Jock Road Read online

  He looks like he was raised in the backwoods and sounds like it, too.

  “You hardly look defenseless.” He’s staring down at me from his perch in the driver’s seat.

  “Do you see any weapons?”

  “No, but I keep hearin’ one.”

  Huh? “What does that mean?”

  “Your mouth is runnin’.”

  Inside the cab of the truck, his buddy laughs.

  I glare at them both. “How dare you!”

  “I’m not the one who slammed on her brakes and hopped out of her car in the middle of the street,” he has the nerve to point out.

  “Your bumper is jammed so far up my ass I can taste chrome when I swallow.” Did those words just come out of my mouth? Damn, I’m kind of impressed with myself.

  The kid in the passenger seat laughs, and I wish I could reach in and smack him.

  “How about you be quiet?” I have to get closer to the truck to see his face, but I can make him out in the shrouded, dimly lit cab. He looks like a jockhole: big and built and strong—and smiling.

  Ugh, so annoying.

  “What did you expect me to do, keep driving?”

  “Nope. Kind of wanted you to slam on your brakes and hop out of your car in the middle of the street.”

  I can’t decide if he’s full of crap or not. He laughs, the Adam’s apple in his thick throat bobbing, tendons visible from here, even in the semi-darkness.

  “Besides, if my bumper was up your ass, we’d both know it.”

  It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about car parts. It sounds like a metaphor for butt stuff, the bumper being his—

  “Darlin’, you look fit to be tied.”

  “Don’t you darlin’ me. I’m still half blind from those dumb lights, you jerk!”

  He rests his forearm on the window, leaning out while talking down to me. The sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled to the elbow. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  I peel my eyes off his muscles. “You’re not sorry—you were doing it on purpose!”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” His teeth are blaring white, almost as bright as his headlights and aimed in my direction. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  Wow, I sound salty.

  The guy turns his body, neck craning away from me. “Tyson,” he says, “listen to the mouth on this one.” He smirks, grinning down at me, the stupid asshole. “She’s spittin’ fire, and I bet she’s hungry for a chicken sandwich, too.”

  Finally, an acknowledgment that he knows who I am.

  I try to get a good look at this Tyson, but it’s difficult given the dim streetlights above and the lack of one in the cab of the truck.

  What I do see, however, is the telltale glow from a cell phone, illuminating this mysterious passenger person’s face.

  “Wait a second—are you filming me?” It most definitely looks like this guy is pointing the camera of his phone in my direction.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Proof.”

  Proof? Of what! Of all the ridiculous, stupid things to say!

  “Uh, excuse me, I’m the one who should be taping you—you’re three times my size, and you’re the one harassing me.”

  “No one is harassin’ you, and no one made you get out of your car.”

  “Do I have to keep repeating that you could have gotten me in an accident with your headlights?”

  He turns and says something to his friend that sounds suspiciously like, “It might be easier to forget about this one.”

  I strain to hear the rest, but it’s difficult above the sound of cars easing their way around us on the street.

  I step a bit closer, confident that although this bo-hunk is an imbecile, he’s harmless—not a kidnapper, not going to sexually harass me, not going to harm me in any way.

  Call it intuition.

  “I’m sorry, what did you just say to him?”

  He turns his attention back to me. “I’m not the one screamin’ on the side of the road.”

  Huh? That makes no sense.

  I might be mad, but I’m not screaming.

  “That’s not what you said.”

  McMuscles chuckles when Tyson bumps him in the universal, bro-code kind of way. They laugh again. “Nope. It ain’t.”

  “What did you say?” I know he was talking shit about me.

  “Now why would I go and tell you that? You’re already in a hair-tossin’ mood—no need to ruffle them feathers more.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means you’re pissed enough already,” the other guy says from the deep recesses of the truck, translating the Southern mumbo-jumbo.

  “Thanks for the translation, genius. Pretty sure I could have figured it out on my own.”

  Biff looks down at me, eyes shooting a cursory glance into the side mirror, finally noticing the steady line of cars gathering behind his giant vehicle.

  “How ’bout you get in your car and head home—home where it’s safe.”

  Where it’s safe? “I was safe until you started riding my tail and your lights temporarily blinded me.”

  “Just go home.” His eyes harden a bit, mouth drawing into a serious line.

  “How ’bout you don’t tell me what to do.”

  The nerve of this guy.

  Seriously.

  His giant, hulking body leans in my direction, arm still resting against the door. “Suit yourself. We’ll just sit here in the middle of the road while everyone stares until you buckle your seatbelt and drive off.”

  Why am I still standing here arguing with this Neanderthal? Obviously he doesn’t get the reason I’m pissed. It doesn’t occur to him that I got out of my car because his actions were reckless.

  What I should have done is call the freaking cops.

  “I’ll go—but not because you’re telling me to.”

  “Good. You should go.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I’m leaving so I don’t keep blocking traffic, not because you’re telling me to.”

  He winks.

  “Don’t wink at me.”

  He smiles.

  My eyes narrow into suspicious slits.

