by Ney, Sara
Jock Road
Copyright © 2019 by Sara Ney
Cover Design by Okay Creations
Formatting by AB Formatting
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
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Contents
First Friday
Second Friday
Third Friday
Still The Third Friday
Fourth Friday
Fifth Friday
Sixth Friday
Saturday
Seventh Friday
Seventh Friday 2.0
Seventh Friday 3.0
A Wednesday
…Still Wednesday
Wednesday 3.0
A Gameday
After The Fight With His Dad
Epilogue
First Friday
Charlie
What the actual fu…
The light behind me is so bright I squint, reaching to adjust my rear-view mirror. I turn it this way and that, working it so the headlights blasting my retinas are shining back at the driver, probably blinding them now, too.
Good. Serves them right.
Jerk.
I slow my car to five under the speed limit, conscious of the fact that campus security and police presence have increased since a student was assaulted by a driver of an unmarked cab first semester. More than assaulted—she ended up in the hospital.
I visibly cringe at the thought, tightening my grip on the wheel.
A car passes slowly on my left. Another pulls out in front of me, causing me to jam my foot on the brake. Ten under the speed limit, my fingers drum the steering wheel. Reach to spin the volume dial to the right, just a bit louder—this song is one of my favorites.
Upbeat.
Catchy.
Sexy.
My thoughts stray and land on a conversation I had earlier with my friend Claire about how she’s breaking up with her boyfriend Donnie—Donnie the Douche, as we’ve started calling him behind her back, mostly because the alliteration is fun. A running back on the university’s team, Donnie cannot keep his dick in his pants—or in one girl’s vagina, specifically Claire’s.
She used to forgive him every time and take him back. She’d forgive him for every indiscretion, probably because she’s somewhat a jock chaser and Donnie was headed for the NFL—until he tore his UCL throwing a reverse pass, taking him out for the rest of the season and killing his career.
Poor Claire; she wanted to be a WAG so damn bad.
Now? No way is she willing to tolerate any of his bullshit, not with him forced to finish his business degree and take a job at his uncle’s car dealership.
Football was the only thing the kid had going for him; conversations with him are mind-numbing and decreased my IQ tenfold. Just plain dumb.
I hate to call him a dumb jock, but…
Donnie is a dumb jock.
A small rock hits my windshield, knocking me out of my stupor—I realize I’ve been crawling along this road at barely the legal minimum and totally sober on a Friday night. I sigh when the car ahead of me stops at the light, the glare from their cell phone visible from here.
The driver is checking their damn messages.
Huffing, I glance in my mirror.
There is a truck behind me, easing up so close a body probably wouldn’t fit between the two vehicles.
I inch forward a bit.
The truck inches forward.
“What the hell, dude—back off,” I mutter out loud, irritated.
No—irritated is an understatement.
The annoyance grows when the car in front of me stays put, despite the fact that it’s their turn to go at the four-way stop sign.
Hang a right. Hang a left. Go straight. Something!
“Move!” I shout, smacking the middle of my steering wheel with the palm of my hand. “Oh my god.”
Lights blind me and I blink, seeing stars.
“What the hell, man!”
I hate trucks sometimes—they think they own the road. In the winter, it seems to be worse. Newsflash: just because you’re heads above the rest of us peons who drive cars does not mean you rule the streets. It doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole and blaze past everyone trying to get to their destination in one piece. Especially in the snow.
Rude.
And this jerk behind me? If he was riding my ass any closer, he’d be up my butthole.
In fact…
I bite down on my bottom lip.
It seems like…
I take my foot off the brake, moving a foot. Then another.
The truck mimics my movements.
Weird.
The car ahead of me finally lifts their foot off the brake and inches forward as the glaring set of lights flash behind me.
“Knock it off!” I loudly complain to no one.
Seriously. Knock it off.
But they don’t. The driver of the truck flashes their lights again—this time it’s their brights.
“I swear, if you do that shit one more time…” I threaten, more to myself because I’m becoming irrationally angry.
They do that shit one more time.
This is where the rubber meets the metaphorical road, and I have a choice: I can either calm down and keep going—or I can yank my car into park, get out, and give that reckless ass a piece of my mind.
Always a bit late to the party, my common sense rears its responsible head, and I do nothing but white-knuckle the steering wheel, my pale pink nails filed short, the glitter in my polish catching a bit of light and twinkling.
I admire it despite my ire.
Get a grip, Charlie. Now is not the time. There is a psychopath riding your tail. This never ends well in the movies.
