by Ney, Sara
“Uh, because I thought you liked me but you were pretending.”
“Nope. I literally could not stand you. I mean—just enough to curse you out a few times. You’re kind of awful.”
I am?
“I’ve never had any complaints before.”
“Who is going to complain to your face? No one. Yeah right.” Charlie snorts, crossing her legs and readjusting her body. “You’re Triple J, almighty wide receiver—no one is going to tell you no, let alone tell you you’re being an ass or say you suck. Come on, let’s get real for a second.”
My mouth opens to reply but gets clamped shut again as Charlie goes on, warming to the topic of me being an ass.
“Everyone is too busy kissing your ass. When is the last time anyone told you no? Or didn’t give you something you wanted? Or gave you a bad grade?” She makes an unattractive gagging sound in the back of her throat.
“Hey—I get bad grades.” Why am I defending myself?
“Fine, you get bad grades.” She uses air quotes around the word bad, and I get offended all over again. “When’s the last time you failed a class?”
“Are you implying that I’m given good grades?”
Her hands go up, palms facing the ceiling in the truck. “I wouldn’t know.”
“See, this is where you’re wrong. I study—I study my ass off. They might tailor classes for student athletes, but it’s at my discretion to take them—and I don’t. If I get hurt and end up on the injury list, I’m screwed. Then what? My career is shot and I’m left with nothin’—so I study and I study hard, because that’s the other reason I’m here.”
“Football and a degree.”
“Yup.”
“And that’s it?”
My hands tighten over the leather steering wheel, lips drawn into an obstinate line. “Yup.”
“And you don’t cheat?”
I turn my head to look her straight in the eyes. “No.”
Her palms go up again, this time in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m just asking, sheesh. Bring the death stare down a notch.”
“Newsflash, Charlotte, you can’t go around accusin’ people of cheatin’ based on stereotypes.”
“I’m sorry.”
I feel weight on my forearm, my eyes darting down to stare at the fingers resting there. The light pink manicured nails. The thin gold ring on her index finger.
It taps my muscle once, twice before pulling away and returning to its spot on her thigh, but the damage is done; I can still feel its heat on my skin long after it’s gone.
“I am sorry, Jackson,” she repeats, quietly this time, watching my reflection. “Hey.”
I look over.
She smiles, biting down on her bottom lip. “I’m excited to carve the pumpkin with you tonight.”
Fuck, the pumpkin.
My house.
The guys.
“Bet Biff McMuscles is excited, too.”
I groan.
Seventh Friday 2.0
Charlie
Wow. So this is what the football house looks like when there isn’t a party going on.
We step in, Jackson closes the door behind us, and I can already hear the stirring of people inside.
Deep voices, low and hushed—according to Jackson, it’s game day eve, so they’re required to be home, sober, and in bed by a certain hour.
“You know we’re not supposed to have guests the night before a game, Southern-fried homeboy.”
“Shut up, McMillan.”
The kid Jackson calls McMillan stuffs a spoonful of what looks like peanut butter into his mouth and speaks around it, following us into the kitchen. “I’m just saying.”
Jackson sets the pumpkin in the center of the table, tossing down the carving kit.
“What’s that?” McMillan asks, resting his hip against the counter.
“What the hell does it look like,” Jackson snips.
“A pumpkin.”
Jackson goes to the cupboard and rummages around for a bowl, pulls open a drawer, and retrieves a knife and two spoons. Grabs a roll of paper towels.
Dumps it all onto the surface of the table unceremoniously.
“Can I help?” This McMillan guy loiters and now has his hands on the back of a chair, intent on pulling it out.
“No! Go do somethin’ else,’” Jackson snaps. “Away from here.”
“I don’t have anything to do,” McMillan argues, still not letting go of the chair back. He inches it out.
“Find somethin’. Get out of the kitchen.”
I watch as Jackson grows increasingly frustrated, my eyes getting wide when another guy enters the room.
“What’s that?” The big dude points at the center of the table, at the pumpkin.
“Oh my god,” Jackson moans, but it comes out sounding like oh my gawd, and I smirk at his accent.
“I love carving pumpkins—is that the only one you got?”
“Yes, and you’re not helpin’. You’re leavin’.”
“I can’t leave. Coach’s rules—I have to be here.”
Jackson rolls his eyes, and McMillan leans over to slap the guy a high five. “Good one, Isaac.”
“What are you going to carve on it?” Isaac wants to know. “Once my sister had me carve a flying unicorn—that fucking thing took me two hours.” He pauses. “Where are we putting this? The porch?”
