by Ney, Sara
Charlie’s smile widens. “Why on earth would I do that? That’s not your name.”
“So? Charlie isn’t your name.”
“It kind of is. It’s not like people call me Lil C or whatever, like Tiny or something because they’re pretending to be my friend.”
“You’re not tiny. Why would anyone call you that?”
“It was an example.”
“A bad one—because you’re not tiny.”
“Would you stop saying that? It’s insulting.”
“But you’re not.” Shut your mouth, Jackson. She’s getting irritated. I don’t know why I’m arguing with her.
“Yes, I’m aware I’m taller than tons of other girls in the room, and no, I don’t play volleyball for school, but I do intramurally, and no, I don’t play basketball.”
Damn shame—bet she’d look fantastic in those tight shorts they wear on the volleyball court.
“Maybe I want to be called Tiny—ever thought of that? Huh? Huh?”
“You want me to call you Tiny instead of Charlotte?”
“Well, no.” She sounds disgruntled. “Maybe not.”
I laugh, so confused. “Fine then, I won’t.”
“You’re so annoying,” she scoffs, a puff of steam from her lips fading into the night air.
“You started it.”
“What are we, five?”
No, but I’m starting to feel like I am. Wanting to tug at the cute girl’s braids and flirt and say all kinds of dumb shit to impress her.
We walk another hundred feet.
Charlie stops. “This is me.”
This being a dinky little shit-hole, set back from the road roughly fifty feet—but aren’t most college rentals shitty and in disrepair?
The place is yellow, that much I can see, with dark green shutters and a red door. It looks like something out of a children’s television show, but…dilapidated?
No lights are on inside.
“Do you live alone?”
“No, I live with my friends.”
“Where? It’s so ti—”
“Don’t you dare say tiny.” Charlie laughs.
“Tiny.”
She smacks me on the bicep, and I do what every hormonal guy who spends most of his time in the gym does when a female touches him:
I flex.
“You did not just flex your muscles.” Her laugh is louder this time. She thinks I’m ridiculous and hilarious.
“Instinct.”
“Oh. So you flex when anyone touches you?”
Translation: So what you’re saying is I’m not special? I don’t know jack shit about girls, but I know enough to read between the lines of that question.
“Surrrre.” Total lie.
Lies, lies, lies.
“Right.” Charlie shifts on the balls of her feet, and judging from the look on her face and the inflection of her voice, she thinks—or knows—I’m totally full of shit.
“Have I mentioned before that I’m a dumbass?” I blurt out. “Fuck. Why did I say that?” I run a hand down my face and peek at her through the spread fingers now shielding my eyes.
“Because you’re a dumbass?” she answers helpfully.
“Thanks.”
She shrugs. “You spent half the walk here insisting I’m not tiny enough to be called Tiny, so—that makes you a dumbass.”
“Stop.”
“Now, now, don’t get touchy.” God, the sound of that giggle makes my stomach flip. When she glances behind her, long blonde hair pulled over one shoulder, baring the porcelain skin of her neck, I let my gaze linger on her exposed collarbone. Smooth. “I should get inside.”
“Okey dokey.”
“You’re so weird sometimes.”
I am. I have no social graces, no idea how to act around a female. Fuck.
Fuck my life.
“Thanks for walking me home, Jackson.”
“No problem—just make sure you’re not walking home with any more strangers.”
“You’re not a stranger.”
No. Guess I’m not.
“Besides, you didn’t even try to touch me, so I know I’m safe with you.” She pats me on the arm, and I fucking embarrass myself by flexing again. “Such a Southern gentleman.”
Southern gentleman my ass. “Wow. You’re really somethin’, you realize that?”
Charlie preens. “I know.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“I know.”
“You…” Charlie stares at me in the dark, eyes catching the little bit of light and shining like a thousand stars.
“Get inside,” I say, throat hoarse.
She turns and begins a slow walk up her sidewalk. I wait until she turns her key in the lock, pushes through the door, and steps inside.
She turns again to face me, silhouetted by the light now shining in her house. Nothing but the outline of her body.
Tall.
Curvy.
Beautiful.
“Good night, Jackson.” Her voice is a whisper in the dark.
“G’night, Charlotte.”
Her irritated groan is loud enough to reach my ears, and I chuckle.
* * *
Me: Hey Charlotte?
Charlie: I feel like you’re starting to abuse the privilege of having my cell phone number.
Me: Starting to? Probably.
Charlie: What’s up?
Me: Nothing much. Just wondering if you were going to the next football.
Charlie: Er. No?
Me: Ah. Gotcha **thumbs up**
Charlie: Did you…want me to?
Me: No. I mean, whatever. Do what you want, I was just asking.
Charlie: Could you not be passive-aggressive about it? If you want me to go to your game, you should come out and say it. Grow a pair of balls, Jackson.
