Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“You want to name it?”

“Yeah. It needs a name.” She glances into the backseat and I steal a look at her calves.

Nice.

Smooth.

Sexy.

“It looks like a guy.”

“Are you being serious?” She says it with a straight face, so I can only assume she’s being serious, but it still sounds fucking ridiculous.

“Yes. I think it looks like a dude, so it needs a dude’s name.”

Girls are so strange. “Like what?”

“Like…Jackson Jennings the fourth.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“Randall?”

I cock my head now, getting into the game of naming our fictional new friend. “I don’t mind Randall, but how about Nathan. Or Kyle?”

“Those seem too…normal. What about Biff McMuscles?” she deadpans, a glint in her eye.

“Biff McMuscles?” I give him a quick peek in my rear-view mirror. “He doesn’t have muscles.”

“I know, but…” Charlie ducks her head as her cheeks darken. “That’s what I called you before I knew your name.” Darts a glance at me. “Is that bad?”

“You called me Biff McMuscles?” I want to barf a little in my mouth as I say it. For real, what the fuck? “Why?”

I mean—Biff?

“You’re all…” Her hands wave around along my torso, up and down. “Fit and buff and huge.”

I force my eyes to stay planted on the road, but it’s an exercise in self-control. I want to stare Charlie down so bad.

“You couldn’t come up with a better nickname than that? It’s terrible.”

A sigh comes from the passenger side. “I know, but I didn’t like you at the time so it seemed to fit.”

“You didn’t like me?”

“You knew that, come on.” I get a patronizing pouty face as she mirrors my expression. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

“Uh, because I thought you liked me but you were pretending.”

“Nope. I literally could not stand you. I mean—just enough to curse you out a few times. You’re kind of awful.”

I am?

“I’ve never had any complaints before.”

“Who is going to complain to your face? No one. Yeah right.” Charlie snorts, crossing her legs and readjusting her body. “You’re Triple J, almighty wide receiver—no one is going to tell you no, let alone tell you you’re being an ass or say you suck. Come on, let’s get real for a second.”

My mouth opens to reply but gets clamped shut again as Charlie goes on, warming to the topic of me being an ass.

“Everyone is too busy kissing your ass. When is the last time anyone told you no? Or didn’t give you something you wanted? Or gave you a bad grade?” She makes an unattractive gagging sound in the back of her throat.

“Hey—I get bad grades.” Why am I defending myself?

“Fine, you get bad grades.” She uses air quotes around the word bad, and I get offended all over again. “When’s the last time you failed a class?”

“Are you implying that I’m given good grades?”

Her hands go up, palms facing the ceiling in the truck. “I wouldn’t know.”

“See, this is where you’re wrong. I study—I study my ass off. They might tailor classes for student athletes, but it’s at my discretion to take them—and I don’t. If I get hurt and end up on the injury list, I’m screwed. Then what? My career is shot and I’m left with nothin’—so I study and I study hard, because that’s the other reason I’m here.”

“Football and a degree.”

“Yup.”

“And that’s it?”

My hands tighten over the leather steering wheel, lips drawn into an obstinate line. “Yup.”

“And you don’t cheat?”

I turn my head to look her straight in the eyes. “No.”

Her palms go up again, this time in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m just asking, sheesh. Bring the death stare down a notch.”

“Newsflash, Charlotte, you can’t go around accusin’ people of cheatin’ based on stereotypes.”

“I’m sorry.”

I feel weight on my forearm, my eyes darting down to stare at the fingers resting there. The light pink manicured nails. The thin gold ring on her index finger.

It taps my muscle once, twice before pulling away and returning to its spot on her thigh, but the damage is done; I can still feel its heat on my skin long after it’s gone.

“I am sorry, Jackson,” she repeats, quietly this time, watching my reflection. “Hey.”

I look over.

She smiles, biting down on her bottom lip. “I’m excited to carve the pumpkin with you tonight.”

Fuck, the pumpkin.

My house.

The guys.

“Bet Biff McMuscles is excited, too.”

I groan.

Seventh Friday 2.0

Charlie

Wow. So this is what the football house looks like when there isn’t a party going on.

We step in, Jackson closes the door behind us, and I can already hear the stirring of people inside.

Deep voices, low and hushed—according to Jackson, it’s game day eve, so they’re required to be home, sober, and in bed by a certain hour.

“You know we’re not supposed to have guests the night before a game, Southern-fried homeboy.”

“Shut up, McMillan.”

The kid Jackson calls McMillan stuffs a spoonful of what looks like peanut butter into his mouth and speaks around it, following us into the kitchen. “I’m just saying.”