Jock Road Read online

  “Come on, just give me one of the burgers.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Some of us really do need to learn the hard way,” she says to no one in particular, ignoring me completely.

  “You’re not going to eat both of those.”

  This time she does acknowledge me. “So? They’re mine—I can do whatever I want with them.”

  “You ain’t gonna waste them. You’re not the type.”

  “Thanks for stereotyping me as not a waster.”

  I roll my eyes. She is as prickly as a cactus and twice as pretty as one in bloom—which is the weirdest metaphor I’ve ever thrown out, but there you go.

  “That was a compliment.”

  She shoots me a look over her shoulder and keeps walking. “Are you still following me?”

  “Yeah—I’m still starvin’.”

  The little shit rolls her eyes and throws a thumb toward the buffet. “Get in line like the rest of the general population.”

  “Gimme one of them burgers. Please.”

  She stops in her tracks at that, spinning on her heel to face me, and it’s then that I get a really good, hard look at her. Wavy blonde hair framing a heart-shaped face. Dark brown eyes, so deep they’re like fresh mud in a cattle field. Freckles dotted across a pert little nose and high cheekbones. Pink skin quickly dented by a small dimple appearing on her right cheek.

  Well fuck me sideways and color me surprised. This little spitfire is full of gumption and prettier than a peach.

  Beautiful, especially now that she’s good and riled up.

  “You can have the burger for ten bucks.”

  “Say again?” I can’t have heard her right.

  “I said—give me ten dollars and the sandwich is yours.” It stays clutched in her grip; she makes no move to hand it over.

  It’s getting colder by the second, and nothing gets me grumpier than cold food.

  “That’s extortion.” I’m fucking starving and she damn well knows it!

  “No,” she smugly informs me. “That’s supply and demand. You would know that if you attended classes.”

  “I attend my classes.” Just like everyone else.

  “Oh yeah, which ones?” The brows above her dark eyes rise. “How to be a Jock 101?”

  They have a class called How to be a Jock? Weird. “I’m an ag major—we don’t have classes like that.”

  “What’s an egg major?”

  “Ag—as in agriculture.”

  A snicker bubbles out of her throat; she sure is a snotty little thing, something I don’t appreciate.

  I reach for a hamburger.

  She pulls it back, out of my reach. “Ten bucks.”

  “Five.”

  “Eight.”

  “You haven’t even paid for these yet,” I remind her.

  “How about you pay for all of it and let me keep these two?”

  “How about I pay for all of it and you give those both to me?” I nod toward the burgers.

  “I haven’t eaten yet, you animal, and you’ve already had a chicken sandwich—my chicken sandwich.”

  Dammit, that’s right—she hasn’t eaten yet. I’d be a real asshole if I didn’t at least buy her lunch.

  “Fine. Give them here.”

  “Nope. Not until you’ve paid.”

  “Fine,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “But I get one of those.”

  “A deal is a deal. I said I’d give you one and I will—after you pay for everything.”

  Together, we make our way to the cashier, and just like before, I skip to the front of the line.

  No one objects.

  Except her.

  “You cannot keep doing that.”

  “Doing what?” I feign ignorance, head held high as I hand the cashier all my shit, including the empty wrappers, and point to the two burgers in Little Miss Priss’s hands. “Those too.”

  * * *

  Charlie

  This guy is the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever met. Stubborn. Rude. Barbaric.

  Handsome—if you’re into crude and uncultured.

  And the Southern accent…it’s cute—and he’s so very good-looking. Obviously corn-fed; a down-home, bona fide country boy.

  A hick?

  So country I can’t resist giving him shit about it, and it actually makes my stomach churn a little. I’ve met people from the South, but never with an accent this deep and never this pronounced.

  The twang is thick, and I love it.

  I hate him.

  Clearly he hasn’t been taught any manners, and if he has, he chooses not to use them. Or he simply doesn’t care. I thought boys from the south were supposed to be all yes ma’am and no ma’am and gentlemen?