Me: Are you always this fucking savage?
Charlie: Yes. Why, do you need me to mollycoddle you?
Me: No. I was simply asking if you were coming to a football game.
Charlie: Out of the blue, just randomly? Out of all the girls in the world you were wondering if I was coming.
Me: Don’t read into it.
Charlie: I wouldn’t DREAM of reading anything into it. You already told me you weren’t into GIRLS.
Me: I’m into girls.
Charlie: I mean—not really.
Me: Would you knock it off?
Charlie: I cannot resist poking the bear.
Me: Forget I asked, okay? I’m bored and drunk and clearly high.
Charlie: So you weren’t messaging me because you won your game today? You weren’t messaging me because you think I’m cute? Darn it. I should have known **wink wink**
Me: Now you’re just putting words in my mouth.
Charlie: Nope, you just said you messaged me ’cause you were bored and drunk lol
Me: Fair enough, but let’s be honest—you’re cuter than a button.
Me: Shit. That was such a dumb thing to say, ignore I said it.
Charlie: Too late. I’d never ignore a compliment. But let’s discuss what that even means? How is a button cute?
Me: I just said it, it doesn’t mean anything. Don’t overthink it.
Charlie: Newsflash: I overthink EVERYTHING. In fact, my favorite saying is “I’ll overthink it later.” Haha
Me: I like to keep things simple.
Charlie: Most guys probably do, but sometimes if something is worth it, a little thinking on it means you care.
Me: Sounds complicated.
Charlie: Spoken like a true guy *eye roll*
Saturday
Charlie
“These seats kind of suck,” Beth complains as we climb the stadium steps, one at a time, higher and higher until we’re damn near touching the clouds.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
“They were free, so don’t complain.”
“They were not free! We had to pay twelve bucks.”
Fine. We had to pay—but at least it was und
er twenty each.
“Still, that’s practically free compared to what those people down there had to pay. Pretty sure those seats go for well over a hundred bucks a pop.” I point down—the only way to go—at the lower seats, at the alumni and network reporters televising the action.
“That’s insane. Who would pay that?”
All those people? Thousands upon thousands of fans, most of them wearing some variation of our school colors—black and gold. “Football enthusiasts? Literally almost everyone?”
“Whatever.” Beth shrugs. “At least it’s not raining.”
I get shuffled along as we take our seats, and it probably doesn’t matter where we sit because so many of the seats are unoccupied this high up. Most of the fans up here have moved down to squat in far better seats, but I’m not about to get busted by the stadium police—AKA the college student wearing a SECURITY t-shirt, holding a walkie-talkie, and glaring up at everyone walking past him.
Tim—I can read his name badge from here—wants to bust someone really bad. I can see it in his eyes. He checks the tickets of the stragglers at the end of the line, sending them back up into the nosebleeds.
He sure as hell isn’t going to be busting me. Not today, Satan. Not today.
“It’s not raining,” Savannah complains. “But I could stand for it to be a bit warmer. And I wish I’d brought a blanket.”
It’s really not that cold; she’s just being dramatic. The weather is gorgeous—perfect for game day, actually, although we’re so high up I have no idea how we’ll be expected to see any action down on the field.
“Natasha, can I borrow your boynoculars?”
She has a pair of black binoculars hanging around her neck on a long rope. She removes them, and they get passed down the line to me.
I give them a glance and squint over at her. “Why do you even have these?”
“My dad gave them to me so I could see if we ever came to football games or whatever and I wanted to see the field. He’s still hoping I’ll date one of the players—he wants a son-in-law in the NFL.” My friend is picking at her pink fingernail polish then yawns into her hand.
In all my life, I’ve never known Natasha to give a shit about athletics, least of all football, and I’ve never known her to date anyone who plays. But, I’m grateful for her company, and I’m grateful for the binoculars. Holding them up to my eyes and bringing them into focus, I can clearly see the field below.
“Can someone google Jackson Jennings and tell me what number he is so I can adequately creep on him?” The words slip out before I can think twice about stopping them, and once they’re out there, I’m so embarrassed a flush creeps up my neck.
“You dirty dog!” Savannah shouts. “Is that why we’re here?” She is quite literally shouting, and thank God there aren’t many people surrounding us. “You sneaky little hussy!”
Hussy—now there’s a word I haven’t been called since ever.
“Are you seeing Triple J?” Beth wants to know.
“No. I’m not seeing him—he helped fix a flat tire on my car and he has my number so he could follow up.”
“And?”
“And…he texted me to see if I was coming to the game.”
“And?”
“And…nothing.”
“Since when do you care what a guy thinks?”
Down on the field, they’re doing some kind of warm-up stretches, and I move the binoculars from player to player, trying to discern which one is Jackson but unable to figure it out. “Did you google him yet? What’s his number?”
