Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“Thanks, I’ll just…” I point to the staircase, and the big guy closes the door behind me.

“You kids behave yourselves. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”

“And wrap it up!” the guy in the kitchen shouts. “No pumping and dumping. Keep that shit on lockdown.”

Jeez. With friends like these, who needs enemies? If Jackson were down here, he’d be positively red, I’m certain of it.

I climb the staircase slowly, hand gliding along the shiny wooden railing, counting them out.

One…four, five.

Nine…twelve.

When I’m at the top I go the only way I can go: left. Pass one room then stop at the closed door, wondering why Jackson hasn’t come crashing through it yet, knowing he needed to come get me from the front porch.

For the second time tonight, I raise my arm to knock.

And just as my hand hits the solid wood door, it goes flying open, Jackson Jennings filling the entire space. Broad. Huge.

“Hi,” I say dumbly. “Your friend let me in.”

“Sorry, as soon as I sent that last text my mom called.”

Oh?

“She never calls, so…”

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his track pants and steps aside. “You comfortable chillin’ in my room? Or we could go downstairs?”

“Yeah, this is fine. I doubt you’re going to put the moves on me, haha.” Jackson is barely a womanizer; there’s no doubt I’m safe going into his… “Your roommate called this your lady dungeon.”

“My what?”

“Lady dungeon?” I laugh; it sounds so stupid leaving my mouth.

“Jesus Christ, what does that even mean?”

“No clue. It sounds more like he’s referring to my lady business.” I point to my private parts as a joke then catch the look on Jackson’s face. His brows have shot up into his hairline, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oh relax, I’m kidding. But it does.”

He stares at me for a few awkward seconds. “Er…’kay. Well, come on into my dungeon.”

I cross the threshold of his bedroom, busying myself by setting my purse on the desk against the far wall. Slowly, I let myself look around, taking in my surroundings.

“This looks more like a lair than a dungeon, if I’m being honest.”

“No it doesn’t.” His deep laugh echoes in the space that’s way too small for a guy his size. He dwarfs the room, larger than life.

It’s painted deep forest green, the trim a golden brown. It’s a dark man cave with a studious, library vibe. Two bookshelves flank the desk where I set my things, both of them filled edge to edge.

“You moved all these here from Texas?” I finger the spines of the books sitting on the third shelf down, the majority of them paperbacks.

“Some. The rest I’ve read over the past few years. I’ve lived in this room since I was a freshman.”

“You’ve read all these?”

“Most, yeah.”

“Huh. Another layer to your onion.” I smile, toying with a tiny action figure. “Who is this?”

I glance at him over my shoulder; Jackson still has his hands jammed in his pockets.

“Um…He-Man.”

Hmm, never heard of him. “And this?” The next figurine looks like a wolverine.

“That’s Wolverine.”

“Oh.”

The entire collection is organized neatly in a straight line, lined up one by one toward the front of the shelf. Tiny toy soldiers. A piece from a Monopoly board game—the dog, to be exact.

“What’s the significance of this?”

“Stole it.”

“Why?”

Jackson shrugs. “I don’t know. Dumb, right?”

Yeah, kind of, but who am I to judge? I once stole the head from a Pez dispenser and had it on my desk for the longest time. Some things have no logic behind them.

More trinkets. Tons of football memorabilia: awards, medals, articles. I pick up a newspaper clipping about Jackson and a teammate named Adam who passed away from an aneurism. It’s dated two years ago.

“Did your mom frame this?”

“No. I did.”

I glance at him again then back at the myriad of articles; not all of them are about him. “Did you frame all of these?”

“Yu—” He stops himself. “Yes.”

Interesting.

Jackson is sentimental.

And sweet.

He looks…lost, standing there watching me, unsure what to do with himself as I invade his space. Insecure, as I felt on his porch, uncertain whether to knock or turn tail and run.

I set down a newspaper article about some bowl championship and give him my full attention. Take the few paces to the bed and plop myself down on the mattress. Lean back on my elbows and stare up at him.

His eyes scan my body, starting at my denim-covered knees and working their way up my torso. Over my abs and stomach. Stalling on my breasts.

They’re full—mostly because I’m not the thinnest girl around and always seem to carry around a few unwanted pounds, but sometimes, it’s nice having a decent pair of boobs. Times like this, when an attractive boy is paying them attention, staring at them as if they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.

And he hasn’t even seen them naked.