to tune out the sound of Tyson’s voice, wanting to end this evening. Seeing that girl—again—was enough excitement for one damn day.

We have to grab our gym bags and head to the weight room.

No rest for the weary, not with a game against Madison coming up. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.

No partying. No drinking. No fucking around.

Hence driving around a college town and cruising the strip—it’s the only entertainment that reminds me of home. Harmless, fun, and free, if you don’t count the gas my truck guzzles in the process.

“What if…” Tyson begins again, as if I didn’t just shoot him down. “We make a game out of it.”

“A game out of what?” My eyes haven’t left the road, but my ears have perked up.

“A game out of people getting out of their cars to scream at you.”

“That’s a terrible idea for so many reasons. One, it’s not safe. Two, I could get in fuckin’ trouble.”

“Why? You’re not doing anything. You’re just driving your own vehicle.” He’s turned to face me, the dumb jock actively interested in his own stupid idea. “We could come up with rules.”

“That just makes it worse.”

“How so?”

“Because. It just does.” How does he not get it? “Besides, what kind of rules could you possibly make up for something as dumb as people getting out of their cars?”

“Dude—fun ones. Like getting one point if it’s a guy who gets out, five if it’s a girl.”

I mean…that does sound kind of fun.

Still.

“No.”

“Oh! You get ten points if the girl is a brownbagger, twenty if she’s hot and you’d bang her.”

“Yeah, now that just sounds like assault.”

“You’re not actually going to bang them—you’re just earning points.”

Is he in a skeevy fraternity and I don’t know it? Who comes up with shit like this? Assigning a point value to a girl because she’s ugly is fucking mean; I might not give two shits about dating one, but I know enough not to be a dick about what they look like.

Who the fuck am I to judge? I’m no cover model myself. I was raised on a cattle ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere, rarely had clothes that fit me properly, was always dirty, and needed braces but never got them.

“Yeah—still no.”

“Why not?”

“Tyson, I ain’t doin’ it.”

“Why?” he parrots himself. “They’re getting out of their cars anyway—we should judge them for it. Five points if they scream at us, three if they just bang on the window. One point if they get out of the car but chicken out.”

It sounds like he’s given this some serious thought. The point values make actual sense, despite there being no way in hell I’d play a game like that.

“Think about it dude. It’s such a good idea.”

“Horrible, really.”

He goes on, warming to the topic. “Fifteen points if the person recognizes us. Twenty if it’s a girl and she starts flirting.”