Jock Hard Page 8

  “You don’t live here?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why did I think you did?”

  Rowdy stands, walking to the edge of the porch, peering off into the yard, though it’s hard to make out anything past the street.

  He speaks with his back to me, hands braced on the bannister rail. “Communal living is fine when you’re a freshman or sophomore, but athletes on this row party a little too fucking hard. The random people hanging out at all fucking hours of the night are fun for one hot minute. The noise and…well, all the bullshit that comes along with living here? Not fun. Not anymore.”

  He turns, raking his gaze over me, scanning me from head to toe—from the ankles of my brown boots to the long tips of my glossy hair, half hidden under my gray winter hat.

  “What about you?” he wants to know.

  “I don’t live here either.” It takes him a few moments to get my joke, but when he does, his head tips back and he laughs, his chiseled jaw and Adam’s apple absolute male perfection.

  “You’re a real wise ass.” His smile is warm, and I catch him biting his bottom lip when he turns back toward the street.

  Loud laughter is amplified when the door to the house flies open again, the music spilling into our perfect moment like toxic waste, along with a small group of co-eds.

  The inebriated group stumbles to the stairs, hanging on to each other, raucous laughter, barely making it to the bottom without breaking their necks, barely making it to the sidewalk still standing.

  I’m half expecting some of them to begin crawling.

  Rowdy frowns under the dim porch lights, his eyes trailing their movements, watching them warily.

  “This is the shit I’m talking about.” I can barely hear him.

  “Don’t you guys get busted having parties all the time?” I ask his back.

  “Sometimes.” His broad shoulders move up and down. “But mostly, no.”

  “How? I mean, the music is so loud.”

  “Who’s going to call the cops on us, Scarlett? The rugby house next door? The football players across the street?” He leans toward me, reaching with his long limbs, stretching until he reaches me, pilfering my bottle of water.

  Chugs it.

  I watch, riveted, as the corded muscles of his tan throat work the water down, only glancing away when he swallows.

  Crushes the plastic bottle between his two hands.

  “The other teams party like this when it’s their off season, too.”

  “Makes sense. Who wouldn’t? You guys work hard.”

  My eyes hit the house across the street, its dim lights shining through the windows but otherwise, little activity.

  “That house across the street you’re staring at?” he asks. “Ten football players live there.”

  “Ten!” How can that possibly be? The place is tiny. I continue to study the pitch-black house. “Seems quiet to me.”

  “’Cause half of them are inside this house, probably shitfaced. We’re going to have to physically take some of them home later. The other half are obeying their curfew.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “What kind of player are you? A rule breaker, or do you—”

  “Play by the rules?” Pause. “You’ll be surprised to learn, Scarlett”—I smile, relishing the sound of my name on his lips—“that as team captain, it’s my obligation to set a good example for the rest of my team, especially for the incoming freshmen and walk-on players.”

  “Sounds noble.”

  “It’s not all shits and gigs—the responsibility blows.”

  I study him, trying to read his face, handing him a fresh bottle of water and cracking open one for myself. “Never have I ever broken a rule and lied about it.”

  He studies me back, lifting the bottle to his mouth and taking a healthy gulp.

  “Which one?” I want to know.

  “I used to break curfew a lot when I was a freshman—a lot a lot—and a few times, I helped sneak girls into the hotel during away games. We call that road sex by the way.” There’s a long pause as he considers his numerous infractions. “Sometimes we go out drinking during the season when we’re not supposed to.”

  “Not supposed to? I thought it was a free-for-all.”

  The shaking of his head indicates the contrary. “We’re given one night a week to go out.”

  Just one? “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, usually it’s a Saturday.” He makes a box with his hands, using his fingers to create the corners. “See, if our coaches don’t give us structure, some guys? Jeez, they just fucking cannot handle playing at this level. It’s like when the teacher would leave the room in grade school—total chaos. The notoriety, the crowds…drugs, sex, booze…it’s a lot to handle.”

  “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  Rowdy sets his water bottle on the railing, balancing it there, twirling the top until it spins. “Never have I ever had a wet dream.”

  “Dude, what the hell!” I sputter. “Where did that one come from? Give a girl a little warning, why don’tcha.”

  “Well? Have you?”

  “Can girls have a wet dream? They don’t even have the necessary equipment.”

  “You tell me.”

  I roll my eyes for lack of a better, more mature reaction, taking a slow sip from my water bottle. Rowdy watches intently from his perch on the railing, swallowing down the last of his water.

  “Just to clarify, we’re not going to start talking dirty.” No good can come of that; I don’t know if my heart can handle anything casual, and sex talk will only leave me feeling vulnerable.

  “Why not?”

  “Because once we go down that road, things are going to get weird. Trust me.”

  “How so?”

  “I read it somewhere in an article.”

  “Reading is bad, you should stop.” He clicks his tongue. “So, what you’re telling me is, you don’t sit around talking pervy with your friends?”

  I shoot him a look.

  His sheepish grin does not bode well for me. “Never have I ever talked like a pervert with my friends.”

  He chugs.

  I chug. Wipe my mouth. “Stop doing that.”