  Doesn’t give a fig. I chuckle to myself at my own use of the Southern metaphor.

  I stand idly beside him, holding the two burgers I snatched from the griddle.

  A guilty wave passes over me at my manners, which were as bad as…his. Shoot. He made me completely forget myself, and I’m ashamed I grabbed both burgers without caring who they belonged to, so hell-bent on proving a point.

  Ugh.

  The Neanderthal retrieves a wallet from his back pocket, pulling out cash instead of a student ID.

  “Don’t you have a meal plan?” I ask, because I’m nosey, and—I’ll admit it—a bit snarky and snotty.

  “No.”

  “Why?” It’s rude of me to ask. Maybe he can’t afford it. Maybe he never eats on campus. Maybe—

  “I play football. We don’t usually have to eat this shit, but I was desperate.”

  Well then. “Um…okay.” I pause. “What does that even mean?”

  He turns his hulking body toward me. “It means we have our own cafeteria where we get awesome food, not this slop.”

  I glance down at the “slop” in my hands. Two foil-wrapped burgers, no pickles, no onions, no anything. I’m a bit offended he’s calling this garbage when it’s the only option I have for food on campus.

  “Well aren’t you special,” I goad, shooting him another eye roll, this one heavy and almost causing me to get lightheaded. Wow. Better watch that, or my eyes are going to get stuck in the back of my head. “Where is this mythical, magical place where they feed the lucky few who get to graze there?”

  “Back of the stadium.”

  Wait—is he serious? They really have a special place where they feed the student athletes?

  “For real?”

  He spares me no glances as he takes the little bit of change he’s offered by the cashier. The girl is gawking at him, wide-eyed and slightly spellbound.

  Ugh, gross.

  “Yeah, for real.”

  “What’s up there?”

  He holds a hand out for a burger now that he’s paid. I slap one in his palm, secretly hoping it gets squished a little bit.

  “I don’t know…stuff. Food.”

  “Be specific.” If he’s going to throw down about this cafeteria being total crap, he better give details.

  “Salad bar. Seafood. Pasta bar. Lean chicken and steak.”

  He tears into the silver wrapper of the burger he just grabbed from my hands, shoving one end into his mouth, biting down and chewing.

  “Seafood?” What the hell! “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  When he says yeah, it comes out as yee-a-ya—three syllables—and there go those flutters in my stomach, despite him being a complete brute.

  He’s tall—at least six foot three—with wide shoulders, a broad back… I let my eyes wander down his torso as he gnaws on his food, down his flat stomach and thick inner thighs. He’s wearing mesh athletic pants, so it’s easy to make out the shape of his legs. Toned. Strong. Thick.

  Did I say that already?

  Crap.

  His t-shirt is too tight and ill-fitting. A bit too short for how tall he is, but it doesn’t look like he gives a shit about his appearance. Not one little bit.

  His hair is a bit
shaggy, pulled back in an elastic, strands escaping around his face. His five-o’clock shadow game is strong.

  He needs a good shave.

  But…

  That’s none of my business.

  I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and if I were, it wouldn’t be a guy like this—arrogant and offensive with no regard for anyone.

  All right, that’s somewhat of a lie; I would actually love a boyfriend. Like, I wouldn’t be mad about it if I found one; I just haven’t met anyone who felt like ‘the one.’ Or one who felt like Mr. Right Now—he hasn’t found me, either. I’m even willing to do something casual with the right person until someone special comes sauntering my way, preferably in a clean shirt and with a shaved face.

  I sniff, unwrapping my own sandwich. Wondering for a second why I’m always so picky. Why can’t I just have fun and flirt with the first guy who comes along?

  I’ve been single for two years. My boyfriend from freshman year lost interest when he joined a fraternity and found interest in the sister sorority they partied with every weekend.

  Whatever. I don’t need a guy like that in my life anyway. When you love someone, your eyes don’t roam—that’s the kind of love I’m looking for. That’s the kind of love I deserve.