My eyes are glued to the binocs.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” Natasha has her phone out, fingers tapping away. “He’s a wide receiver, and his number is eighty-two.”
Eighty-two, eighty-two, where are you?
Ah. There he is.
Even at this distance, Jackson is larger than life. Tight pants, wide shoulder pads, his helmet is off and he’s running a gloved hand through sweat-soaked hair. It sticks up in a million directions, spikey and wild.
Black chalk or eye black or putty or whatever the heck that gunk is lines his upper cheekbones. Makes him look lethal and badass.
Beth is cracking open the program they handed each of us on the way in, thumbing through it, stopping toward the back. “Jackson Jennings Junior—that’s a mouthful,” she jokes. “Junior starter, a recruit from Texas Prep in Jasper, Texas. All-country, all-conference, all-state, all-American.”
“Dang, Triple J, them’s some impressive accolades,” Savannah murmurs.
Beth continues. “Stats: weight, two hundred and seventy-five pounds of lean man meat. Height, six three. Wingspan…” Her voice trails off as Natasha interrupts.
“It does not say wingspan—let me see that.” She tries to take the pamphlet from Beth, who laughs.
“No, it doesn’t say that.”
“Major, business economics. Economics? Huh. Who would have thought.”
“That does seem…smart.”
“He’s probably not that dumb, Charlie—give him some credit. He did get a full ride, and they don’t give those to idiots.”
Yes, they probably do. We just don’t know anyone with a full ride, so none of us can accurately say.
“What else does it say?”
“That’s about it. Just his hometown—where is Jasper, Texas, by the way?” Natasha inclines her head, and I know she’s googling away. “It’s on the border near the Louisiana state line.”
Which would explain the thick accent and horrible metaphors.
“Here’s more on him for anyone who cares,” Natasha goes on. “He’s the only child of Jackson Jennings and Suzette Sundernan—yeesh, try saying that three times in a row.”
“You can stop now.” I lower the binoculars I’ve been holding steady against my face and hold my hand out to push down the phone Natasha is holding up. A Google search is displayed on the screen, information about Jackson pulled up. “Seriously. Stop.”
“Don’t be a party pooper.”
“He helped me once. Stop getting your hopes up.” Then he invited me to a party, then he walked me home, then he invited me to a football game…
“And asked you to a football game.”
I roll my eyes. “He won’t even know I’m here. I could lie when he asks if I was here and he’d never know.”
Beth tsks. “His heart will know.”
Okay, drama queen. She’s such a romantic.
“Guys, he doesn’t like me. He likes that I give him a hard time. I bust his chops, that’s all, and he likes the chase—he doesn’t actually want to date me.”
“How do you know?”
“He literally said the words, ‘I don’t date.’ That’s how I know.”
“He did? When?”
“Okay…maybe he didn’t say those exact words, but that’s what he implied, so…”
“What guys say and what they mean are two totally different things and you know it.”
“No—that’s girls.”
“No, that’s guys.”
Why are we arguing about this?
I sigh, leaning over and looking down the row so they can all hear me over the dull roar of the stadium noise. “Haven’t you ever heard the saying, When a guy tells you what he wants, you should listen? They don’t see things in gray like we do—they see them in black and white. I mean, not a lot of mystery there with shades in between, trust me. I read the book.”
“You’re turning into a giant nerd with all that reading,” Natasha sasses.
I stare pointedly at her. “This from the girl who didn’t even bother buying textbooks last semester.”
She flips her long black hair. “I’m trying to save money.”
“You are here to read books and study. That is literally what college is.”
She points to her ears and shakes her head. “What? I can’t hear you, sorry! The game is about to begin!”
The little…
As if on cue, the marching band begi
ns playing the school fight song, and the field is cleared for the national anthem. Everyone roars, players are announced, coins are tossed, the teams take position.
It’s all very loud and exciting with tons of pomp and circumstance, and I wonder why I don’t come to games more often.
I raise the binoculars and locate number eighty-two. Find him on the sideline, pacing, hands on his hips. A completely different aspect of him than I’m used to seeing.
This Jackson Jennings is intense. Huge. Serious. Aggressive and ready to take the field.
I can feel his energy radiating from here, all the way up in the stands. He’s like a caged tiger at the zoo desperate to be free.
Instinctively I know once Jackson takes the field, he’s going to be unstoppable.
Ten minutes later, I’m proven right.
Ten minutes later, Jackson Jennings—all six foot three of his imposing height and weight—goes charging down the field, football tucked under his right armpit.
How can someone so big run so fast? It seems impossible—I don’t know much about football, but aren’t guys in his position usually a little smaller? Shorter? More built for speed? I would have pegged Jackson as a lineman or a tackler or something. Like I said, I know nothing about the game, the positions, or how it’s played.
Not really.
Barely enough to register what’s going on in front of me unless everyone around me stands, cheers, or freaks out because of what’s happening down on the field.
