Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,33

or how it’s played.

Not really.

Barely enough to register what’s going on in front of me unless everyone around me stands, cheers, or freaks out because of what’s happening down on the field.

I would make the worst girlfriend for him.

Why that thought pops into my head is beyond me, especially when I can barely tolerate the guy. Fine. Okay. Yes, he’s had a few moments where I second-guessed my loathing for him, like when he was squatting next to me on the side of the road, helping me fix a flat tire, then bringing me a new one? Then checking up on me afterward to make sure I felt good about the work I’d done.

Really nice of him and totally unnecessary.

He could have left me there and let me call roadside assistance.

But he didn’t.

He parked, got out his tools, helped.

Not to mention, when he leaned in close and got up in there…he smelled fantastic. Like cologne and shampoo and a bit dirty, like he’d showered but not that well? As if he’d rushed through it, had been so sweaty from working out he couldn’t be bothered to wash it all down the drain.

Like man.

A hard-working man who cares more about getting shit done than smelling good doing it.

I recall how his shirt tightened around his pecs when he reached forward to show me how to tighten the lug nuts, how the fabric hid nothing of his tight, toned upper arms. They’re ridiculously strong—not bulging, exactly, but buff. There is no other way to describe it, and for a hot minute I was tempted to curl both my hands over his biceps and cuff his muscles, just to see if my fingers could wrap all the way around.

I doubt it.

We’re too far up for me to see what’s going on down on the field, so my eyes stay glued to the giant screen suspended over the end zone at the far end of the stadium. The faces of young players stare down at us when one of them has the ball, their stats and information broadcasted during each short lull.

Music from the sound system and music from the band play intermittently.

It’s loud—so deafeningly loud, especially when a touchdown is scored.

“How are you not banging him?” Natasha shouts across our small group of friends, and my eyes dart around to see if anyone has heard.

We’re surrounded mostly by other students and families, so Jesus. Keep your damn voice down!

“You don’t just bang a guy because you want to,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes. Besides, Jackson is a virgin and isn’t gonna give it up for just anyone. According to him, he isn’t banging anybody and has zero plans to.

He has no time for girls, or dating—that much he has made clear.

I doubt he’d make an exception for me.

Not that I want him to.

I’m hardly on the market, and if I were… My eyes stray toward the field, searching for number eighty-two. Would it be with a guy like that?

Jackson: Did you show up?

Me: To what?

Jackson: Haha

Me: YES, Jackson, I showed up. I love hot dogs—how could I resist pigging out on a ballpark frank?

Jackson: You’re joking, right? It’s NOT called a ballpark. It’s a stadium.

Me: I’m joking. Obviously I knew it wasn’t a ballpark. That’s where they play hockey, right?

Jackson: You’re not even a little bit funny.

Me: Oh come on—I am a little bit tho. Plus I’m kind of cute, too. Amirightoramiright

Jackson: I’m ignoring you now.

Jackson: But wha’d you think? Of the game.

Me: Congrats on the win! It was fun. I haven’t been to one in a while.

Jackson: Why not?

Me: Don’t know. My friends aren’t really big into sports, so there’s never a reason to. We haven’t tailgated since our freshman year, and I’d forgotten how crazy all the alums and fans get.

Jackson: They really do, but it’s not as bad here as it is at some schools.

Me: We saw more than a few black and yellow painted RVs parked in the lot with grills going. Die-hard fans, much?

Jackson: More like die-hard parents.

Me: Do your parents ever come?

Jackson: My dad, sometimes. Mom not usually unless it’s a playoff game—she can’t really afford it.

Me: Well…I’m glad I came today. Thanks for the invite. It was funner than I thought it would be.

Jackson: Funner? Is that a word?

Me: Don’t be the grammer police.

Jackson: *grammar

Me: OMG!

Jackson: Sorry. Had to.

Jackson: Where’d you end up sitting?

Me: The cheap seats.

Jackson: Where are those?

Me: Are you being serious? You don’t know where the cheap seats are??