  He laughs. “Never have I ever watched porn alone in my room.”

  “Would you stop?!” We both drink.

  “We need to start drinking alcohol when we play this game. It would be way more fun and imagine how drunk we’d be.”

  It really would be. “I have a feeling you’re going to be a horrible influence, Rowdy Wade.”

  “I might be a bad influence, but you obviously like it, and I doubt you’d be coming back every Friday if you didn’t like the thrill of being rejected.”

  I don’t tell him I come back to see him, that I don’t feel rejected—I feel excited. I anticipate each day of the week as they fall away, leading to my new favorite day of the week: Friday.

  No, I don’t feel the thrill of rejection.

  I feel the thrill of being with him on this porch.

  “It really does make sense if you think about it: you’ve been told a few times you’re not allowed in the house, yet here you are for the third week in a row. Admit it, you like the element of being somewhere you’re not supposed to be. It’s kind of like breaking and entering.”

  “What are you, a psych major?” I joke.

  “Yes.”

  “For real?”

  “Oh yeah, I’m a huge fan of Freud. Huge.” Rowdy’s huge biceps bulge when he sticks his hands beneath his armpits, arms still crossed. “What about you? What’s your major?”

  “Marine biology.”

  “For real? That’s pretty fucking cool—too bad you’re in Iowa.”

  Which is basically the same reaction I get from anyone I tell.

  “I realize that, Rowdy. It would be great if I was near an ocean, but…” I didn’t get accepted anywhere on a coastline— not even close. Of course, I don’t tel
l this to Rowdy.

  His mouth curls into a smile, hands still in his pits. “What’s your favorite sea creature?”

  “Coral.”

  His brows furrow as his head draws back. “How is that a sea creature?”

  “Coral is alive,” I enthuse passionately. “And it’s so beautiful. Have you ever been scuba diving? Or snorkeling? Thousands of organisms dwell inside a single reef.” I clamp my mouth shut before I word-vomit my love for the bottom of the ocean floor.

  “Like Nemo.”

  “Exactly.” I grin. “And his father.”

  “And Dory. Man that fish is whack.”

  We’re grinning at each other like idiots. The easy set of Rowdy’s mouth has me clearing my throat, his scrutiny of me intimidating. Suddenly self-conscious, I pick at the hem of my jacket, fiddling with the zipper.

  Have I mentioned how good-looking he is? Especially when he’s focused.

  And right now, he’s focusing all his attention on me.

  “I should probably go.” I move to stand up, hand ready to push off the wooden porch. “It’s getting so cold.”

  His next question pins me back down and my ass hits the floor again.

  “Doesn’t it bother you that your friends leave you out here?”

  “You seem really fixated on this—no, my friends do not leave me out here.” They make themselves scarce so I can be alone with him.

  “I’m not fixating on it, I just want to know that you’re not being completely shit on.”

  “Why? Are you feeling protective?” I try to make a joke, but it falls flat, his mouth still pressed in a straight line.

  Damn.

  “I think…” I search for the right words. “I’m not going to fault them for loving parties, just like they don’t fault me for wearing puffy coats to those parties.”

  He can’t tell if I’m being serious or a smartass. “Remind me where you met them?”

  “The dorms.” I pick at a loose strand of yarn on my mittens. “My best friends from home are at other schools, you know how that is. I don’t get to see them unless it’s a holiday or whatever. I do have friends from my classes, but they do lots of studying.”

  Which is what I should be doing more of if I want to improve my grades.

  “Do you think those friends of yours inside realize they’re wasting their time with my teammates?” he muses, chewing the mouthpiece of his water bottle.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Derek and Ben? Brinkman? They might be pricks, but they can smell a gold digger from a mile away—no offense, but those girls you came with reek of desperation.” His smile is lazy as the bottle hits his lips. Lopsided grin, eyes hooded. He looks sated. “Not like you.”

  “What about me?” The butterflies in my stomach flutter their wings.

  He shrugs. “I couldn’t figure out what you were doing with those two. They’re not even close to being in the same league as you.”

  “Did you just imply that I’m classy?”

  “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  I readjust myself, trying to get more comfortable on the hard ground, repositioning my legs. “You know, when the three of us were freshmen, we used to have way more fun. It wasn’t about guys and parties and hooking up.”

  “What’d you do? Have, like, slumber parties and shit?”

  “Something like that.” I laugh, biting back my smile, pausing with a new train of thought. “You know what I couldn’t stop thinking about when Ben and Derek were hitting on my friends?”

  “What?”

  “All I could think about was what it would be like to date them. They were so boring—no personalities.”

  “How so?”

  “Ben kept lying about the dumbest shit, like winning the title for the College World Series, and his pick-up lines were so terrible even I knew the punchlines. Zero effort. Do you know what that tells me, Rowdy Wade?”

  Rowdy shifts on the railing. “What does that tell you?”

  “He’s going to be selfish in bed.” At this point I’m wishing I’d gone with a beer instead of water. “I bet he’s not a giver.”

  Rowdy chokes a little on his water. “Come again?”

  My arms cross and I smirk at his pun—come again—giggling into the collar of my coat because occasionally I’m as juvenile as a fifteen-year-old boy.

