by Ney, Sara
“Why?”
My gaze darts around the workout room, judging the distance between us and the nearest athlete. A few girls—volleyball or basketball players judging solely by their height—are loitering by the fridge with the waters, and a few beefy dudes are at the free weights, all of them grunting out reps.
The sounds of metal barbells clinking, air conditioning units pumping out cold air, and trainers giving directions drown out any conversation I’m having with Rodrigo.
So I tell him.
“I feel like I’ve wasted too much fuckin’ time on this sport and not enough time on myself.” Does it sound like I’m whining? Hope not.
“What do you mean?”
“I have no life, dude.”
My teammate nods and stays silent.
“It’s like I woke up this mornin’ and realized…I’m sleepwalkin’ through my own damn life.”
“Sure.” He measures his next words. “I think a lot of guys feel like that at one point or another.”
“Do you?”
He looks embarrassed. “Well, no, but that’s because I’m Mexican. Dude, when I have a birthday party, eight hundred people show up. When I take a dump, mi madre is there to wipe my ass. I grew up in a tiny house with no privacy and we traveled in packs.
“So…I didn’t have the chance to sink too much time into playing ball, because family always came first.” He smiles at a memory. “Once, I skipped the grand march for my little sister’s homecoming dance, and I caught hell for it. She cried, mi papá cursed. You would have thought I got a girl embarazada.” Pregnant—even I know what that word is in Spanish. “Or committed a felony.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what that’s like.” I don’t recall having a birthday party, let alone attending a homecoming dance…or a dance, period, even though I was nominated a few times for the court.
Whatever, the past is in the past.
Is it, though?
“I’m sorry, man. You can borrow mi familia if you want—they’re enough to make a man loco.” Rodrigo reaches out and gives my knee a tap with the tips of his fingers. “Cheer up, brother. You have all the family you need right here, you know. Do you forget that?”
He’s talking about the football team, coaching staff, and the community as a whole. It’s been ingrained in us from the beginning that we are one—no man left behind, team spirit, we can’t win alone, yada yada and all that inspirational bullshit—only I never cared to foster any of the friendships at my disposal.
“Jennings, we’re your family when you’re not home.”
Jesus Christ with this guy—what’s he trying to do, make me start crying again? I can live without the waterworks in public.
I wipe my eye.
Shit.
“Look at you. Should we change your name to Sally?”
“Shut up, Rodrigo.”
“Aww, aren’t you cute when you’re sappy.” He’s giving me shit and it feels great. “Seriously, man—we’re brothers. We play together, work together, and bleed on that field together. Remember that when you’re feeling lost and alone.”
Damn, the kid could write speeches.
“What are you, a lit major?”
“Nah, international studies.” Rodrigo stands, stretching to the full six foot four his bio boasts in the football program. “I wanna be a translator for the government.”
“Shit, Carlos. What the fuck? How did I not know this?”
“You do now, and that’s all that matters, eh, amigo?” His open palm gives me a smack on the cheek then pats it twice. “You have nothing to cry about. Count your blessings, asshole.”
He’s right; it’s time to count my fucking blessings.
* * *
Me: Hey, what are you up to?
Charlie: Not much. You?
Me: Lots of thinking and now I can’t concentrate. You want to come over?
Charlie: Um, to your place?
Me: Lol yes. To my place.
Charlie: Are your roommates home?
Me: It’s Wednesday, so yeah. Is that a big deal?
Charlie: No! No. I just wanted to know what I’m walking into.
Me: Everyone is either eating or studying. It’s quiet, safe to come over. Hint hint.
Charlie: Well since you put it that way…
Me: I have something I want to talk about.
Charlie: Oh crap. You want to TALK??? What guy ever wants to talk? Answer: none of them. Are you sick? Do I need to take your temperature?
Me: Lol no I’m not sick. But you could come take my temperature.
Charlie: Are you sure? It’s a rectal thermometer.
Me: A WHAT?
Charlie: Rectal. You know, you insert it up your **wiggles eyebrows**
Me: Don’t ever say the word rectal and wiggle your eyebrows in the same sentence ever again.
Charlie: You’re a virgin—how do you know you wouldn’t like a rectal?
Me: How dare you rub my virginity in my face.
