Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,40

I don’t. If I get hurt and end up on the injury list, I’m screwed. Then what? My career is shot and I’m left with nothin’—so I study and I study hard, because that’s the other reason I’m here.”

“Football and a degree.”

“Yup.”

“And that’s it?”

My hands tighten over the leather steering wheel, lips drawn into an obstinate line. “Yup.”

“And you don’t cheat?”

I turn my head to look her straight in the eyes. “No.”

Her palms go up again, this time in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m just asking, sheesh. Bring the death stare down a notch.”

“Newsflash, Charlotte, you can’t go around accusin’ people of cheatin’ based on stereotypes.”

“I’m sorry.”

I feel weight on my forearm, my eyes darting down to stare at the fingers resting there. The light pink manicured nails. The thin gold ring on her index finger.

It taps my muscle once, twice before pulling away and returning to its spot on her thigh, but the damage is done; I can still feel its heat on my skin long after it’s gone.

“I am sorry, Jackson,” she repeats, quietly this time, watching my reflection. “Hey.”

I look over.

She smiles, biting down on her bottom lip. “I’m excited to carve the pumpkin with you tonight.”

Fuck, the pumpkin.

My house.

The guys.

“Bet Biff McMuscles is excited, too.”

I groan.

Seventh Friday 2.0

Charlie

Wow. So this is what the football house looks like when there isn’t a party going on.

We step in, Jackson closes the door behind us, and I can already hear the stirring of people inside.

Deep voices, low and hushed—according to Jackson, it’s game day eve, so they’re required to be home, sober, and in bed by a certain hour.

“You know we’re not supposed to have guests the night before a game, Southern-fried homeboy.”

“Shut up, McMillan.”

The kid Jackson calls McMillan stuffs a spoonful of what looks like peanut butter into his mouth and speaks around it, following us into the kitchen. “I’m just saying.”

Jackson sets the pumpkin in the center of the table, tossing down the carving kit.

“What’s that?” McMillan asks, resting his hip against the counter.

“What the hell does it look like,” Jackson snips.

“A pumpkin.”

Jackson goes to the cupboard and rummages around for a bowl, pulls open a drawer, and retrieves a knife and two spoons. Grabs a roll of paper towels.

Dumps it all onto the surface of the table unceremoniously.

“Can I help?” This McMillan guy loiters and now has his hands on the back of a chair, intent on pulling it out.

“No! Go do somethin’ else,’” Jackson snaps. “Away from here.”

“I don’t have anything to do,” McMillan argues, still not letting go of the chair back. He inches it out.

“Find somethin’. Get out of the kitchen.”

I watch as Jackson grows increasingly frustrated, my eyes getting wide when another guy enters the room.

“What’s that?” The big dude points at the center of the table, at the pumpkin.

“Oh my god,” Jackson moans, but it comes out sounding like oh my gawd, and I smirk at his accent.

“I love carving pumpkins—is that the only one you got?”

“Yes, and you’re not helpin’. You’re leavin’.”

“I can’t leave. Coach’s rules—I have to be here.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, and McMillan leans over to slap the guy a high five. “Good one, Isaac.”

“What are you going to carve on it?” Isaac wants to know. “Once my sister had me carve a flying unicorn—that fucking thing took me two hours.” He pauses. “Where are we putting this? The porch?”

“No, she’s takin’ it home.” Jackson grinds the words out between clenched teeth, and it’s the first time this new guy—Isaac—acknowledges I’m in the room.

He smiles at me, glancing between Jackson and myself, a slow grin taking up half his face. His teeth are white but a bit crooked, and he’s missing one on the left side. Maybe he got it knocked out by an errant elbow on the playing field during practice?

“Who are you?” He’s blunt, but I don’t mind.

“I’m Charlie.”

“That’s a guy’s name,” he informs me rudely. Still, he’s smiling, as if he knows it’s going to piss Jackson off to tease me.

It does.

“It’s not a guy’s name, asshole. Leave her alone.”

That’s not what he said the first time he met me; he told me it was a guy’s name, too, but far be it from me to point that out in front of his friends when he’s already irritated by their presence.

“Why are you going to take the pumpkin home, Chuck? You don’t think it’ll look nice at this fine establishment?”

I hesitate before answering. “Jackson thinks it’ll get smashed being on the porch, and I agree with