Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“Yup. On the corner of University Drive and Darter. He’s all up in my shit—again—but this time I’m livid. Fuming, like, I’ve never been so freaking mad. So I slam on my brakes and get out of my car because I have to give this butthole a piece of my mind.”

“You did not get out of your car! You could have been murdered.”

Solemnly, I nod. “I know. It was dumb.”

“What happened?”

“I storm the truck and he rolls down his window and it’s him. Ugh, that smug face.” I frown, remembering how pleased he looked to see me beside his vehicle. “I don’t know what the hell kind of game he and his buddy are playing, but it makes no sense. Seeing him on the side of the road like that, something has to be going on—I mean, isn’t that weird? Tell me that’s not weird.”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence?”

“Please—three Fridays, same strip of road cannot be a coincidence. They’re up to something.” I tap on the steering wheel, deep in thought now that the idea has taken root in my mind. “I’ve heard of this kind of thing, where they play for points and stuff—I wonder if it’s like that.”

“I think you’re being paranoid. Back where I’m from, the big thing to do on the weekend was drive up and down Main Street because there is literally nothing else to do. People have been doing it since my parents were teenagers, and they’re still doing it today. It’s like ‘see and be seen.’ Triple J must be from a small town—bet you anything he is.”

“I’m not going to ask him and find out. NO thanks.”

“It’s one way to find out what he’s up to.”

Why does she always make so much sense?

And why am I still thinking about Jackson Jennings?

Jackson

“That’s that same girl.”

“Yup.” It sure is.

“She doesn’t like you.”

“No shit.”

Tyson gives me side-eye. “Do you like her?”

“What? No.” Is he being serious? “You know I’m not datin’.”

“I didn’t ask if you want to date her. I asked if you like her.”

“I don’t know her.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds, thoughtful—likely putting some bullshit sentence together in his mind before saying it out loud. “Didn’t look like you don’t know her, and you sure do run into her a lot.”

That I do.

Weird.

This is the fourth time she and I have clashed, bumped into each other randomly and gotten into a tiff.

“She’s cute. I wonder if she’s single,” Tyson muses out loud.

I roll my eyes, not about to fall for his tactics. He’s feeling me out and trying to see if I’ll get jealous. Which I won’t.

My shoulders rise into a shrug. “Don’t care.”

He replies by tapping on the window ledge and staring out the at the administrative buildings on campus as we pass by them. The library. The registrar’s office. The alumni house.

We pass the stadium, which rises out of the ground like Goliath.

I love that fucking stadium; it’s the very reason I fell in love with Iowa and the school. New, shiny, and state-of-the-art, it was like nothing I’d ever seen.

Certainly not in the small town where I grew up, though our high school stadium wasn’t your typical playing field, either. No one hosts football games like Texans.

“Not even a little bit interested?” he inquires.

“Not even a little.”

I can feel him staring at my profile and keep my gaze trained on the road ahead of me. I’m taking him to his place before heading home; we’ve had enough fun for the night and I’m beat.

That little blonde on the side of the road lost all her appeal once Charlotte and her traitorous friend pulled up. That friend of hers liked me, that I could tell—she at least knew who I was.

Charlie sure as shit didn’t, and Charlie couldn’t care less.

Charlotte.

The name suits her. It’s feminine and beautiful and a bit old-fashioned, just like she seems to be.

Fifth Friday

Jackson

Well, well, well, what do we have here?

Charlotte Edmonds and her crappy beige car, broken down on the side of the road, that’s what. Not a safe place to pull over, but with a flat back tire, doesn’t look like she had much choice.

How do I know her last name? Easy—I looked her up and crept on her pretty hard for someone who thinks she’s a bit too salty to taste.

Charlotte Edmonds. Twenty-one. Junior. Business major who plays intramural volleyball. Kind of tall for a girl at five foot seven. Her Instagram gallery shows her doing all kinds of cutesy, adorable shit, like baking cupcakes in her tiny kitchen for the Fourth of July and volunteering at the local humane society. Spraying a hose at some little kid, wearing a bikini—that one I really could appreciate.

Boobs. Legs. Ass.

She’s a trifecta of feminine perfection…

And she hates my guts.

I pull over and watch her eyeballing me, arms crossed as she leans her hip on the side of her beat-up Chevy, looking like a car model, though she would most likely disagree with that assessment.