Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“Bull. Shit.”

I would notice her standing in the center of a room wearing a garbage bag. Or denim coveralls.

“It’s sweet that you think so, but the truth is, I’m more the girl next door guys tell their problems to and not the girl they want to chase down to ask out.”

Then those guys are fucking morons.

Except I don’t have it in me to argue with her just yet—not without sounding like a dolt. Or like I care.

Which I don’t. Charlie is nothing to me; nevertheless, she’s slowly becoming a friend—the kind of friend I could easily do without, the complicated kind of friend who could manipulate me into doing anything she wanted me to.

I cannot afford a friend like that.

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” She nudges me with her boney elbow, and I glance down at it. Then back up, into her eyes.

Shrouded but bright.

“Just tired,” I lie. “It’s been a long week.”

That part at least is true.

“I can imagine.” She looks over at me, yawns.

“Want me to walk you home?”

Charlie should say no. I’m too big, and too strong, and she barely knows me. Say no, Charlie. Be smart and tell me no. Go inside and get your friends and walk home with them.

“Sure.”

Dammit.

“Want to go now? I just hit a wall, and bed is sounding amazing right about meow.”

“Yeah…let’s get you home.” I stand, and the entire swing propels back from the loss of my weight—all two hundred and seventy-five pounds of me. It hits the railing behind it, Charlie swinging from the inertia.

“Oh shit!” She grunts, almost losing her balance and falling off. “Warn a girl before you go doing that.”

I take a moment then to give her a once-over; eyes graze over the long legs, the dainty hands once folded over her lap are now gripping the rusty metal chains to steady herself. Long blonde hair. Sassy, upturned mouth.

I imagine the freckles scattered across her nose. The tiny indentation in her right cheek that only pops out when she’s laughing.

Charlie hops up.

“You shouldn’t be letting me walk you home.”

They’re the first words out of my mouth when she joins me on the sidewalk in front of the baseball house, instinctively facing the direction we need to walk.

“No? Why is that—are you going to assault me?” A little laugh punctuates her question.

“You think that’s funny?” What is it with girls not taking this shit seriously?

“No, but I know you’re not going to.” She sounds as flippant as she looks, striding along the sidewalk by my side, not a care in the word.

“No, you don’t. You’re just assuming because I haven’t been a prick to you tonight that it’s safe to be alone with me. Didn’t you take that class freshman year where they tell you all this?”

Charlie stops on the sidewalk and grabs me by the upper arm, almost pulling my body toward her, forcing me to look down into her face.

“Holy crap, Jackson—you’re being serious.”

“I want you to remember this next time. Do not ever walk home with some dude you don’t even know. Got it?”

Her nod is slow. “Yes.”

“Repeat it.”

Charlie clears her throat and lowers her voice. Holds up her hand as if about to recite the pledge of allegiance. “I won’t ever wawk home with some dood eye don’t even know.”

Great. She’s being cheeky, mocking my accent. I feel my eyes narrow on her. “You little shit.”

“Sorry, I’m just surprised you’re so adamant about it. Do you know someone who’s been, you know…”

She can’t say the words to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.

“No. Just hear about it.” It’s scary as fuck and more common than even she probably knows. As an athlete, I’m privy to news and conversations other students aren’t, mostly because so many things are kept under the radar, or skimmed over, or covered up—but the news always travels back to the source: the athletic department.

We’re railed on relentlessly about our conduct, publicly and privately; no means no. Sometimes yes means no. Be respectful. Don’t get messy, sloppy drunk. Hands to yourself.

Some guys just can’t behave, and the rest of us pay the price.

“Well, no worries. I won’t let anyone else walk me home in the dark.” The toe of her shoe hits a small bump in the concrete sidewalk and she trips, steadying herself before saying, “It’s not like I have guys beating down my door.”

She could have guys beating down her door if she put more effort into it. “Why is that?”

In the dark, her shoulders move up and down in a diminutive shrug. “I don’t know—you’re a guy, you tell me.” Her head turns and she’s watching me, albeit in the dim light. Very few street lamps line the road, so I’m glad we’re together and she’s not walking alone.

“You look like you’re in a relationship.”