Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,51
you admitting you cheated, Jackson Jennings?”
“I’m admittin’ I don’t always play by the rules.”
“So—cheating.”
We both laugh, and I’m glad he’s taking my teasing in stride.
“No, I don’t normally cheat, never a day in my life. My daddy would have…” He pauses, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “My parents would have killed me if I bent the rules.”
He’s giving me a glimpse into his personal life.
“Your parents were strict?”
“Understatement.” He doesn’t say any more about it, just keeps his eyes on the road and his truck from nailing any of the people now spilling into the street. As we’ve slowly crept along, a game of wiffle ball has broken out in a front yard, the players racing into the road to fetch the ball, not even checking once for vehicles.
A clown leaps into the air, dodging a red minivan approaching from the opposite direction.
“Yours?”
I shrug. “Meh, not really. They never had to be—I just always did what they told me to do. Boring.” I yawn for dramatic effect and pat my mouth.
“Same.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He glances over. “Why?”
“Because? I don’t know, you must have been popular.”
“I wouldn’t know if I was or not.”
“How do you not know?”
Jackson lifts one of his massive shoulders. “I was usually home when everyone was out, so I don’t know how popular that made me. Pops wouldn’t allow it.”
“Why?” I know I shouldn’t pry, but…
“Wanted me to get into a good college.”
I smile. “And look at you now!”
“Not this college.” Jackson’s sardonic laugh comes with a forced smile, and I’m not sure whether or not to be offended on behalf of the entire Iowa student body. But, given his enrollment status here, I let the comment slide.
“Where did he want you to go?”
“A bigger Big Ten school. Penn State. Notre Dame.” One large hand taps the dashboard. “Anywhere but here, really.
“Ah, I see. That’s why you chose Iowa.” His one act of rebellion. “Do your parents come to see you play?”
“My daddy was so fuckin’ pissed, he boycotted my games for the first two years.” Jackson rubs his nose. “He’s been to a few lately, but only b’cause…”
I wish he’d finish his sentence, so I prod him. “Because what?”
He twitches, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “Cause…” His throat clears. “This is between you and me, now, yeah?”
This is a major moment—Jackson Jennings doesn’t open up to just anyone. I can see the hesitation in his eyes from my spot in the passenger seat, so him offering up information…
Huge.
I suck in a breath. Let it out. Make a tiny sign of the cross on my chest that he can’t see in the near dark. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye…
“I promise I won’t say anything.”
He can trust me.
“Pops is only comin’ to my games because it’s almost draft season and he wants me to enter, so he’s bein’ supportive to pressure me into it.”
The draft.
Wow.
My little brain can barely comprehend what this means in the grand scheme of things. Here I am worried about my bagel supply running low and what internship I want in my hometown, and Jackson has to decide if he’s entering the draft to play professional football.
My problems seem so freaking stupid. Small. Insignificant.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Again, his answer is to lift one shoulder. “But…”
I wait, knowing there’s more to this story. Wait while he drives, turning on my street, finding my house, and putting his truck in park.
Jackson’s head hits the back of the headrest, eyes boring holes into the ceiling. “I want it on my terms, not my daddy’s.”
His use of the word daddy is strange to me since I call my father “Dad,” but coupled with his Southern drawl, it sounds adorable rolling off his tongue.
“I want the pros for myself.” His voice is low, gravelly. “Why is that so fuckin’ hard for him to understand?”
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish…
I wish I could do something to cheer him up.
“Hey.” I put my hand on his firm bicep, and he looks down at where my fingers rest. “Where is this kiss happening?” I swallow. “And when?”
His broad shoulders shrug. “You don’t have to kiss me, Charlotte.”
He sounds weary and pathetic, as if he’s just stood in the rain, staring through a window at a room full of dry people laughing and drinking and eating, as if he will never know what it feels like to be inside. As if he deserves to be used by his father and doesn’t