  So, for now, I’m single.

  I glance around the cafeteria at the guys scattered throughout the room, seated at tables or leaning against the walls, talking, oblivious to the looming grouch next to me.

  “You’re welcome,” he grunts, sliding his wallet into the pocket of his mesh pants.

  “Do I say thanks to the guy who stole my food?” I wonder out loud, taking a bite of my burger.

  “No, you say thanks to the man who paid for it.”

  The may-an who paid foor it.

  “Do I though?” My musing is thoughtful. “If it’s by default because you stole the first round?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” I chew. “I’m conflicted about the protocol on that.” Walk toward the double doors, toward the exit, leaving him to trail behind me. Push through when I reach them and walk out into the quad.

  The sun hits my face and I look up, basking in it as I eat my free lunch.

  “I ain’t walkin’ away until you use your manners and say thank you.”

  Thank yew.

  God, it’s kind of adorable.

  “’Kay,” I say. “Bye.”

  I leave him standing there staring after me and wonder if he’s going to follow. Glance back over my shoulder to see him trailing along, stubborn as I am and not willing to let it go now that we’ve both dug our heels in.

  I turn toward the English building.

  “Where’re your manners?”

  “I ain’t got none,” I say, mimicking his accent and poor grammar. “Where are yours? You took food from me without even asking, ate it without paying, then complained about the facility where I have to eat lunch serving slop.”

  “It is slop.”

  “Well la-ti-da, you eat shrimp scampi for lunch and I have to eat hot dogs.”

  “Shrimp scampi has too much butter. They’d never serve that.”

  How did I not just roll my eyes at that comment? I miraculously restrain myself and pick up my pace, shooting a look down at my watch, searching for the time.

  Shit.

  Five minutes to get to class and get my ass into a seat. Bickering with this dude isn’t going to get me anywhere but locked out by the professor or TA, who are both pompous windbags. They thoroughly enjoy locking tardy students out of the lecture hall.

  I hike my backpack up, scarf down the remainder of my burger, and toss the wrapper in a nearby trash can. He does the same.

  “I’m super glad you’re so special. Enjoy the lobster for your next superior meal,” I sass him.

  His sneakers stop on the concrete sidewalk. Then his voice shouts toward my retreating back.

  “Are you mockin’ me?”

  Mockin’.

  “Yes!” I shout, turning to walk backward so I can laugh directly to his face and tossing my arms up for extra measure. “Yes I am mocking you!”

  It takes everything I have not to throw him the middle finger.

  Third Friday

  Charlie

  I slam my car into park, impervious to the fact that I’m in the middle of a busy road in the heart of campus, that fact probably giving me the courage to shove open my driver’s side door and step out into the warm air.

  It’s late—almost eleven o’clock—but still the perfect temperature for the tank top and jean shorts I’m sporting. Hair down and in wild waves, my sneakers hit the pavement.

  Without thinking, I stalk toward the truck, arms flying into the air.

  “Open your damn window, asshole!” I rage, so incensed I’m not one bit afraid of whoever is sitting behind the wheel of this honking truck. “What the hell is your problem? Are you purposely trying to blind me?”

  The driver does as he’s told; the window on his side starts to lower little by little, revealing the guy perched behind the wheel.

  Big.

  Blond.

  Bulky.

  Oh. My. God—I recognize his face immediately. It’s the jocktacular asshole from the cafeteria last week! The jerk who took my chicken sandwich and then tried to take both my burgers! What the hell is he doing, driving around in the dark terrorizing people?

  I walk straight up to his window so I can get in his face.

  “You!” Now I’m pointing at him, forefinger aimed at the middle of his mug. “Roll down your damn window!”

  He rolls it down all the way. Then I hear the laugh.

  “You don’t look happy to see me again.”

  “Because I’m not, you…you…” Words escape me, I’m so pissed. “Ugh, what the hell is your problem?” I shout into the dark, hands on my hips, indignant and outraged. I give the hood of his truck a pound with the palm of my hand for good measure, to punctuate how mad I am. “What are you doing? You’re going to get someone in an accident!”