Charlie: I’m not rubbing it in your face! I’m just asking how you know you wouldn’t like it.
Me: Um, I don’t think you can just bring up butt stuff randomly—this escalated so quickly.
Charlie: Oh? How so?!
Me: Uh, I asked you to come over and talk, and now you’re discussing rectals…
Charlie: Oh. Shit. That’s right, you did ask me to come over…sorry. Sometimes I get off track.
Me: Lol I don’t even know what just happened there. Weirdo.
Charlie: I’ve been called worse things than weirdo.
Me: Seriously?
Charlie: Well. No…
Me: Lol
Me: You coming over or not?
Charlie: When?
Me: Now?
Me: You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It feels like you’re stalling.
Charlie: I’m not.
Charlie: It’s not like this is a date and I have anything to be nervous about **nervous, crazy laugh**
Me: Guess that depends.
Charlie: Oh shit.
Me: Just get your cute little ass over here.
Charlie: Whoa. WHOA. I cannot believe you said that.
Me: Neither can I.
…Still Wednesday
Charlie
Okay. This feels strange.
I raise my hand to knock on Jackson’s door—nay, the door of the football house—and pause halfway up, clenched hand poised just beneath the rusty, brass doorknocker.
Do it, a little voice whispers. Stop being a chicken.
Knock.
Low, masculine baritones are the only sounds I can hear. They’re not raucous or wild or loud, so I know nothing crazy is going on inside. I mean, Jackson already said the only thing happening is studying, but I don’t think I actually believed him.
They’re football players, for heaven’s sake; why would they be sitting quietly around their house on a Wednesday night?
You’re being ridiculous, Charlie. Knock on the damn door.
I pull at the hem of my shirt so it’s down over the waistband of my jeans. Then fuss with my hair for a few seconds, smoothing down the strands though I can’t see what they even look like. I’ve gone from my place to my car, then from my car to this porch—there’s no way it could have gotten mussed.
Still.
I’m nervous.
More nervous than I was for the biology midterm I had to take and pass so I could begin my application to enter the nursing program. (Totally aced it, by the way.)
Knocking on the front door of the football house is weird. The last time I was here, I entered with Jackson, which made me feel protected.
I feel like a sitting duck here on the porch by myself.
Ugh, why did I wear these stupid shoes? Heels.
Well, fine, they’re wedges—high or tall or however you want to describe them, and I wore them because Jackson is crazy tall and…dammit, I’ll probably wind up taking them off as soon as I step into the foyer. Shouldn’t have bothered.
<
br /> So why did I?
Because you want him to think you’re pretty.
This isn’t a date, and we’re not buddies—I don’t think? Fine, we’re friends…I’m just not sure what kind. Being here is an odd place to be. I have no idea what to expect when I get inside. Who’s going to be sitting around, what they’re going to say, how I’m supposed to be behave…
…like a normal person?
Wow. Calm yourself, Charlie. Get into the house and overthink it later.
I text him to let him know I’m standing outside.
Me: I’m here
Jackson: K
Ugh. I hate when people use the letter K as a reply. It’s enough to send me over the damn edge, but I get it; what kind of reply was he supposed to give me?
He needs to come get me like, right now, because I am about to start actually talking to myself out loud.
The door swings open, but it’s not Jackson standing there; it’s the outline of a Hispanic guy I remember from the pumpkin-carving party.
“Hey Charlotte, what’s up?” He pulls the door open wider so I can step through, and I’m shocked—shocked and in awe that he remembers my name.
They must have dozens of girls here on a weekly basis.
“Triple J is upstairs, probably wanking it to cheap porn.” The guy smiles—for the life of me I can’t remember his name and I feel horrible about it—not flinching at what’s obviously a lie.
Jackson wouldn’t be jerking off knowing I was downstairs, would he?
Nah.
“Right.” I laugh, feet on the small patch of hardwood floor closest to the door, looking around to see who has their shoes on and off. A large dude is sprawled out on the couch, yellow headphones around his neck, glasses on his nose, laptop glowing, fingers typing faster than mine do.
Another guy is in the kitchen nearby…washing dishes?
A sight I wouldn’t have expected to see, but there you go—football players do chores. Who would have thunk?
