Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,43

as they are, they still flip my stomach into a dip.

“A saying is a great idea. Probably a short one since there isn’t a ton of room.”

“How ’bout ‘Zero fucks given.’”

“That works.” I laugh. “Where we putting this when it’s done? Because I do not want that on my stoop.”

“Well we can’t put it on mine—it’ll get smashed.”

“But you have the pumpkin patrol to back you up.”

Jackson laughs, his smile beautiful and wide, his five o’clock shadow much darker than the rest of his dark blond hair. His face is tan from practicing for hours with the sun beating down on him, and everything about him screams healthy and virile. Think mountain man meets schoolboy meets athlete.

“PP patrol.” He nods.

“PP as in pee pee,” I can’t stop myself from saying. “You do like those double and triple initials.”

“Ha ha, yeah—not my fault.”

No, it’s not—but he sure exploits them to his advantage, and who doesn’t love a football player from the South with old-fashioned mannerisms and an old-school nickname?

Nobody doesn’t love that.

And here I am, falling for the bastard myself.

So inconvenient. I wish he’d stop looking at me that way.

Like…a friend? Dammit. He better not be friend-zoning me.

It’s really kind of annoying. Not that I want him to be all over me like a wet rag, because I’m not sure what I would do with myself then, but the least he could do is eyeball me inappropriately. Get caught staring at my boobs, try feeling me up under the table—you know, that kind of thing.

Instead, Jackson is chiseling away at the pumpkin, almost ignoring me completely, punctuating each thrust of his knife with a low grunt, as if the task of stabbing the sharp tine into the flesh is grueling. Or difficult. Or requires actual effort and muscle.

In all the years I’ve watched my parents—Pops, usually—carving a pumpkin, it’s always been a struggle sticking the knife through its thick wall and pulling it out.

Not for Jackson; he makes it look easy, probably because he’s one hundred times stronger than my dad will ever be. Bigger and in shape, hundreds of hours of workouts to thank for his physique.

He chooses that moment to look up, wielding the knife in his right hand, pausing with it in the air.

“What?” He’s blunt, eyes blank, unable to read my thoughts.

“Nothing.” Typical response of everyone in the world who has ever been caught staring and doesn’t want to admit it.

“All right.” He doesn’t push, returning to his task. “You sure you want this to say zero fucks given?”

“Yes?” It reminds me of a gold bracelet I have that I sometimes wear when I’m feeling sassy. It makes me feel rather empowered when I wear it, though not many people ever stop to read what it says.

“Where we puttin’ this?” Jackson stands up and goes to a drawer, rummaging around and returning to the table with a black marker. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Sure.” I take it from his fingers, brushing mine against his on purpose. When he repositions the pumpkin so it’s in front of me, I carefully write the phrase in block letters on the slippery skin, large enough so it will be easy to carve.

Z E R O

F U X (I change the spelling so it’s not as offensive.)

G I V E N

There. I sit back and study my handiwork, spinning the base so Jackson can see it, too.

“How does it look?”

“Fine.”

Fy-ne. The word makes me smile. They all have today—I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

He smells good, too; when he stood up and sat back down, I caught a whiff of him. Masculine and clean, like a man should smell. Like a shot of testosterone. Like I suddenly want to sit in his lap and run my nose up the column of his strong, thick neck.

Our eyes meet again, and this time he doesn’t ask what my problem is.

Jackson doesn’t say anything—he just reaches forward and pulls the pumpkin toward him, positions it just so on the table in front of him, and takes hold of the knife.

“Here goes nothin’.”

I nod dumbly, and this time, he does say something, talking toward the pumpkin as he makes the first cut.

“Sure you’re all right, Charlotte? You’re lookin’ a little red.”

He and I both know why my cheeks are flushed, but he’s going to be an ass and tease me about it. A gentleman wouldn’t do that; then again, no one has—or will ever—accuse Jackson Jennings Junior of being one.

“It’s a little hot in here.”

“Try