If this were a horror flick, I would put my car in park and make the fatal mistake of exiting my vehicle. I’d stalk over to the truck, probably wouldn’t be able to see the driver because I bet the window tint is opaque. Then I’d get too close, the door would open, and the driver would get out with his chainsaw. Force me to retreat into a nearby alleyway or cornfield. I’d run and run and run until I’m too far from civilization or any hope of help. Then the psycho—probably in a mask—would follow me, hacking everything in his path to pieces.
Except: there is no nearby alley.
There are no cornfields.
This isn’t a scary movie.
The odds of this guy having an actual working chainsaw are slim to none, but ya know what? I’m not taking any chances.
I know how the story ends, and I’d rather not end up the casualty of stupidity on the evening news.
So. I curse him out, but privately, in the safety of my car.
Oh my god, what if he follows me after I drive off? I decide if I turn left and he turns left, I’m drivin
g to the police station. Yes, that’s what I’ll do—go to the cop shop.
He definitely is giving me a stalker vibe.
Flash.
Flash.
“Stop! Ugh!” I screech, scared, wishing I could see the license plate the truck is legally obligated to have affixed to its front bumper.
When it’s finally my turn to go, I don’t announce my direction with a signal—I just hang a left and exhale a great puff of air.
He didn’t follow me.
Thank. God.
Shaking a little, I release my grip on my leather steering wheel and slump. Lean forward and adjust the dial on my radio, lowering the volume so I can hear myself think with the blood racing through my veins.
I hear it thundering in my ears.
Behind me, in the rear-view, the truck—black if my eyes don’t deceive me—passes through the intersection.
Jerk.
Second Friday
Jackson
Goddamn I’m hungry.
Nothing new there; I could always go for food. Trouble is, I’m too far from home to dash there real quick, even with my truck on campus—fuck if I’m willing to lose my parking spot next to the athletic building over a snack—and I’m not jogging home for the frozen burrito I’m craving, even if it would burn off the calories.
Like a bear sniffing out food after a long winter, I skip the athletic dining hall—that’s too far too because this is an emergency.
The on-campus cafeteria for regular students will have to do.
I turn my nose up at the thought, dreading the flat hamburger patties and stale lettuce I’ll surely find when I get there. Chicken sounds appealing; so do a few fatty hot dogs.
I quicken my pace, not sure where this fucking joint is located; I haven’t eaten there since…well, freshman year, and that one time was a mistake. The eats here are utter shit.
The perks of being a jock at a school this size are considerable. Special facilities. Massage therapist at my beck and call. Hot tubs in the training room. Free clothes through sponsorships.
I walk taller, a head above most everyone I pass. They scurry by, giving me the side-eye, some backward glances I ignore. Whispers. I don’t miss the elbow jabs.
Arrogantly, I know many of them recognize me. Guys especially.
My nose leads me to the food, the room full, lines long.
Fuck.
I don’t have time to stand in line—I have to be in the weight room in forty minutes, and it will take me that long to grab what I want.
I’m a big boy; this won’t be a light meal. It’ll be enough food to feed a family. Not having eaten since late last night, I desperately swipe a bag of potato chips on my walk to the grill, I tear it open with my teeth like a barbarian and stuff a handful in my face. Chew loudly, crumbs falling down the front of my Iowa t-shirt.
Iowa. How the fuck I ended up here is beyond me.
I was all set to attend school in my home state of Texas until, at the last minute, the scholarship money wasn’t there anymore. I had a spot on the team but not enough money to cover tuition, and my family ain’t rollin’ in dough.
Enter Iowa.
More money. More allowance for living expenses. More stability.
No way did I have the spare change to afford A&M on my own; I’m a great player, but not full-ride great.
And goddamn am I hungry.
I wad the chip bag in my fist, leaving it in my hand so I remember to pay for it. There’s a line at the griddle, but I doubt anyone will object if I cut it and skip to the front.
No one complains out loud, but a few resting bitch faces judge me.
I slide in after a girl with long, blonde hair. She’s bouncing on the heels of her—I glance down—brown boots, a baby blue backpack hooked over her right shoulder. Impatient, she continues to check the watch on her wrist every few seconds, as if the action is going to speed up the process of cooking meat.
I eyeball the grill, debating about what I want. One chicken breast, lean. Two hamburger patties, fatty. Three hot dogs.
Chicken it is.
The girl checks her watch again, and I stare at the back of her head, down at the crown, into her shiny hair. It’s long and a bit wavy, and I haven’t touched a girl’s hair in so fucking long, I’m tempted to rub a few strands between my fingers for old times’ sake.
Weird, right?