“No, she’s takin’ it home.” Jackson grinds the words out between clenched teeth, and it’s the first time this new guy—Isaac—acknowledges I’m in the room.
He smiles at me, glancing between Jackson and myself, a slow grin taking up half his face. His teeth are white but a bit crooked, and he’s missing one on the left side. Maybe he got it knocked out by an errant elbow on the playing field during practice?
“Who are you?” He’s blunt, but I don’t mind.
“I’m Charlie.”
“That’s a guy’s name,” he informs me rudely. Still, he’s smiling, as if he knows it’s going to piss Jackson off to tease me.
It does.
“It’s not a guy’s name, asshole. Leave her alone.”
That’s not what he said the first time he met me; he told me it was a guy’s name, too, but far be it from me to point that out in front of his friends when he’s already irritated by their presence.
“Why are you going to take the pumpkin home, Chuck? You don’t think it’ll look nice at this fine establishment?”
I hesitate before answering. “Jackson thinks it’ll get smashed being on the porch, and I agree with him.”
McMillan stands upright. “If anyone tries to smash this pumpkin after you’ve carved it, I’ll beat their ass in.”
I laugh, unable to stop myself. “Are you going to sit up watching the front steps every night?”
“No. I’ll just know—like a fucking Jedi.” He sounds pretty confident, punctuating his knowledge with a few air punches and ninja kicks.
“Wow.” I don’t know what else to say, but I don’t have to, because a third guy walks in before I have the chance to sit down.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Jackson mutters, yanking out a chair at the table and plopping down. “Charlotte, I told you this was gonna happen.”
I mean, he did…but he didn’t?
“Who are you?” this newcomer asks, holding a microwave bag of popcorn in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. He’s bigger than the rest, not only in height, but also in size. A Mack-Truck-sized guy with a beard and belly.
“Who are you?” I mimic with a smile. He seems sweet, but maybe that’s just because he could easily don a velvety red suit and black boots to play Santa Clause for the holidays. Jolly with a belly full of jelly.
“I’m Rodrigo.”
“I’m Charlie, Jackson’s friend.”
Rodrigo tilts his head. “Who’s Jackson?”
Everyone laughs, and McMillan claps a hand on his back. “Jackson is Southern Fried, big guy. Triple J. Otherwise known as the asshole who hogs the bathroom eve
ry morning when you’re tryna take a piss.”
They all laugh again, including Jackson, who seems to be staring holes into the perfectly round, perfectly shaped, perfectly colored pumpkin in the center of their kitchen table.
“What are you carving on that thing?” Rodrigo asks, fisting some popcorn and shoving it into his mouth, chasing it down with a healthy swig of water.
“We haven’t decided,” I let him know, joining my date at the table. Bumping his knee with mine when I scoot my chair in a bit farther. Our gazes meet, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. His blue eyes sparkle, and I can see the amusement shining there.
He sounds grouchy, but he’s secretly enjoying himself, this much is clear.
“One time, I carved one pumpkin for each of the Harry Potter houses even though I’m Ravenclaw,” Rodrigo announces. “My two sisters are Gryffindor and my little bro is Hufflepuff, but we still carved a Slytherin.”
“You’re such a fucking nerd,” Isaac laments, seating himself in the third chair. “I was sorted into two houses, which makes me a badass.”
“I’m Hufflepuff and Gryffindor—you’re not special. Get over yourself, Isaac.”
Whoa. Where is all this coming from? And who knew jocks could be such dorks?
“What if we carve the golden snitch?” Rodrigo wonders out loud.
“Or a golden snatch,” Isaac jokes with a laugh.
“We are not carvin’ a goddamn Harry-Potter-themed pumpkin—y’all shut the fuck up about it,” Jackson grumbles testily.
Y’all.
Ugh, so cute. I love it when he talks like that.
I nudge Jackson’s knee under the table and shoot him a small smile. He bows his head and returns it with a tiny shake of his head as if silently apologizing for his friends’ behavior.
I don’t mind it; it’s kind of adorable, all these big dudes standing around, arguing about what to put on an overgrown vegetable and being disappointed they can’t carve one, too.
“Isaac, you should run to the grocery store and grab a few more of these. I swear they had ’em when I was there yesterday.” Rodrigo squints his eyes in thought. “Big cardboard boxes full of pumpkins. Get you one.”
“Yeah?” Isaac rubs his goatee in thought.
“Ah hell, I’ll come with you!” Rodrigo is already out of the kitchen and in the living room, opening the front door. “Get your ass in gear, gringo. I don’t want them to get too far ahead of us.”
