Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“In a rush, are ya?”

“No.” I almost roll my eyes but resist; he can scarcely see me in the dim light anyway. My sarcastic nonverbal communication is lost on him at this point; he’s barely paying me any attention.

“I think you are.”

“I assure you, I am not in a rush to make out with you.” Methinks thou dost protest too much…

Jackson wrinkles his face. “No one said nothin’ bout makin’ out.”

Ugh, I’m practically a puddle on my side of the truck; every Southern inflection out of his beautiful mouth has me melting.

I’m disgusted with myself. Well and truly disgusted.

“I meant kiss. I’m not in a rush to kiss you.”

The truck makes the turn right, slowly as Jackson brakes for pedestrians and oncoming cars, the cross traffic with a blinking red light and us with a yellow. Frat Row is lit up like the Fourth of July, porch lights glowing, the entire street a welcoming beacon despite the debris on a majority of the lawns.

Red cups, wrappers, and beer cans litter the grass in front of the stately homes, dulling the luxurious properties. They’re worth millions of dollars, housing the occasional douchebag who probably takes living there for granted.

People mill about in front of the Lambda house.

People dressed like a pirate, a giant panda, and a slutty nurse?

A pink bear walks out the front door and begins dry humping the leg of a guy wearing a giant sperm costume.

“Dang, do you see what I see?” Jackson has the balls to ask.

“You mean the kid lying on the ground who’s dressed like a zombie? Yeah, I see it.” The dude is flopping around as if seizing—and maybe he is? But probably not, since everyone is just standing around.

“Looks like some kind of costume party,” he muses, going the extra mile by rubbing the stubble on his chin.

“Jackson?” When I peel my eyes off the road in front of us, it’s impossible to miss the smirk on his face. “Did you set me up?”

“Me? Nooo…”

“Jackson! Oh my god, you ass! Don’t lie!”

Ugh, I could kill him!

His wide shoulders shrug; he’s unflappable. “I mean…I knew there was a party tonight, but it was just a lucky guess that there would be people dressed up.”

“You’re such a damn liar! You freaking knew we’d see costumes when we turned the corner!”

He shoots me side-eye. “Are you gonna hit me with those tiny digits of yers? ’Cause you look ’bout as mad as a wet hen.”

Dammit, why is he so cute?

“Am I going to hit you? First of all, no—I don’t condone violence, plus I’d probably break my hand.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “And secondly, that has got to be the weirdest metaphor I’ve ever heard for someone being pissed off.”

“You ain’t—” He stops to correct his grammar. “You haven’t ever heard that before?”

“I have but still think it’s weird. It makes no sense.”

“Chickens hate bein’ wet,” he unnecessarily explains.

“The point is, you knew there would be a party.”

“I’m not an idiot—of course I knew.”

“That’s entrapment.”

His only answer is a deep laugh that reverberates through the cab of the truck, sending tingles to my nether regions in the most unladylike way.

I shift in my seat. “This was so wrong.”

“Didn’t no one ever tell you some athletes don’t play by the rules?”

“Are you admitting you cheated, Jackson Jennings?”

“I’m admittin’ I don’t always play by the rules.”

“So—cheating.”

We both laugh, and I’m glad he’s taking my teasing in stride.

“No, I don’t normally cheat, never a day in my life. My daddy would have…” He pauses, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “My parents would have killed me if I bent the rules.”

He’s giving me a glimpse into his personal life.

“Your parents were strict?”

“Understatement.” He doesn’t say any more about it, just keeps his eyes on the road and his truck from nailing any of the people now spilling into the street. As we’ve slowly crept along, a game of wiffle ball has broken out in a front yard, the players racing into the road to fetch the ball, not even checking once for vehicles.

A clown leaps into the air, dodging a red minivan approaching from the opposite direction.

“Yours?”

I shrug. “Meh, not really. They never had to be—I just always did what they told me to do. Boring.” I yawn for dramatic effect and pat my mouth.

“Same.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

He glances over. “Why?”

“Because? I don’t know, you must have been popular.”

“I wouldn’t know if I was or not.”

“How do you not know?”

Jackson lifts one of his massive shoulders. “I was usually home when everyone was out, so I don’t know how popular that made me. Pops wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why?” I know I shouldn’t pry, but…

“Wanted me to get into a good college.”

I smile. “And look at you now!”

“Not this college.” Jackson’s sardonic laugh comes with a forced smile, and I’m not sure whether or not to be offended on behalf of the entire Iowa student body. But, given his enrollment status here, I let the comment slide.