“You want to go upstairs? His lady dungeon is the second room on the left.”
When he says lady dungeon, I laugh again, his speech laced with a sexy Spanish inflection.
Muy caliente.
Stop it, Charlie. Focus.
Up the stairs and to the left.
“Thanks, I’ll just…” I point to the staircase, and the big guy closes the door behind me.
“You kids behave yourselves. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”
“And wrap it up!” the guy in the kitchen shouts. “No pumping and dumping. Keep that shit on lockdown.”
Jeez. With friends like these, who needs enemies? If Jackson were down here, he’d be positively red, I’m certain of it.
I climb the staircase slowly, hand gliding along the shiny wooden railing, counting them out.
One…four, five.
Nine…twelve.
When I’m at the top I go the only way I can go: left. Pass one room then stop at the closed door, wondering why Jackson hasn’t come crashing through it yet, knowing he needed to come get me from the front porch.
For the second time tonight, I raise my arm to knock.
And just as my hand hits the solid wood door, it goes flying open, Jackson Jennings filling the entire space. Broad. Huge.
“Hi,” I say dumbly. “Your friend let me in.”
“Sorry, as soon as I sent that last text my mom called.”
Oh?
“She never calls, so…”
He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his track pants and steps aside. “You comfortable chillin’ in my room? Or we could go downstairs?”
“Yeah, this is fine. I doubt you’re going to put the moves on me, haha.” Jackson is barely a womanizer; there’s no doubt I’m safe going into his… “Your roommate called this your lady dungeon.”
“My what?”
“Lady dungeon?” I laugh; it sounds so stupid leaving my mouth.
“Jesus Christ, what does that even mean?”
“No clue. It sounds more like he’s referring to my lady business.” I point to my private parts as a joke then catch the look on Jackson’s face. His brows have shot up into his hairline, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oh relax, I’m kidding. But it does.”
He stares at me for a few awkward seconds. “Er…’kay. Well, come on into my dungeon.”
I cross the threshold of his bedroom, busying myself by setting my purse on the desk against the far wall. Slowly, I let myself look around, taking in my surroundings.
“This looks more like a lair than a dungeon, if I’m being honest.”
“No it doesn’t.” His deep laugh echoes in the space that’s way too small for a guy his size. He dwarfs the room, larger than life.
It’s painted deep forest green, the trim a golden brown. It’s a dark man cave with a studious, library vibe. Two bookshelves flank the desk where I set my things, both of them filled edge to edge.
“You moved all these here from Texas?” I finger the spines of the books sitting on the third shelf down, the majority of them paperbacks.
“Some. The rest I’ve read over the past few years. I’ve lived in this room since I was a freshman.”
“You’ve read all these?”
“Most, yeah.”
“Huh. Another layer to your onion.” I smile, toying with a tiny action figure. “Who is this?”
I glance at him over my shoulder; Jackson still has his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Um…He-Man.”
Hmm, never heard of him. “And this?” The next figurine looks like a wolverine.
“That’s Wolverine.”
“Oh.”
The entire collection is organized neatly in a straight line, lined up one by one toward the front of the shelf. Tiny toy soldiers. A piece from a Monopoly board game—the dog, to be exact.
“What’s the significance of this?”
“Stole it.”
“Why?”
Jackson shrugs. “I don’t know. Dumb, right?”
Yeah, kind of, but who am I to judge? I once stole the head from a Pez dispenser and had it on my desk for the longest time. Some things have no logic behind them.
More trinkets. Tons of football memorabilia: awards, medals, articles. I pick up a newspaper clipping about Jackson and a teammate named Adam who passed away from an aneurism. It’s dated two years ago.
“Did your mom frame this?”
“No. I did.”
I glance at him again then back at the myriad of articles; not all of them are about him. “Did you frame all of these?”
“Yu—” He stops himself. “Yes.”
Interesting.
Jackson is sentimental.
And sweet.
He looks…lost, standing there watching me, unsure what to do with himself as I invade his space. Insecure, as I felt on his porch, uncertain whether to knock or turn tail and run.
I set down a newspaper article about some bowl championship and give him my full attention. Take the few paces to the bed and plop myself down on the mattress. Lean back on my elbows and stare up 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 contras
t 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.
