Jackson: You were there.
Me: I know, but how do you feel?
Jackson: Feel? Uh, I have no idea how to answer that lol
Me: Are you sore?
Jackson: Ohhhh, THAT kind of feel, for a second I thought you wanted to discuss how the quarterback on the other team hurt my feelings. My one feeling.
Jackson: But yes, I’m sore as hell. It’ll be fine though, it always is.
Me: Are you glad you won?
Jackson: One step closer to the championship with every win.
Me: Do professional teams only want players from championship teams?
Jackson: No, but winning games is the entire point.
Me: Ahh, I see…
Jackson: You’re adorable.
Me: First I’m cute as a button, now I’m adorable. Stop, I’m blushing.
Jackson: No you’re not, don’t lie.
Me: Fine, I’m not. But close. I came real real close…
Jackson: I should probably say good-night before I pass out on you.
Me: Right. Well. See you Friday at 3.
Jackson: I mean—you’ll probably text me before then, you won’t be able to stand it.
Me: **rolling my eyes**
Jackson: Don’t fight it, Edmonds.
Me: Wow. WOW.
Me: Have a good night’s sleep, Jennings.
Jackson: It’s a date. We have a date.
Me: Please don’t remind me.
Seventh Friday
Jackson
What the fuck am I doing?
This is nuts—and if my pops found out I was taking a girl on a date during the football season, he’d tan my hide.
Which is why I haven’t told anyone, least of all my parents.
Mama—she’d flip. Start planning the wedding and asking me all kinds of questions, but Pops?
Fuck to the no.
I have the route to Charlie’s memorized since it’s a short drive from Jock Row, and I pull into her driveway a few minutes later. Three minutes tops from door to door.
She’s waiting on the porch, wearing a floral, off-the-shoulder sundress. It’s pretty and dainty, her jean jacket thrown over one arm, little brown purse on the other. Wedge sandals.
A bit too summery for the season, and a bit…bare for where I’m taking her, but I ain’t about to say anything and get my ass chewed out for not tellin’ her in advance.
Jeans would have been better, but those legs…
Damn she has great calves; my eyes can’t help but admire them. Tan and long and smooth. I bet she’s shaved within an inch of her life.
My fingers flex over the steering wheel.
Put the truck in park and cut the engine so I can get out and help her in; this is a date, after all, and even though it’s not going to amount to anything, I’m the Southern gentleman my mama raised me to be.
Most days.
In reality, I’m hardly—if ever—a gentleman, but occasionally I’m willing to bust out a few moves reserved for special occasions, like weddings and funerals.
When I step out of the truck, Charlie rises from the concrete stoop, a full four inches taller than normal and the perfect height. The dress is short, hitting her mid-thigh, and it’s dark navy with small pink, white, and beige flowers on it. Brown belt. Brown sandals.
Yeahhh she’s going to fucking kill me when she finds out where we’re going. But in my defense, it is almost fall.
Blonde hair down, it’s straight, not fussy or curled.
Fucking pretty. Too fucking pretty for me.
I feel ten feet tall and eight hundred pounds standing next to her, a giant lummox. Clumsy and aloof, I couldn’t catch a ball right now if it were handed to me from one foot away.
“Hi.” She shifts on her feet, which causes me to glance down at her toes.
Hot pink glitter.
Bracelets jingle on her wrists when she lifts an arm to brush back a strand of hair and tuck it behind her ear. The gold hoops in her lobes catch the light and wink.
“You look…” Nice. Gorgeous. Great. Fantastic. Breathtaking. “Fine.”
A low laugh escapes her lips, as if she’s taking pity on how pathetic I am.
“Thanks. You also look…fine.”
I didn’t put nearly as much effort into it as she has, mostly because we’re headed to a farm and I knew I’d need sturdier shoes.
I do have on clean jeans with no holes, a long-sleeved, navy polo shirt, and my usually unkempt hair is brushed and held back with a rubber band. Face is shaved. Deodorant under my pits.
So…only slightly douchey.
“Do you realize we match?” Charlie lifts the end of her skirt, letting it flow through her fingers. “We’re both wearing blue.”
Shit. It is indeed the same color blue.
And I’m in danger of looking like one of those pansies who gets pussy-whipped by his girlfriend and led around by his dick when he starts a new relationship.
“What were you doin’ out on the porch? You’re gonna catch a chill.”
“The girls are home and Savannah needed the bathroom so I wanted to get out of her hair. No room.”
The house is tiny.
“You’re gonna need that jacket,” I inform her, walking to the passenger side door and pulling it open. Giving her ass an appreciative glance when she hops up.