She doesn’t so much as cock her head to the side, so I have no idea what she looks like. I just know she has a few vulgar pins on her bag and a touchable blonde mop.
The chicken is flipped once more by the bored student running the cooktop, his sweaty and acne-covered face only accentuated by the thin black net covering his hair.
He uses the same spatula to turn the remaining meats, which I’m sure might be some health code violation—cross-contamination or some shit? Yes? No? Well, it should be—I don’t want hot dog jizz on my chicken.
I groan out loud when the kid presses the spatula onto the chicken breast, squeezing out all the juice. Jesus Christ, rule number one of grilling—don’t fucking dry out the meat by choking it to death.
Next, he slaps several buns onto the grill. When one is ready, he palms it, slapping the chicken into the center. Closes it, wraps it in foil. Extends his arm, holds it over the counter and into my waiting grasp.
I snatch it, immediately unwrap it, and shove the first warm bite into my mouth.
Holy shit, it’s pretty damn good.
“Hey! What the hell—that was mine!”
I look down at the girl in front of me, who has spun on her heel to give me the dirtiest look anyone has ever given me. She is as mad as a hornet.
I turn to walk away. “You snooze, you lose.”
“I was literally standing here waiting patiently for that thing!”
“How’s that workin’ for you?”
“Huh?”
“Bein’ patient.” I take another bite of my sandwich, moaning with pleasure because it’s so delightful and just what I needed. “How’s that workin’ for ya? Seems to me that maybe if you were more assertive, you’d be standin’ here eatin’ this sammich and not me.”
One more bite goes down my gullet as she stands there sputtering.
“Grab me a burger when he’s done with ’em, would ya?” This sandwich isn’t exactly going to fill me up, and my next meal won’t come for a few hours.
“Get your own sandwich, asshole.”
“Whoa, no need for name-callin’, darlin’—I’m just tryin’ to be polite.”
“Polite? You are so rude! You stole my lunch!”
“Was it yours though?” I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t pay for it.”
“Neither did you—and you didn’t order it, either.”
Gripping the chicken and bun in my giant palm, I hold it toward her. “Want a bite? It’s good.”
“Oh my god, shut up.” She spins on her heel, facing the kid behind the counter grilling the meat. He and I lock eyes, but he quickly averts his gaze, loading a hamburger patty onto the bun.
“You want cheese?” he asks the girl.
“No! And I don’t want a burger. I wanted chicken, but you gave it to this Neanderthal!”
The kid opens his mouth; no sound comes out. Good—I don’t need another opinion thrown into this conversation.
“I’ll take that burger,” I tell him over the girl’s head.
She whips around. “That burger is for the girl behind you.” She glances around me, shooting a pointed look at the mousey little co-ed standing directly behind me. “Do not let him take that hamburger.”
I shoot the girl a smile. “I’m totally taking this burger.”
She returns my smile with a feeble one of her own, her mouth contorting into…I’m not sure what the fuck her look is supposed to mean.
Little Miss Priss will not be deterred from her mission: keeping me from eating my damn lunch.
“Oh no you will not!”
“You’re cute.”
Her arms cr
oss. “Don’t you dare insult me.”
Calling her cute is an insult? This is news to me. “Since when is it an insult to call someone cute?”
“It’s an insult when the person complimenting you is an asshole.”
“Darlin’, you’ve just got your dander up. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”
Her pretty face is smug. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me? Oh my god, where were you raised?”
“Texas.” Don’t fucking mess with it.
She rolls her eyes.
They’re bright blue.
“I’ve been to Texas—no one there talks like that.”
I’m close to polishing off this entire chicken breast. “Talks like what?”
“Like a hick.”
A hick? The fuck… “You think name-callin’ is nice?”
“Name-cawlin’,” she mocks. Now who’s the asshole?
The kid behind the grill has two foil-wrapped burgers in his hand, suspended in midair—unsure of what the hell to do with them as I stand here verbally sparring with this little hellcat.
“I’ll take them both,” I tell him over her head.
“I’ll take them both!” she counters, leveling me with a stare.
“You said you didn’t want no burger.”
“I don’t have time to stand here and wait for another chicken sandwich, jerk—this is my only option.”
“You’re gonna eat two burgers?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You can’t take them both just to spite me.”
“I’ll do whatever I want—I’m at the front of the line.” She turns her back on me once again. “If you give him those burgers, I will find your manager and…and…”
The bastard hands her both burgers, and I take the opportunity to shoot him a death glare, hoping he wets his pants a little.
I tail the blonde to the cash resisters, pilfering a banana, two protein bars, another bag of chips, and a rice krispy treat from a nearby snack rack as we pass it by.
