Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,39

strength—that’s hilarious.”

I feel myself blush and thank God for the cold and breeze, because now that she’s teasing me, I feel like a fucking idiot for having said the words fortress of strength out loud to this girl.

I respond by grunting, giving her hair a nuzzle on the sly, praying she doesn’t notice.

Charlie pulls back far enough to look at my face. “Did you just sniff my hair?”

Bust my balls a little more why don’t you?

“I couldn’t breathe—you’re suffocating me.” We both roll our eyes at the lie, but when she settles back against my chest, I can actually feel her smiling against my pec.

Huh.

We get jostled and bounced around on the way back to the barn and somehow end up with straw in our hair. We also end up buying two gourds that look like mini-pumpkins and a pumpkin carving kit, stuffing a scarecrow, and noshing on caramel apples on the walk back to the truck.

I am carrying everything but Charlie’s apple.

She happily munches on it while I shove the pumpkin into the backseat of my truck, along with the scarecrow, carving kit, and gourds. I know as soon as I hit the brakes at the next light, those sonsabitches are going to fly off the seat and roll to the floor.

“We should name the scarecrow, don’t you think?” Charlie has her long legs extended, feet propped up on the dashboard with her shoes on as her teeth nibble on her apple.

“You want to name it?”

“Yeah. It needs a name.” She glances into the backseat and I steal a look at her calves.

Nice.

Smooth.

Sexy.

“It looks like a guy.”

“Are you being serious?” She says it with a straight face, so I can only assume she’s being serious, but it still sounds fucking ridiculous.

“Yes. I think it looks like a dude, so it needs a dude’s name.”

Girls are so strange. “Like what?”

“Like…Jackson Jennings the fourth.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“Randall?”

I cock my head now, getting into the game of naming our fictional new friend. “I don’t mind Randall, but how about Nathan. Or Kyle?”

“Those seem too…normal. What about Biff McMuscles?” she deadpans, a glint in her eye.

“Biff McMuscles?” I give him a quick peek in my rear-view mirror. “He doesn’t have muscles.”

“I know, but…” Charlie ducks her head as her cheeks darken. “That’s what I called you before I knew your name.” Darts a glance at me. “Is that bad?”

“You called me Biff McMuscles?” I want to barf a little in my mouth as I say it. For real, what the fuck? “Why?”

I mean—Biff?

“You’re all…” Her hands wave around along my torso, up and down. “Fit and buff and huge.”

I force my eyes to stay planted on the road, but it’s an exercise in self-control. I want to stare Charlie down so bad.

“You couldn’t come up with a better nickname than that? It’s terrible.”

A sigh comes from the passenger side. “I know, but I didn’t like you at the time so it seemed to fit.”

“You didn’t like me?”

“You knew that, come on.” I get a patronizing pouty face as she mirrors my expression. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

“Uh, because I thought you liked me but you were pretending.”

“Nope. I literally could not stand you. I mean—just enough to curse you out a few times. You’re kind of awful.”

I am?

“I’ve never had any complaints before.”

“Who is going to complain to your face? No one. Yeah right.” Charlie snorts, crossing her legs and readjusting her body. “You’re Triple J, almighty wide receiver—no one is going to tell you no, let alone tell you you’re being an ass or say you suck. Come on, let’s get real for a second.”

My mouth opens to reply but gets clamped shut again as Charlie goes on, warming to the topic of me being an ass.

“Everyone is too busy kissing your ass. When is the last time anyone told you no? Or didn’t give you something you wanted? Or gave you a bad grade?” She makes an unattractive gagging sound in the back of her throat.

“Hey—I get bad grades.” Why am I defending myself?

“Fine, you get bad grades.” She uses air quotes around the word bad, and I get offended all over again. “When’s the last time you failed a class?”

“Are you implying that I’m given good grades?”

Her hands go up, palms facing the ceiling in the truck. “I wouldn’t know.”

“See, this is where you’re wrong. I study—I study my ass off. They might tailor classes for student athletes, but it’s at my discretion to take them—and