Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,42
romantic feelings for me. Nope. He wants to get his meddling friends out of the house.
Albeit only temporarily.
As the three leave, one more enters the room, and it’s déjà vu all over again as we go through the same conversation we just had with the previous roommates: who are you, what’s that on the table, is that a pumpkin, what are you carving, why aren’t there more pumpkins.
“The guys just went to get a few more. If you want one, text McMillan,” Jackson tells him as the guy takes one of the empty chairs. He stares at me, trying to place my face, and I have to admit, he looks familiar to me, too.
“You’re that chick.”
“You’re the guy in the truck.” The one who rides shotgun while Jackson drives up and down the strip. “What’s your name?”
“Tyson, but everyone calls me Killer.”
Is this guy for real?
“No one calls him Killer,” Jackson deadpans, not looking up from his task.
“Tyson,” I repeat. “I’m Charlie.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.” He shoots Jackson a speculative look while picking at the pumpkin topper that’s been discarded on the table.
“So on these drives through campus, are you a creep much, or are you just along for the ride?”
He shrugs a set of broad shoulders. They’re not as wide as my date’s but fit and athletic just the same. The kind of shoulders that never miss a day in the gym. “We’re not creepy—we’re just bored.”
How is it possible that these guys are bored? They’re the people on campus most guys want to be and every girl wants to date. Or screw. They’re probably surrounded by people, fanfare, coaches, and noise twenty-four hours a day. What’s so boring about that?
“Don’t they have drinking parties to cure that melancholy? Is it necessary to blind every unsuspecting female on campus with your bright lights?”
“Bright lights.” He cocks his head with a smirk. “Was that an innuendo?”
I mean…it kind of sounds like one, but, “No, that wasn’t a sexual innuendo. Jeez. I was legitimately talking about headlights.”
He looks disappointed by this.
I set about ignoring him so I can peel open the cardboard packaging the pumpkin carver is sealed in, and when I free it, I hand it to Jackson. He’s busy cutting the top of the pumpkin with a huge knife so we can gut it and remove the seeds.
“You need a cookie sheet.” Tyson rolls his eyes, the authority on Halloween and roasting seeds, apparently. “I’ll get it for you.” The hulk of a man-child rises and yanks open a cabinet next to the stove, and when he does, a few pans fall out, crashing to the linoleum floor with loud clangs. “Dammit! Who put this shit away?”
As he squats to reorganize it, I chuckle at his back and the butt crack now visible over the waistband of his mesh track pants.
Not to judge, but his ass is crazy hairy; God bless the girl who gets into bed with that guy.
Why am I thinking about this? Jesus, Charlie.
Jackson catches me staring and clears this throat, tilting the pumpkin toward me so I can inspect his work. He’s made clean lines—not a hack job—and removes the top so I can peer inside.
I push up the sleeves of my dress. Pick up a large spoon. “I’m ready to gut this thing.” I try to sound savage but am too cheery to pull the badassery off.
The inside of the pumpkin is slimy and moist when I stick my arm in, almost up to my elbow, but I knew it would be. Years of taking the seeds out of pumpkins prepares you for the sensation, but somehow it’s always still kind of gross and gag worthy.
And moist.
I root around with the utensil, slapping a spoonful of guts onto the cookie sheet Tyson has magically produced and lain on the table.
He’s disappeared, blessedly leaving us alone.
“You want help?”
“No, I’ve got this, but thanks. You just be ready with the cookie sheet…” I glance up at him. “What else do we need to bake these? Salt? Olive oil?” I can’t remember; my mom always baked the seeds.
“My mama always used some kind of spice. Let me text her.”
My mama.
So. Southern.
“What do you think we should carve on this? Iowa’s mascot? A witch?”
Jackson takes a few seconds to consider it. Then, “What about a sayin’ or somethin’?” He pauses. “Like ‘Get the fuck off my porch.’ Or, I don’t know. Somethin’.”
A sayin’ or somethin’.
I shiver at the way he says the words. Simple and basic