Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,62

at him.

His eyes scan my body, starting at my denim-covered knees and working their way up my torso. Over my abs and stomach. Stalling on my breasts.

They’re full—mostly because I’m not the thinnest girl around and always seem to carry around a few unwanted pounds, but sometimes, it’s nice having a decent pair of boobs. Times like this, when an attractive boy is paying them attention, staring at them as if they’re the most fascinating things he’s ever seen.

And he hasn’t even seen them naked.

My chest heaves, adrenaline coursing through my veins from a sudden rush of blood through my quickly beating heart—how easily Jackson is able to make it palpitate. I wish I could calm it, pressing my right hand to the left side of my chest, taking a few steadying breaths as he continues watching me.

Studying me sitting on his bed, I must look like a foreign object to him, out of place. Blonde and light in contrast to this dark bedroom filled with memorabilia and guy stuff.

Green walls. Dark wooden trim and shelves. Headboard. Deep, navy blue bedspread with plaid pillowcases. It’s lodge-y and homey and I bet super toasty in the winter.

Jackson’s blue eyes get darker the longer they stay fastened on me, his bottom teeth pulling at his top lip. He wants to say something but, for whatever reason, can’t.

Or won’t.

Or doesn’t know how to.

“Maybe this was a bad idea.”

I watch him from my spot on his bed. “What’s a bad idea?”

“You bein’ here.”

“You said you wanted to talk—did you change your mind?” I sit up, straightening, then scoot back so I’m in the center of the mattress, crisscross my legs.

Jackson looks miserable.

“What’s wrong?” I cock my head to the side. “Come sit down—you look like you’re going to throw up.”

He does totally look like he’s going to toss his cookies all over the hardwood floor, the poor thing; probably hasn’t talked about his feelings much like he was intending to tonight.

I assume that’s why he wanted me to come over.

I might never know since he’s stalling so badly.

Jackson’s gaze burns a hole into the quilt where my hand is patting it down, inviting him to take a seat next to me. On the bed.

Hesitantly, he shuffles his feet across the floor. Uncrosses his arms and lowers himself to the mattress. It dips from his weight.

I’m graced with a view of his broad back. It’s wide and strong, the cords from each muscle visible beneath his soft, threadbare t-shirt, which I’m tempted to touch, to slide my fingers across to see his reaction.

I bet he’d jump clear across the room. The little devil inside me laughs. Maybe you should touch him, just to see…

When he clasps his hands in his lap, the cotton stretches with movements, which I follow intently.

That back is a pure power, and I marvel at it while he has his eyes focused on the door.

The closed door.

Jackson clears his throat and shifts his rear.

Turns, back to the headboard, pulling his heavy legs onto the mattress, letting his head fall to the wall behind him. Heaves a sigh.

I wait, not wanting to steamroll over him. Wanting him to talk and say what he wants to say, because clearly, there is something weighing on his chest.

His strong. Masculine. Chest.

I peel my eyes away from his pecs, and he catches me.

“Jackson, anything you tell me, I promise not to repeat.” It’s something I feel I have to say, to let him know he can trust me with whatever information he wants to share.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothin’ like that.”

“What is it then?” He has a lot on his mind, that much is clear, especially if he asked me to come over. So unlike him. I know he’s never had a relationship, keeps primarily to himself, lives and breathes football.

He is never going to live and breathe for a girl.

“So, I’ve been thinkin’,” he begins, voice husky, hands still clasped in his lap. He studies his fingers, head bowed, unable to make eye contact. “Um. About us.”

Us?

What’s this now?

I sit up straighter, at full attention. He wants to talk about us? What us? What does this mean?

My imagination and mind go into overdrive before he’s gotten any further words out of his gorgeous mouth. Surely he wouldn’t have called me over to tell me our friendship wasn’t working out, right?

Not his style; he’d ghost me instead.

“Us,” I deadpan coolly. Nonchalant. Casual.

Fake as fuck, because my heart has spun into a tailspin, deceiving me.

Jackson has