  “I’m watching you, bucko.”

  “I would love it if you were.” He has the nerve to laugh again, to shoot me another cocky wink.

  “Stop flirting with me.” I have no interest in this guy. Not only is he a creep, he’s the furthest thing from my type. I give my hair a toss over my shoulder. “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

  “Go.” He hangs out the window a little, giving his fingers a wiggle. Revs the engine of his giant truck once when I walk in front of it, his dumb headlights a spotlight on my retreating ass.

  Great. Just great.

  * * *

  Jackson

  The girl glares daggers at my windshield as she walks back to her car. If looks could kill, I would be a dead man.

  For a split second, I have the thought that if I were interested in women and dating, she would be exactly the type of girl I’d date: a little spitfire, full of passion and sass. Any girl riled enough to climb from the safety of her car to scream at a stranger sitting in a dark truck has gumption.

  “Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  My friend and teammate Tyson pushes. “Because it definitely seemed like you know her.”

  I sigh, putting my car in drive. “Can’t you just leave it be?”

  Tyson raises his brows at me. “Goddamn I love it when y’all country boys say y’all shit like ‘leave it be.’”

  He totally misuses the word y’all, plugging it into all the wrong spots, but I don’t have the time or the energy to school the idiot on its proper use. It’s nothing new; Tyson loves repeating the shit I say, following me around like a puppy—or a kid chasing after his favorite player on a team.

  Though we’re teammates and he’s a fucking fantastic football player in his own right, he has some odd hero-worship
thing where I’m concerned, and I cannot shake the poor idiot.

  He tags along when I’m bored and want to go driving, sitting shotgun during my cruises.

  “She definitely knew you.”

  Yes, she definitely knows me. Not my name, or anything about me—or shit, maybe she does and just acts like she doesn’t recognize me. I mean, it’s not like I’m hiding who I am. I have a reputation on campus and around the country as one of the best wide receivers in the NCAA. Shit, my face is plastered on a banner hanging at the football stadium, in color and fifty feet tall.

  Granted, my face is covered by the facemask of my helmet, but it’s there, nonetheless.

  “She’s not the first girl to get out of her car because lights were shining in her eyes,” Tyson says, staring out his window and tapping on the door.

  No. She’s not.

  My truck is jacked up so high, no doubt it does blind anyone I sneak up behind. A few brave souls have gotten out of their vehicles—dudes included—to chew my ass out, but what am I supposed to do, go spend twelve hundred dollars on a new set of smaller tires?

  I don’t fucking think so.

  I wouldn’t do it even if I could afford it. Which I can’t.

  “You know, we could be onto something,” he says cryptically.

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” The last thing I need is him getting us in trouble with some dumb idea, but when I put on my blinker and cut back into traffic, my passenger is keyed up with an idea. Sits up a bit straighter in his seat, looking excited and mischievous.

  “I’m just thinking out loud here, but what if…” He lets his voice trail off mysteriously. As if I’m going to be intrigued enough to ask questions.

  “No.”

  “Let me finish.”

  “No.”

  I head toward our house, trying to tune out the sound of Tyson’s voice, wanting to end this evening. Seeing that girl—again—was enough excitement for one damn day.

  We have to grab our gym bags and head to the weight room.

  No rest for the weary, not with a game against Madison coming up. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.

  No partying. No drinking. No fucking around.

  Hence driving around a college town and cruising the strip—it’s the only entertainment that reminds me of home. Harmless, fun, and free, if you don’t count the gas my truck guzzles in the process.

  “What if…” Tyson begins again, as if I didn’t just shoot him down. “We make a game out of it.”

  “A game out of what?” My eyes haven’t left the road, but my ears have perked up.

  “A game out of people getting out of their cars to scream at you.”

  “That’s a terrible idea for so many reasons. One, it’s not safe. Two, I could get in fuckin’ trouble.”

  “Why? You’re not doing anything. You’re just driving your own vehicle.” He’s turned to face me, the dumb jock actively interested in his own stupid idea. “We could come up with rules.”

  “That just makes it worse.”

  “How so?”

  “Because. It just does.” How does he not get it? “Besides, what kind of rules could you possibly make up for something as dumb as people getting out of their cars?”

  “Dude—fun ones. Like getting one point if it’s a guy who gets out, five if it’s a girl.”

  I mean…that does sound kind of fun.

  Still.

  “No.”

  “Oh! You get ten points if the girl is a brownbagger, twenty if she’s hot and you’d bang her.”

  “Yeah, now that just sounds like assault.”

  “You’re not actually going to bang them—you’re just earning points.”

  Is he in a skeevy fraternity and I don’t know it? Who comes up with shit like this? Assigning a point value to a girl because she’s ugly is fucking mean; I might not give two shits about dating one, but I know enough not to be a dick about what they look like.

  Who the fuck am I to judge? I’m no cover model myself. I was raised on a cattle ranch in the middle of fucking nowhere, rarely had clothes that fit me properly, was always dirty, and needed braces but never got them.

