Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

“Watch your mouth.”

“Then stop pissin’ down my back and tellin’ me it’s rainin’,” I smart back.

I expect him to hit me—or at least lash out, but he doesn’t. “If your mother could see you now, she’d be beside herself.”

I laugh again. “Like Mama gives a shit. She hasn’t been here not once, and do you know why? She’d have to sit in a car with you for sixteen hours, and we all know she can’t stand you.” I smirk.

He can’t even deny it. “Who raised you to talk to your betters like this?”

I raise a shoulder and shrug. “You did.”

My father stands and stares at me a good, hard minute before grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and heading toward the front door, one last glance over his shoulder before storming out the door.

It slams, damn near shaking off its hinges.

Silently, I wait for the wake to settle from his thunder, alone in the kitchen, red faced and mortified. I hate this part of my family; resent the part that was never normal. Never nurturing. Always mercenary and greedy.

I often wonder if my life had been different had I not been talented at sports; what would Pops have done with me then? Made me miserable anyway? Drilled me and trained me regardless, hoping I’d improve?

Life would have been worse, I muse.

It’s cold as balls outside, but I don’t grab a sweatshirt when I walk out of the house, my truck parked on the road facing main street. Without thinking twice, I climb behind the wheel and start the engine, determined to clear my head.

After The Fight With His Dad

Charlie

It takes barely any time to find Jackson once I discover he’s missing from the football house after I return a bit later—when the coast is clear of his father—his truck no longer in his parking spot. No one saw him leave; he texted not a single soul.

I know, though.

Because I know him.

I turn down Jock Row, easing it along the shoulder, letting the few cars on the road pass so I can stay loitering in the general area, expecting my boyfriend to come along. Hoping he comes along.

Patiently, I wait him out, wondering where the hell he could possibly be. Our college town isn’t large, but it’s in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cornfields and silos, with plenty of places for a guy to get lost in if he didn’t want to be found. All he’d have to do is hit the city limit and keep going…

Jackson wouldn’t do that.

I don’t think.

I drive up and down the same road four times before I catch sight of that familiar black truck and pull onto the same shoulder of the road where I first laid eyes on him. Well, the second time I laid eyes on him—the first was in the cafeteria, when he took my food and pissed me off.

At first I don’t think Jackson is going to notice my car; after all, it’s gotten dark out, and the street lamps aren’t that bright. Plus, why would he expect me to be parked on the side of the road?

The black truck passes; in my rear-view mirror, I watch his brake lights go on. Watch his truck stop. Then…he does a three-point turnaround in the road, pulling up behind my car and killing his headlights.

They’re just as bright and blinding as I remember them.

I watch him in my side mirror, sitting behind the steering wheel, a frown on his face. Shoulders slouched, defeated.

My hand grapples with the handle of my door, and I shove, pushing it open, stepping out onto the street, one foot hitting the pavement at a time. Slam my door shut, hit the remote to lock it, and mosey toward Jackson’s truck.

His window rolls open. Head hits the seatback as he regards me. “What are ya doin’ on the side of the road?”

I fumble with my key fob. “Waiting for you.”

“How’d you know I’d swing by?”

Swing by? What an odd way to put it—like the side of this road is a destination he frequents.

I reach up and finger the hem of his black, threadbare Iowa t-shirt. Run my palm down his bicep. “Because you’re upset, and driving is how you clear your head.”

This answer earns me a reluctant smile. “You think you know me that well, do ya?”

“I think I do, or I wouldn’t have found you here.”

Jackson stares down at me. “You should get off the road. It’s not safe.”

“I know.” I rest my hand on the window ledge, glancing over my shoulder when a kid on a scooter motors by. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.”

He’s not fine; I can see it in his eyes. “You don’t have to be fine, Jackson. You’re allowed to be pissed off.”

I want to tell him he can confide in me. I want to tell him I’m here for him. I want to tell him his dad is an asshole who doesn’t deserve a son like him—