  His laughing is loud, booming, and amused—three things that are pissing me off and not welcome right now. He can save his good humor for when he’s not being a thoughtless imbecile.

  “Well, well, well—look what the cat dragged in.” His twang is lazy and drawn out and—I won’t lie—really kind of cute.

  Shit.

  I do not have time to get mushy over that damn Southern accent. It sounds even hotter when he uses metaphors and slang that make no sense whatsoever.

  Focus, Charlie.

  “Your careless driving is what dragged me in.” I use air quotes around the word, stabbing the air with my forefingers.

  “There you go again, mockin’ my accent.” He grins, arm propped on the open window. “Not such a sweet thang, are ya?”

  Damn right I’m not—especially not when it’s Friday night, I’ve been scared shitless, and I’m standing in the middle of the road yelling at the rudest guy I’ve ever met.

  “How dare you tail me like that? How dare you! Are you trying to get me killed?”

  His eyes are so blue, and with the light from passing traffic, I can see their vibrant color clearly—though they hardly need a spotlight shining on them to be beautiful.

  I take another a good look at him, something I didn’t do in the student union last week. Tan. Blond.

  Lots of stubble. Hair still too long.

  My gaze drifts to the hand that’s lazily hanging half out the window; it’s big and rough. He sees me looking and flexes his fingers.

  Curls his lips into a knowing smile.

  Cocky bastard.

  When he smiles, dimples press into both cheeks like two fingers pressing into dough; a visible gap between his teeth winks at me, too.

  How did I not notice that before? Oh yeah, it’s because I wanted to smack him in his arrogant face.

  “Babe, ya need to relax.”

  Babe?

  I stare.

  Give my head a shake to get the dust off my brain.
I mean, honestly, there are cobwebs on my vagina—it makes sense that I’d be attracted to him. I simply don’t know any better.

  So what if he’s cute? He’s a danger and a menace to society.

  “I need to relax? Listen to me, you dick, watch how you’re driving. What you’re doing is dangerous.”

  “What is it I’m doing? Are your panties twisted up ’cause my truck is bigger than that piece-of-shit car you’re drivin’?”

  Piece of shat yer drivin’.

  My car isn’t winning any beauty contests, but it’s hardly a piece of shit.

  Okay. It’s a total piece of shit—but it’s mine. I bought it myself, so Biff McBurgerThief here can shove that insult down his pie hole.

  And choke on it, too.

  “You need to calm down,” he says again, in what he probably considers a soothing voice meant to calm me down.

  I refuse.

  “You need to take this more seriously.”

  Those wide shoulders shrug. “No harm, no foul.”

  “Are you serious? Your lights were blinding me. I could hardly see where I was going, and you were way too close to my bumper.”

  Still is.

  “You’re spittin’ mad, aren’t ya? Like you just chewed up nails and spit out a barbed wire fence.” The brute has the nerve to laugh, as if the metal chrome of his super duty pickup truck isn’t currently butted up against the tail end of my car.

  The nerve.

  My stance widens, fists curled at my sides, clutched into tiny balls of anger.

  Ugh!

  The nostrils on my nose flare. “You think you’re tough shit because you’re on the football team, don’t you, jock strap? You think scaring defenseless girls in the middle of the night is funny? Do you?” I stab a finger in his direction, glaring.

  “I don’t see no defenseless girls ’round here.”

  Don’t see no. Lord, has this guy had any formal education?

  “It’s me.” I stab at my chest. “I’m the defenseless girl, you halfwit.”

  He is completely missing the point—hasn’t picked up on my sarcasm. Either he’s choosing not to, or he’s dumb as a box of rocks.

  I don’t know for a fact that he’s a complete moron, but based on stereotypes and what I’m staring at, I’m going to assume he is. Big truck. Bigger muscles. Shaggy hair. Bruised eye. Crooked smirk I want to wipe off his face.