Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,24
who hang out there, parading them in and out of my room.
“Indeed there are.”
It’s the truth. There are loads of girls hanging out at our place, almost every day of the week; some days, it feels as if they’re dumped off by the truckload. Fine, not all of them are skanks—some of them are the girlfriends of my teammates. Those girls are mostly gold diggers, spreading their legs for any player with a hard-on, hoping to get pregnant, or wifed, or WAGed.
They sit around uselessly, in the living room, kitchen, and common areas, dolled up and posing. They laugh too loud, wear too much makeup and too few clothes. Fucking fake.
Desperate.
Thank God my bedroom door has a lock on the outside and a deadbolt on the inside.
I tell her so. “I have to keep my door locked. Once, I came home really late and there was a girl in my bed.”
Charlie’s lips tighten into a thin line, but she makes no comment about it.
I continue. “I don’t think she even knew whose bed she was in. Had to get help bootin’ her ass out.”
Her smile is thin, the silence stretching between us. It grows incredibly awkward. Was it something I said? I’m only telling the truth, which is that girls chase after athletes all the time. Comes with the lifestyle and the territory, and not everyone is cut out for it.
Charlie isn’t one of those people; I can see it written all over her face.
I’m not looking for a girlfriend, but I feel the urge to reassure Charlie I’m not the kind of dude who sleeps around, to give her the positive affirmations she obviously wants: I’m loyal. Faithful.
Pure as the driven snow.
Purer than she is, I reckon.
Her feet attempt to give the swing another shove; she’s irritated. Would love nothing more than to see me flat on my ass, knocked down a peg or two. Knows I’m worried the swing is going to collapse and is punishing me for not defending my honor.
“I don’t sleep around,” I blurt out randomly.
She attempts a conspiratorial wink. “Sure you don’t.”
“You can stop stereotypin’ me, thanks.”
“I’m not.” Her protest is feeble, to say the least.
“Bullshit you’re not.” I laugh at the lie.
“Fine, maybe I am, but you don’t have to defend yourself to me. I’m a nobody, though I am curious why I should believe you aren’t banging every girl who slips into your bedroom at night.” Her blue eyes roll toward the heavens. “It’s too easy.”
Yeah, it would be easy, like shootin’ fish in a barrel.
“So, yeah…” I draw the word out. “I’m a virgin.”
I don’t know what possesses me to say it, but I do, and now that it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. Maybe I just want her to know I’m not fucking every vagina that walks into my house.
Charlie stops trying to shove the swing into action. “Shut up.”
“I’m not fuckin’ around with you right now—I’m bein’ serious.”
“What?” She looks genuinely stunned.
I look down at our feet. “Forget it.”
“Um, no. It’s too late. I…think I heard you right? I just don’t…believe you? There is no way.” She’s repositioned herself so she’s facing me, one leg now up on the bench seat, the other dangling over the side. “Say it again.”
“Nope.” I cross my arms and kick my feet out, slouching with my legs spread.
“You are not a virgin.”
My wide shoulders shrug. I don’t care if she doesn’t believe me, but I sure wish she’d lower her fuckin’ voice a few decibels.
Keep tellin’ yourself that, Triple J. Keep right on tellin’ yourself that…
“Jackson.” Here come those fingertips again, this time on my forearm. Her nails are pink, that much I can see. “Be serious.”
I give her another careless shrug. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“Because, you’re…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. It lingers there, the spaces being filled by stereotypes and preconceived notions I can almost hear her say, even if she’s not speaking them out loud:
Because you’re an athlete.
Because you’re popular.
Because you’re a football player.
Because you live in their house.
Because you’re a guy.
“So what do you usually do on Friday nights?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
Charlie laughs. “Oh no you don’t—nice try though.” Her hand is still on my arm, resting like a hot iron near the crook of my elbow, branding my skin. “Jackson.”
God, stop sayin’ my name like that.
“Charlotte.”
Her little smirk is amused—too fucking cute and too fucking…cute. Kissable. Bratty. Sassy. She’s not intimidated by me, my salty attitude, or my size.
In fact,