Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,28

girls not taking this shit seriously?

“No, but I know you’re not going to.” She sounds as flippant as she looks, striding along the sidewalk by my side, not a care in the word.

“No, you don’t. You’re just assuming because I haven’t been a prick to you tonight that it’s safe to be alone with me. Didn’t you take that class freshman year where they tell you all this?”

Charlie stops on the sidewalk and grabs me by the upper arm, almost pulling my body toward her, forcing me to look down into her face.

“Holy crap, Jackson—you’re being serious.”

“I want you to remember this next time. Do not ever walk home with some dude you don’t even know. Got it?”

Her nod is slow. “Yes.”

“Repeat it.”

Charlie clears her throat and lowers her voice. Holds up her hand as if about to recite the pledge of allegiance. “I won’t ever wawk home with some dood eye don’t even know.”

Great. She’s being cheeky, mocking my accent. I feel my eyes narrow on her. “You little shit.”

“Sorry, I’m just surprised you’re so adamant about it. Do you know someone who’s been, you know…”

She can’t say the words to finish her sentence, but she doesn’t have to.

“No. Just hear about it.” It’s scary as fuck and more common than even she probably knows. As an athlete, I’m privy to news and conversations other students aren’t, mostly because so many things are kept under the radar, or skimmed over, or covered up—but the news always travels back to the source: the athletic department.

We’re railed on relentlessly about our conduct, publicly and privately; no means no. Sometimes yes means no. Be respectful. Don’t get messy, sloppy drunk. Hands to yourself.

Some guys just can’t behave, and the rest of us pay the price.

“Well, no worries. I won’t let anyone else walk me home in the dark.” The toe of her shoe hits a small bump in the concrete sidewalk and she trips, steadying herself before saying, “It’s not like I have guys beating down my door.”

She could have guys beating down her door if she put more effort into it. “Why is that?”

In the dark, her shoulders move up and down in a diminutive shrug. “I don’t know—you’re a guy, you tell me.” Her head turns and she’s watching me, albeit in the dim light. Very few street lamps line the road, so I’m glad we’re together and she’s not walking alone.

“You look like you’re in a relationship.”

Even in this light, I can tell her eyes are widening. “What the heck does that mean?”

“I just mean you’re the kind of girl a guy takes one look at and assumes you’re already in a relationship—or fuckin’ someone.”

“Fucking someone—gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Okay, but what does that mean?”

I have to think for a second. “It means…you look…nice. You’re cute and…” Shit, how do I say this without pissing her off? Not possible. I take a breath, exhale, and let her have it. “It means you don’t look like you put out. Someone might have to put actual work in if they want to get in your pants, and most guys ain’t lookin’ to put in the effort. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

I don’t call her the girl next door or a goody two-shoes, but I think she gets the drift. She’s picking up what I’m throwing down.

Silence follows.

I expect an argument—or at least some outrage from her as she defends her look, sound, and demeanor.

“Well. I guess…” Her voice trails off. “So what you’re saying is I look like I’m someone’s girlfriend already?”

Yeah, that’s about right. “Sure, if that’s how you want to put it.”

“I’m asking you. Is that what guys see when they look at me? Does that mean I don’t look fun? I’m fun, goddammit! I got drunk once!”

Once.

Jesus Christ, who is this girl?

I choke down a laugh, covering my mouth so she doesn’t get mad or offended—or smack me in the stomach to shut me up. I’ve never met a single person on this campus who has only been drunk once; most of them get drunk every weekend, multiple times.

There’s been so much puke on the carpet and floors in our house over the past few years I’ve completely stopped walking through it with bare feet.

The thought of how dirty our fucking floors are makes me want to gag. It’s probably worse than a hotel that rents rooms by the hour.

Anyway. Moving on.

We walk on, comforted by the sound of traffic and the wind blowing through the trees. Charlie