  “I’d rather date someone good in bed, wouldn’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question I don’t expect him to answer. “Derek and Ben are blah. Total nail and bail.” I drop the line casually, as if I deliver quips like this all the time.

  I don’t.

  I just want to see the look on his face.

  Rowdy Wade does not disappoint; his poker face sucks, and he’d be an awful card partner in Vegas. His eyes are too wide. Obviously shocked. His brows, once a neutral line, are now shot up in his hairline.

  My nose wrinkles at the thought of that Derek kid in bed and I stifle a snort, satisfied that I’ve managed to surprise Rowdy.

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Nail and bail?” My expression is pure innocence. “You’ve never heard it? It’s like a pump and dump—you know, a one- night stand?”

  His laugh is almost maniacal. “Oh, you don’t have to explain it to me—I’ve heard of them, all right. I’m just surprised you’re saying it. You seem so…you’re…”

  I lean toward him, curious. “I’m what?”

  “You’re—you seem like you’re, you know, someone with strong morals.”

  That’s true. I lean back, pleased I’ve managed to surprise him with my foul mouth. “I do have strong morals—that doesn’t mean I can’t throw down a few trashy catchphrases.”

  “I mean, you seem like the kind of girl who’s saving.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I’m not saving myself; I just haven’t found anyone I wanted to lose my virginity to, although I did come close after senior prom in high school. He was cute and we’d been casually dating, so I let him rent a hotel room and plan the whole thing.

  Things when south when he tried to get me drunk—so gentlemanly—and instead we ended up fighting about all the liquor and condoms he’d brought.

  Fun fact about me: I’m a virgin.

  All my “pleasure parts” are intact, never been breached (unfortunately), though one thing is for certain: I’m most definitely not saving myself for marriage. I just haven’t found anyone worthy of my V-card.

  Silently, Rowdy watches the wheels spinning inside my head, content to watch me think, to watch as I stew over the lack of orgasms in my life that aren’t self-induced.

  “You’re right.” My shoulders rise and fall nonchalantly. “Maybe I am saving myself—I’m saving myself for a connection. I want to feel good about my decision after I make it, not regret it. So until Mr. No Regrets comes along…”

  “Mr. No Regrets,” he repeats. “Wonder what he looks like.”

  He looks like you.

  He looks like Rowdy and I don’t even know what his real name is. A discontented noise rises from my throat, much like a hmph, so I clear it, deploying my dimple on him.

  Twiddle my thumbs between my bent knees.

  “You know what I’d like to know?” I muse. “Your first name.” For a few seconds, while the music is changing inside, we have utter quiet. Quiet while he rises to his full height, taking a few calculated steps in my direction.

  It’s a short jaunt, and then he crouches, plucking the empty water bottle out of my hand, still squatting when he lobs it. Tosses the bottle so it’s soaring in an arch to the garbage. Hits the back of the can, bounces, and disappears inside with a swoosh.

  Knees bent, Rowdy squats in front of me, getting in nice and close, a mere three inches from my face, warm breath blowing on my lips.

  All his features are shadowed by the dark.

  “Promise not to tell?” His deep voice is a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Is it a secret?”

/>   He shakes his head. No.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, giving him a cheeky, “It’s not all over the internet?”

  This time he nods, his white teeth playing peekaboo through his lips. “Yeah—it is all over the internet, but it appears you’re the only one who hasn’t looked it up.”

  “I’m looking for it now.”

  “I can see that.”

  And he can, so up close and personal, breath fanning against my skin. I can smell the beer he had earlier, and the cold pre- winter air clinging to his skin.

  “It’s Sterling.”

  “Sterling,” I say back breathlessly, unable to stop myself. I repeat it to myself, romanticizing the sound of it.

  Sterling. Yes. He looks like a Sterling.

  It’s a strong, masculine name. Moody, and kind of dreamy, the name of the hero in a romance novel.

  Sexy.

  Meant for low moans and breathless sighs in the bedroom.

  Rawr.

  “Is that what you want me to call you?”

  “You don’t have to.” Unless you want to. He doesn’t speak that last part out loud, but somehow, I know that’s what he means.

  I squirm on the ground as he remains crouched in front of me, legs parted, hands hanging between his thighs, balancing on his haunches.

  Blood rushes through every vein in my body, nerves vibrating, when he tucks a knuckle under my chin to lift my gaze and caresses the side of my jaw with his giant thumb.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper. “I don’t know.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the wooden swing at the end of the porch swaying in the gentle breeze. Back and forth, creaking. It’s old, suspended by rickety, rusty chains, the paint having worn off many years ago and never been refinished.

  I break the moment, damned if I don’t because my nerves are freaking the frack out, unprepared for this heated moment.

  “W-Want to help me up?” My voice quivers. “I’m going to hop on the swing.”

  Rowdy rises, extending his large, open palm toward me, and before taking it, I study the pads of his fingers: rough, callused, and sturdy.

  The hands of someone who works hard, who pushes.

  I slide my hand across the sensitive skin there, hooking my thumb around his, and he pulls with an undemanding tug until I’m standing on two feet.

  Sizzle. Zing.