Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

That’s the difference between my father and me—he obviously never had the drive, instead blaming his shortcomings on the person closest to him: my mother. She didn’t get herself pregnant, but he blamed her my whole life.

Which is why he pushes me so hard not to screw myself by screwing women.

That’s not what this is, though. Charlie isn’t…

Our relationship isn’t the same.

She wants what’s best for me, and if I told her tomorrow that I wanted space, she’d back off and give it to me.

Charlie would disappear.

The thought makes me fucking sick to my stomach, along with the thought of being alone for the rest of my life.

Sure, when I make a pro football team, I’ll have more money than I’ve ever seen—more than I’ll know what to do with, more than my family has ever seen. I know my parents expect me to support them after I’m drafted; that’s the motivation behind my father’s big push.

Then what? I pay off their house, buy a swank pad of my own—and sit in it alone? I immediately envision a backyard with a pool, grill, and lots of space. Inviting friends over and watching them with their children and families while I’m off to the side watching.

Jealous.

Cleaning up the mess, alone. Going to bed, alone. Waking up in the morning, alone. Heading to practice and coming home to an empty house.

Sounds fucking awful.

All because I’ve been told and taught a relationship will squash my goals.

What’s the worst thing that could happen if I stick my dick inside Charlie? We give each other a few orgasms and go on our merry way.

Easy.

It’s not like I’ll get attached to her. Boom, one and done.

Okay, maybe twice.

Liar.

You’re a fucking liar, Jackson. You’re already attached or you wouldn’t be thinking about sleeping with her at all. You’d be doing what you’re supposed to be doing—these squats.

I’m staring off into the distance, at a banner hanging from the far wall, down the cinderblock confines of the giant workout facility. It’s a blown-up photo of one of the rowers on the women’s crew, her expression one of elation as the team crosses the finish line first at a meet.

I pan to another banner: baseball. A grunting pitcher on the mound, face pinched, one eye shut as he takes aim before releasing the hard ball.

Wrestling. Dark and broody Zeke Daniels, an alumna. Kind of a bastard, if my memory serves me correctly; I’ve only met the guy a few times, but he wasn’t pleasant. I believe he’s engaged to be married.

Which means he had a girlfriend when he was winning championships. Their other team captain did too.

Legs spread, a white towel in my hand, I wipe the sweat from my brow, mind ticking through a mental roster of my teammates—which of them have serious girlfriends?

Devin Sanchez, linebacker. Peter Van Waldendorf, quarterback. Stuart White, linebacker. Kevin O’Toole, tight-end.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What have I been doing the past three years? No personal life, just football. No going out, just football. No drinking, no sex, no nothing.

Just football.

I lean forward, burying my face in my hands, drying my sweaty forehead on the towel. Close my eyes and breathe.

This isn’t my fault.

I did what I thought I had to do.

But for what?

For your career, idiot, I argue.

But why? You’re twenty-two, not fifty.

Because that’s the only thing I’ve been taught.

There—I just saved myself hundreds of dollars on a shrink and therapy, because Lord knows I probably need one after the head case my father has turned me into.

Damn him.

Fucking Pops.

He’s at home sitting in his recliner, armchair quarterback for the past two decades, calling shots on my life from Texas while I bust my ass in Iowa. Me. Injuries, arguments, grunt work—for him. Sweat, plenty of tears, and sometimes blood.

Speaking of tears…

The white terrycloth towel absorbs the salt dripping from my tear ducts, and I squeeze my eyes harder, willing the little bastards to stop.

Shit.

“Hey man, you all right?”

When I lift my head, Rodrigo is standing there, head cocked, dark skin bright red from overexertion, muscles bulging.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to piss off, but he actually looks concerned, and if I’m being honest, I haven’t let myself become friends with these guys. Always keeping a safe distance for whatever reason—who the fuck knows.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Do any of us?”

Yes, actually. I think Rodrigo plays ball because he’s talented, but he loves it, too. It’s in the way he runs on the field, how he digs his heels into the turf before dashing during sprints, the look on his face when someone scores.

Do I love this as much as he does, or am I so programmed I sleepwalk through it? A member of the Jackson Jennings Senior cult—the one and only acolyte.