Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,4

you animal, and you’ve already had a chicken sandwich—my chicken sandwich.”

Dammit, that’s right—she hasn’t eaten yet. I’d be a real asshole if I didn’t at least buy her lunch.

“Fine. Give them here.”

“Nope. Not until you’ve paid.”

“Fine,” I grind out through clenched teeth. “But I get one of those.”

“A deal is a deal. I said I’d give you one and I will—after you pay for everything.”

Together, we make our way to the cashier, and just like before, I skip to the front of the line.

No one objects.

Except her.

“You cannot keep doing that.”

“Doing what?” I feign ignorance, head held high as I hand the cashier all my shit, including the empty wrappers, and point to the two burgers in Little Miss Priss’s hands. “Those too.”

Charlie

This guy is the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever met. Stubborn. Rude. Barbaric.

Handsome—if you’re into crude and uncultured.

And the Southern accent…it’s cute—and he’s so very good-looking. Obviously corn-fed; a down-home, bona fide country boy.

A hick?

So country I can’t resist giving him shit about it, and it actually makes my stomach churn a little. I’ve met people from the South, but never with an accent this deep and never this pronounced.

The twang is thick, and I love it.

I hate him.

Clearly he hasn’t been taught any manners, and if he has, he chooses not to use them. Or he simply doesn’t care. I thought boys from the south were supposed to be all yes ma’am and no ma’am and gentlemen?

Doesn’t give a fig. I chuckle to myself at my own use of the Southern metaphor.

I stand idly beside him, holding the two burgers I snatched from the griddle.

A guilty wave passes over me at my manners, which were as bad as…his. Shoot. He made me completely forget myself, and I’m ashamed I grabbed both burgers without caring who they belonged to, so hell-bent on proving a point.

Ugh.

The Neanderthal retrieves a wallet from his back pocket, pulling out cash instead of a student ID.

“Don’t you have a meal plan?” I ask, because I’m nosey, and—I’ll admit it—a bit snarky and snotty.

“No.”

“Why?” It’s rude of me to ask. Maybe he can’t afford it. Maybe he never eats on campus. Maybe—

“I play football. We don’t usually have to eat this shit, but I was desperate.”

Well then. “Um…okay.” I pause. “What does that even mean?”

He turns his hulking body toward me. “It means we have our own cafeteria where we get awesome food, not this slop.”

I glance down at the “slop” in my hands. Two foil-wrapped burgers, no pickles, no onions, no anything. I’m a bit offended he’s calling this garbage when it’s the only option I have for food on campus.

“Well aren’t you special,” I goad, shooting him another eye roll, this one heavy and almost causing me to get lightheaded. Wow. Better watch that, or my eyes are going to get stuck in the back of my head. “Where is this mythical, magical place where they feed the lucky few who get to graze there?”

“Back of the stadium.”

Wait—is he serious? They really have a special place where they feed the student athletes?

“For real?”

He spares me no glances as he takes the little bit of change he’s offered by the cashier. The girl is gawking at him, wide-eyed and slightly spellbound.

Ugh, gross.

“Yeah, for real.”

“What’s up there?”

He holds a hand out for a burger now that he’s paid. I slap one in his palm, secretly hoping it gets squished a little bit.

“I don’t know…stuff. Food.”

“Be specific.” If he’s going to throw down about this cafeteria being total crap, he better give details.

“Salad bar. Seafood. Pasta bar. Lean chicken and steak.”

He tears into the silver wrapper of the burger he just grabbed from my hands, shoving one end into his mouth, biting down and chewing.

“Seafood?” What the hell! “For real?”

“Yeah.”

When he says yeah, it comes out as yee-a-ya—three syllables—and there go those flutters in my stomach, despite him being a complete brute.

He’s tall—at least six foot three—with wide shoulders, a broad back… I let my eyes wander down his torso as he gnaws on his food, down his flat stomach and thick inner thighs. He’s wearing mesh athletic pants, so it’s easy to make out the shape of his legs. Toned. Strong. Thick.

Did I say that already?

Crap.

His t-shirt is too tight and ill-fitting. A bit too short for how tall he is, but it doesn’t look like he gives a shit about his appearance. Not one little bit.

His hair is a bit shaggy, pulled back in an elastic, strands escaping around his face. His five-o’clock