Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,31
as we climb the stadium steps, one at a time, higher and higher until we’re damn near touching the clouds.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
“They were free, so don’t complain.”
“They were not free! We had to pay twelve bucks.”
Fine. We had to pay—but at least it was under twenty each.
“Still, that’s practically free compared to what those people down there had to pay. Pretty sure those seats go for well over a hundred bucks a pop.” I point down—the only way to go—at the lower seats, at the alumni and network reporters televising the action.
“That’s insane. Who would pay that?”
All those people? Thousands upon thousands of fans, most of them wearing some variation of our school colors—black and gold. “Football enthusiasts? Literally almost everyone?”
“Whatever.” Beth shrugs. “At least it’s not raining.”
I get shuffled along as we take our seats, and it probably doesn’t matter where we sit because so many of the seats are unoccupied this high up. Most of the fans up here have moved down to squat in far better seats, but I’m not about to get busted by the stadium police—AKA the college student wearing a SECURITY t-shirt, holding a walkie-talkie, and glaring up at everyone walking past him.
Tim—I can read his name badge from here—wants to bust someone really bad. I can see it in his eyes. He checks the tickets of the stragglers at the end of the line, sending them back up into the nosebleeds.
He sure as hell isn’t going to be busting me. Not today, Satan. Not today.
“It’s not raining,” Savannah complains. “But I could stand for it to be a bit warmer. And I wish I’d brought a blanket.”
It’s really not that cold; she’s just being dramatic. The weather is gorgeous—perfect for game day, actually, although we’re so high up I have no idea how we’ll be expected to see any action down on the field.
“Natasha, can I borrow your boynoculars?”
She has a pair of black binoculars hanging around her neck on a long rope. She removes them, and they get passed down the line to me.
I give them a glance and squint over at her. “Why do you even have these?”
“My dad gave them to me so I could see if we ever came to football games or whatever and I wanted to see the field. He’s still hoping I’ll date one of the players—he wants a son-in-law in the NFL.” My friend is picking at her pink fingernail polish then yawns into her hand.
In all my life, I’ve never known Natasha to give a shit about athletics, least of all football, and I’ve never known her to date anyone who plays. But, I’m grateful for her company, and I’m grateful for the binoculars. Holding them up to my eyes and bringing them into focus, I can clearly see the field below.
“Can someone google Jackson Jennings and tell me what number he is so I can adequately creep on him?” The words slip out before I can think twice about stopping them, and once they’re out there, I’m so embarrassed a flush creeps up my neck.
“You dirty dog!” Savannah shouts. “Is that why we’re here?” She is quite literally shouting, and thank God there aren’t many people surrounding us. “You sneaky little hussy!”
Hussy—now there’s a word I haven’t been called since ever.
“Are you seeing Triple J?” Beth wants to know.
“No. I’m not seeing him—he helped fix a flat tire on my car and he has my number so he could follow up.”
“And?”
“And…he texted me to see if I was coming to the game.”
“And?”
“And…nothing.”
“Since when do you care what a guy thinks?”
Down on the field, they’re doing some kind of warm-up stretches, and I move the binoculars from player to player, trying to discern which one is Jackson but unable to figure it out. “Did you google him yet? What’s his number?”
My eyes are glued to the binocs.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” Natasha has her phone out, fingers tapping away. “He’s a wide receiver, and his number is eighty-two.”
Eighty-two, eighty-two, where are you?
Ah. There he is.
Even at this distance, Jackson is larger than life. Tight pants, wide shoulder pads, his helmet is off and he’s running a gloved hand through sweat-soaked hair. It sticks up in a million directions, spikey and wild.
Black chalk or eye black or putty or whatever the heck that gunk is lines his upper cheekbones. Makes him look lethal and badass.
Beth is cracking open the program they handed each of us on the way in, thumbing through it, stopping toward