Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

Nothing.

I wasn’t a comedian, so my jokes didn’t cheer her up. I wasn’t sweet, or thoughtful, or studious; I knew nothing about females, and my mother never taught me. What my mother did was resent my father—then later, me, because she wanted attention from my dad and he never gave it to her.

He focused all his time on me when she wanted it—or at least some of it—on her.

I know less about women now, having steered clear of girls for the past couple of years. Shit, I haven’t even had sex yet.

Yes, I’ve been tempted—of course I have—but it’s too risky.

I’m not willing to get some rando accidentally knocked up for one night of one orgasm—too many jersey chasers hanging around. My teammates and I never know who the fuck is honest and sincere and who’s just at the house to add a notch to their athlete tally.

Anyway.

I’m single and plan to stay that way.

I don’t do casual—I go all in or not at all, and right now, I don’t have time for women.

I’m no Puritan; I’m not waiting for marriage to have sex, but I’m in no hurry, either. My right hand does just fine taking care of “business”.

I watch the guys joke around. It’s late—far later than we usually work out, but we have a game coming up against a huge rival and Coach has stepped it up to two-a-days. Practice at the ass crack of dawn then again in the afternoon.

We’re also required to hit the weight room.

I won’t lie—I’m fucking tired as all hell.

Legs weak, I sink down onto a nearby weight bench and exhale. Lower myself to my back, grip the bar that’s set on the rack, the cold metal a contrast to my burning hot skin. I wish I could run it over my forehead to cool off and drench myself with water, but that will come later when I hit the shower.

I crane my neck. I can’t do these without a spotter, and there is no one nearby. Too lazy to call someone over, I lie still, staring up at the ceiling and the exposed industrial HVAC vents. Wires. Fluorescent lighting tubes.

Large Iowa banners flank the perimeter, hanging down the cinder block walls. Photos of my peers—student athletes—blown up larger than life and displayed around the room. The quarterback from our football team. A few varsity women’s rowers. Wrestlers. Track stars and soccer players. They’re all represented, their stats and championships displayed on huge plaques near the front registration desk.

I don’t get up, but I make no effort to lift.

I don’t have the energy.

Then.

My thoughts stray to that girl—the one on the road who got out of her car to bitch at me. Man, she was pissed. As angry as a barn cat and ten times cuter.

That day I took her sandwich in the union, her nostrils actually flared.

Freckles.

That’s what I noticed about her when she got up in my face; her adorable freckles.

Blonde hair, but don’t they all? Blue eyes. Nothing special about that. Pink cheeks.

And freckles.

Right—I mentioned that already.

No doubt about it, she was cute, and kind of tall. I definitely wasn’t dwarfing her by any stretch, and I’m a big dude. Most people back down when I get up in their shit, but not this girl. She was too pissed and too hungry to surrender.

And the second she climbed out of her car and came toward my truck with fire in her eyes? Shit. I don’t know, my stomach did a somersault.

Really fucking inconvenient.

Whatever, I’m not interested anyway. I’m not dating, remember?

If I were, though…

But I’m not, and I best keep that in mind.

My head turns. “Bledow! Get your scrawny, good-for-nothin’ ass over here,” I bellow to a teammate. He’s a sophomore second-stringer and is neither scrawny nor good for nothing. In fact, he’s a one of the best fuckers I’ve ever met.

Bledow comes immediately when called.

“Spot me?”

“You got it, Triple J.”

I nod, inhaling and exhaling sharp breaths, psyching myself up to lift the weight stacked on the Olympic bar, and push up.

I push everything out of my mind, focusing on the heavy, dead weight above me.

Fourth Friday

Charlie

This is getting ridiculous. Why do I keep seeing him, every freaking week?

Same truck.

Same spot.

Same time of night.

Same. Guy.

Is God punishing me? Why do I keep bumping into this idiot? Seriously. It’s becoming a joke at this point, and I’m tired of it. I’m sick of seeing his stupid, smug, arrogant face.

His handsome, dumb face.

He’s a Cretan—one with a serious set of balls, I’ll give give him credit for that. One who is pulled over on the road, hogging the shoulder.

Fortunately, I’m not alone for this ride, because this time, I’d love nothing more than to stick it to this guy; get out of the car and give him a piece of my mind. I’ve been daydreaming about it, as a matter of fact, since our last…encounter. Is that what I’m calling it now? An encounter?