Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

Me: How dare you rub my virginity in my face.

Charlie: I’m not rubbing it in your face! I’m just asking how you know you wouldn’t like it.

Me: Um, I don’t think you can just bring up butt stuff randomly—this escalated so quickly.

Charlie: Oh? How so?!

Me: Uh, I asked you to come over and talk, and now you’re discussing rectals…

Charlie: Oh. Shit. That’s right, you did ask me to come over…sorry. Sometimes I get off track.

Me: Lol I don’t even know what just happened there. Weirdo.

Charlie: I’ve been called worse things than weirdo.

Me: Seriously?

Charlie: Well. No…

Me: Lol

Me: You coming over or not?

Charlie: When?

Me: Now?

Me: You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It feels like you’re stalling.

Charlie: I’m not.

Charlie: It’s not like this is a date and I have anything to be nervous about **nervous, crazy laugh**

Me: Guess that depends.

Charlie: Oh shit.

Me: Just get your cute little ass over here.

Charlie: Whoa. WHOA. I cannot believe you said that.

Me: Neither can I.

…Still Wednesday

Charlie

Okay. This feels strange.

I raise my hand to knock on Jackson’s door—nay, the door of the football house—and pause halfway up, clenched hand poised just beneath the rusty, brass doorknocker.

Do it, a little voice whispers. Stop being a chicken.

Knock.

Low, masculine baritones are the only sounds I can hear. They’re not raucous or wild or loud, so I know nothing crazy is going on inside. I mean, Jackson already said the only thing happening is studying, but I don’t think I actually believed him.

They’re football players, for heaven’s sake; why would they be sitting quietly around their house on a Wednesday night?

You’re being ridiculous, Charlie. Knock on the damn door.

I pull at the hem of my shirt so it’s down over the waistband of my jeans. Then fuss with my hair for a few seconds, smoothing down the strands though I can’t see what they even look like. I’ve gone from my place to my car, then from my car to this porch—there’s no way it could have gotten mussed.

Still.

I’m nervous.

More nervous than I was for the biology midterm I had to take and pass so I could begin my application to enter the nursing program. (Totally aced it, by the way.)

Knocking on the front door of the football house is weird. The last time I was here, I entered with Jackson, which made me feel protected.

I feel like a sitting duck here on the porch by myself.

Ugh, why did I wear these stupid shoes? Heels.

Well, fine, they’re wedges—high or tall or however you want to describe them, and I wore them because Jackson is crazy tall and…dammit, I’ll probably wind up taking them off as soon as I step into the foyer. Shouldn’t have bothered.

So why did I?

Because you want him to think you’re pretty.

This isn’t a date, and we’re not buddies—I don’t think? Fine, we’re friends…I’m just not sure what kind. Being here is an odd place to be. I have no idea what to expect when I get inside. Who’s going to be sitting around, what they’re going to say, how I’m supposed to be behave…

…like a normal person?

Wow. Calm yourself, Charlie. Get into the house and overthink it later.

I text him to let him know I’m standing outside.

Me: I’m here

Jackson: K

Ugh. I hate when people use the letter K as a reply. It’s enough to send me over the damn edge, but I get it; what kind of reply was he supposed to give me?

He needs to come get me like, right now, because I am about to start actually talking to myself out loud.

The door swings open, but it’s not Jackson standing there; it’s the outline of a Hispanic guy I remember from the pumpkin-carving party.

“Hey Charlotte, what’s up?” He pulls the door open wider so I can step through, and I’m shocked—shocked and in awe that he remembers my name.

They must have dozens of girls here on a weekly basis.

“Triple J is upstairs, probably wanking it to cheap porn.” The guy smiles—for the life of me I can’t remember his name and I feel horrible about it—not flinching at what’s obviously a lie.

Jackson wouldn’t be jerking off knowing I was downstairs, would he?

Nah.

“Right.” I laugh, feet on the small patch of hardwood floor closest to the door, looking around to see who has their shoes on and off. A large dude is sprawled out on the couch, yellow headphones around his neck, glasses on his nose, laptop glowing, fingers typing faster than mine do.

Another guy is in the kitchen nearby…washing dishes?

A sight I wouldn’t have expected to see, but there you go—football players do chores. Who would have thunk?

“You want to go upstairs? His lady dungeon is the second room on the left.”

When he says lady dungeon, I laugh again, his speech laced with a sexy Spanish inflection.

Muy caliente.

Stop it, Charlie. Focus.

Up the stairs and to the left.