Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

Yes, we should have won, but we didn’t.

I don’t know what to say.

“You played for crap.”

Actually, I didn’t—I had one of my best games of the season, running the most yards. But I keep my mouth shut because it will only serve to piss him off if I defend myself. He’s just sore I’m playing for Iowa, and not at Notre Dame or USC.

I wait patiently for him to bring those schools up, his standard lecture on the rare occasions he comes to visit.

“You don’t seem upset,” he criticizes.

“There’s nothin’ I can do ’bout it now.” What’s done is done—the game’s been over for hours.

“Have you watched the tapes back yet?”

He knows we won’t watch those until practice this week. “Not yet. But I will.”

“Send them to me.”

Not likely, but, “Sure. I’ll see what I can do.” The air is filled with silence, and I rack my brain for a way to change the subject. “Where’s Ma?”

“Home.”

Well no duh. Why didn’t she come along? “Oh.”

“She had to work.”

Right. Because her job at the craft store is so goddamn important she couldn’t make it to one of her son’s football games. I try not to begrudge her, but it’s fucking impossible; Ma should have been my saving grace against my father, but she didn’t have the spine to stand up to him, either, letting him ‘have’ me instead. Our relationship isn’t normal, and I’m just now realizing it.

Depressing.

“I’m gonna need two tickets for my friends Daryl and Patsy for the game against Ohio in October. They’ll be in town visiting her cousins that weekend.”

No please. No thank you. “Sure.”

“Send ’em to the house so they don’t have to get them at will call.” He talks at me like I’m his employee.

God forbid his friends retrieve their free tickets themselves. Or actually pay for them.

“You hungry?” he finally asks. “Got any food in this place?”

Yes, but I didn’t pay for it and I’m not going to let him root around in the fridge and eat shit on someone’s else’s dime.

“No. We’d have to go out.”

He grunts, unsatisfied with that answer. Pops could easily lean forward and pry open the fridge, but he’s too lazy to make the effort.

We regard each other a bit longer, letting the strain mount. It’s always present when he visits; no amount of time in the other’s company has ever bridged the gap that’s been widening over the years. Not since I realized my independence regarding attending a college of my own choosing and living in housing with my friends.

My pops is chewing gum, and he gnaws on it with his mouth open, filling the air with his smacking gums.

My ass cheeks clench, eyes hitting the staircase when Charlie appears, barefooted and sleepy-eyed, her tentative smile growing shy when she lays eyes on Pops.

Fades, unsure, especially when his speculative scrutiny lands on her. There is nothing welcoming about him, nothing friendly, every sign he’s throwing out a warning.

Charlie sidles up next to me, bumping our hips in an attempt to be cute.

“Who’s this?” He silently judges her, mouth slipping into a frown, lips finally closing in distaste around his spearmint gum.

“This is Charlotte.” Tentatively, I slip an arm around her waist. Pop’s eyes don’t miss any detail—how my fingers loop inside the waistband of her jeans, how close she’s pressed into my side.

He’s aggravated. “Fine. Can you tell your friend this is a private conversation?”

“Pops.” I try to slip a warning into my voice, but it comes out weak instead. Like a boy still intimidated by his father.

“Pops, what? I want to talk to my son—I don’t need no jock chaser standin’ here while I do it.” He flicks his gaze at Charlie. “No offense, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re a great girl.”

Did my father just imply that my girlfriend is a slut who sleeps with anyone who’s an athlete? Yeah. I think he did.

“Charlotte isn’t a cleat chaser.” I feel the need to explain, though it’s pointless—he’s going to believe what he wants to believe, because he doesn’t want me dating. Charlie could be standing here in a nun’s habit and he’d still hate her on sight. Nothing I say is going to resonate with him. “We’re datin’.”

Pops leans back in the chair, balancing on two legs. Releases his hold so they crash back to the ground with a loud thud of his weight and metal.

“Since when are you allowed to date?” The arrogant asshole looks smug.

“I’m twenty-two.”

“I’m twenty-two,” he mocks in a placating voice. “You think you have it all figured out, do ya? Are you sleepin’ with her?”

Why is he doing this in front of Charlie, where everyone else in the house can hear us? Not many guys are back from the game yet, but they will be, and the last thing I want is them walking in on this argument.