“Grab five!” McMillan calls out. “Just in case!” He seems to think about it for a few more seconds before pushing off from the counter and heading toward the door. “Wait—I’ll come along, too. I don’t want you buying me no stumpy gourd.”
The guy—who’s really just a giant kid—runs back toward the kitchen and holds his palm out to Jackson. Wiggles his meaty fingers. “Keys to your truck?”
My date grumbles but slaps them in his teammate’s waiting hand, obliging—begrudgingly, but giving in just the same. “Please just get the fuck out of here.”
Call me crazy, but I kind of like this grumpy, broody side of Jackson Jennings. It’s ten kinds of irresistible. I’m not a fool; I know he doesn’t want to be alone with me because he has romantic feelings for me. Nope. He wants to get his meddling friends out of the house.
Albeit only temporarily.
As the three leave, one more enters the room, and it’s déjà vu all over again as we go through the same conversation we just had with the previous roommates: who are you, what’s that on the table, is that a pumpkin, what are you carving, why aren’t there more pumpkins.
“The guys just went to get a few more. If you want one, text McMillan,” Jackson tells him as the guy takes one of the empty chairs. He stares at me, trying to place my face, and I have to admit, he looks familiar to me, too.
“You’re that chick.”
“You’re the guy in the truck.” The one who rides shotgun while Jackson drives up and down the strip. “What’s your name?”
“Tyson, but everyone calls me Killer.”
Is this guy for real?
“No one calls him Killer,” Jackson deadpans, not looking up from his task.
“Tyson,” I repeat. “I’m Charlie.”
“Yeah, I know who you are.” He shoots Jackson a speculative look while picking at the pumpkin topper that’s been discarded on the table.
“So on these drives through campus, are you a creep much, or are you just along for the ride?”
He shrugs a set of broad shoulders. They’re not as wide as my date’s but fit and athletic just the same. The kind of shoulders that never miss a day in the gym. “We’re not creepy—we’re just bored.”
How is it possible that these guys are bored? They’re the people on campus most guys want to be and every girl wants to date. Or screw. They’re probably surrounded by people, fanfare, coaches, and noise twenty-four hours a day. What’s so boring about that?
“Don’t they have drinking parties to cure that melancholy? Is it necessary to blind every unsuspecting female on campus with your bright lights?”
“Bright lights.” He cocks his head with a smirk. “Was that an innuendo?”
I mean…it kind of sounds like one, but, “No, that wasn’t a sexual innuendo. Jeez. I was legitimately talking about headlights.”
He looks disappointed by this.
I set about ignoring him so I can peel open the cardboard packaging the pumpkin carver is sealed in, and when I free it, I hand it to Jackson. He’s busy cutting the top of the pumpkin with a huge knife so we can gut it and remove the seeds.
“You need a cookie sheet.” Tyson rolls his eyes, the authority on Halloween and roasting seeds, apparently. “I’ll get it for you.” The hulk of a man-child rises and yanks open a cabinet next to the stove, and when he does, a few pans fall out, crashing to the linoleum floor with loud clangs. “Dammit! Who put this shit away?”
As he squats to reorganize it, I chuckle at his back and the butt crack now visible over the waistband of his mesh track pants.
Not to judge, but his ass is crazy hairy; God bless the girl who gets into bed with that guy.
Why am I thinking about this? Jesus, Charlie.
Jackson catches me staring and clears this throat, tilting the pumpkin toward me so I can inspect his work. He’s made clean lines—not a hack job—and removes the top so I can peer inside.
I push up the sleeves of my dress. Pick up a large spoon. “I’m ready to gut this thing.” I try to sound savage but am too cheery to pull the badassery off.
The inside of the pumpkin is slimy and moist when I stick my arm in, almost up to my elbow, but I knew it would be. Years of taking the seeds out of pumpkins prepares you for the sensation, but somehow it’s always still kind of gross and gag worthy.
And moist.
I root around with the utensil, slapping a spoonful of guts onto the cookie sheet Tyson has magically produced and lain on the table.
He’s disappeared, blessedly leaving us alone.
“You want help?”
“No, I’ve got this, but thanks. You just be ready with the cookie sheet…” I glance up at him. “What else do we need to bake these? Salt? Olive oil?” I can’t remember; my mom always baked the seeds.
“My mama always used some kind of spice. Let me text her.”
My mama.
So. Southern.
“What do you think we should carve on this? Iowa’s mascot? A witch?”
Jackson takes a few seconds to consider it. Then, “What about a sayin’ or somethin’?” He pauses. “Like ‘Get the fuck off my porch.’ Or, I don’t know. Somethin’.”
A sayin’ or somethin’.
I shiver at the way he says the words. Simple and basic 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.