  “Yeah—still no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Tyson, I ain’t doin’ it.”

  “Why?” he parrots himself. “They’re getting out of their cars anyway—we should judge them for it. Five points if they scream at us, three if they just bang on the window. One point if they get out of the car but chicken out.”

  It sounds like he’s given this some serious thought. The point values make actual sense, despite there being no way in hell I’d play a game like that.

  “Think about it dude. It’s such a good idea.”

  “Horrible, really.”

  He goes on, warming to the topic. “Fifteen points if the person recognizes us. Twenty if it’s a girl and she starts flirting.”

  “Tyson. Stop.”

  “I’m just saying y’all could be fun.”

  That makes me laugh, despite myself, and I shake my head at his rambling on and on.

  “Dude. I just thought of another good one.”

  “Would you give it a rest?”

  “I can’t. Dude, I can’t.”

  He’s just called me dude four times—not a record for him, but close. Tyson is from the west coast, California, and judging by the tan, long blond hair, and loose lingo, he spent lots of time surfing and on the water before returning to school for training camp.

  His parents are boosters—wanted him to go to school locally. They wanted him under their thumb, in the family business rather than playing football.

  We’re opposites, he and I.

  For whatever reason, the kid wouldn’t leave me alone when he was recruited and has been my sidekick since. He doesn’t always use the common sense God gave him, but man is he one loyal bastard. I rue the day someone tries to screw me over.

  Dude has my back.

  Fuck. I just said dude.

  “Can you drop it for now?”

  He grunts. “Fine.” Pauses. “But what if I put all this down on paper, just in case?”

  “Do what you want—makes no difference to me.”

  Still The Third Friday

  Jackson

  “Triple J, tell us about your angry little friend.”

  “My what?”

  I pretend I have no idea who McMillan is talking about though I know damn well he means that chick on the side of the road, the one whose food I took last week and who I pulled up behind tonight.

  Tyson must have said something—since we live with a few guys on the team, it must have been at home when I was holed up in my room.

  Awesome.

  “Your friend.” Why is he saying it like that? It sounds creepy.

  “She’s not my friend.” I lift two forty-pound weights off the rack and begin doing squats. “I don’t even know her name.”

  “Who are we talking about?” Someone else butts in from off to my right—these guys are washwomen, fueled by gossip and carb-loading the night before a game.

  “No one.” I grunt, bending my knees and going down as far as my legs will allow without falling. Standing. Squatting.

  “Triple J has a girlfriend.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Tyson.” I take back every nice thing I was thinking about him before—right now I need a sock to stick in his loud mouth.

  “She was—what did you call it? Spitting mad at you?”

  “What’d you do to her, buddy?” Another one of my teammates joins the conversation from out of nowhere, and I swear, these guys are worse than old biddies with their gossiping. Always need to be up someone’s ass with their meddling.

  “Nothin’.” I’m trying to block them all out, but it’s like we’re having story time and they’ve all gathered ’round.

  “He got all up in her grill—literally and figuratively,” Tyson informs them with authority—the factotum with all the details. “We came up with a game
to play while we’re cruising in The Bull.”

  The Bull—he must be talking about my truck.

  “Would you stop?” I pause. The longer I stand here blabbing nonsense, the heavier the weights in my grip become. Fuck it’s heavy. Before I drop them completely, I manage to set them down and rise to my full height, the belt around my waist cinched and tightened. It supports my lower back, but it doesn’t prevent the sweat from dripping down my spine, down into my ass crack.

  “He means there could be a game if he’d let himself have fun for once in his boring life.” Tyson cackles, garnering laughs from the rest of the lemmings.

  “Tyson, give it a rest.”

  “I can’t—it’s such a good idea.”

  “What idea?” someone finally asks, and I sigh, unable to stop the momentum of Tyson’s foolish meddling.

  “Enough!” I roar. “There’s no game! Me and the guys back home used to cruise the strip in town every weekend ’cause there wasn’t anything else to do, and I’ve been doin’ it here with Tyson because... You know I don’t party, and there ain’t anything else to do during the season. It makes me feel like I’m home.”

  “Cruising the strip?” A rookie wrestler by the name of Griffin Torenson scratches behind his ear and looks up at me from the bench. “What strip? We have a strip?”

  “You know—Jock Row or whatever y’all call it.” I pull a pair of gloves out of the pocket of my shorts and pull them on, one at a time, tightening them around the wrists. “It reminds me of home to drive it back and forth.”

  When I say it out loud, it sounds dumb, and my face reddens, embarrassed.

  “Awww, big guy has a boner for his hometown.”

  Tyson slaps his hand on my shoulder as he passes by to hit the shower. “You homesick, Triple J?”

  Holy shit, his tone is sincere. He’s not playing around.

  I shrug his hand off. “No, I’m not homesick,” I scoff—even though I am, just a little. Who wouldn’t be? My Aunt Beth makes the best caramel apple pie, and the family on Mama’s side gets together every weekend for Sunday brunch and to watch football. I’m too fucking far away to ever visit, even a few times a semester.