Jock Road

by Ney, Sara

  She winks before disappearing into my bedroom. My door clicks shut.

  I stare a bit too long from my spot in the hall, finally walking into the bathroom and going through my own routine. Take a piss. Brush my teeth. Wash my balls with a towel. Pull open the second drawer down and gaze into it.

  Gold wrappers. Black wrappers. Blue, red, glow-in-the-dark.

  Should I grab a condom, just in case?

  I reach down, fingers closing around a gold one. Release it, letting it fall back into the drawer. Stand and stare down a little longer.

  As I bite my lip, the penis inside my pants throbs. Still, I give the drawer a nudge with my knee until it closes.

  Charlie doesn’t want to have sex with me tonight—assuming she does makes me the biggest kind of douchebag. We’ve only been on one date; what’s the rule about sleeping with someone?

  Three dates? Five?

  Six months?

  Fuck, I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out the hard way that she has no interest in…boning me, despite the fact that she just sucked on my cock.

  Said cock thickens.

  Shit.

  I glance down at it. Is this normal behavior for a dick?

  “She just sucked you off, asshole. Calm down.”

  Great. Now I’m talking to my penis—definitely not normal behavior.

  I splash some cold water on my face and dry it off; that’s not part of my nightly routine, but I’m stalling, afraid to go back in my bedroom, heart rate still accelerated.

  I take my pulse, counting the seconds and beats.

  “You’re gonna live. Relax, amigo,” I say to my reflection. Run a hand over my scruff. “Damn, you couldn’t have shaved before she came over?” Too late now. If I get out the razor and cream, she’ll wonder what the fuck is taking so long.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  In and out. Out and in.

  “What are you waiting for, you pussy?” Damn. If I acted like this before a game, I’d be kicked off the team so fucking fast my head would spin.

  I screw around for another couple of minutes before heading to my bedroom. Give a few raps on the door with my knuckles before slowly turning the handle and pushing it open.

  Charlie has all the lights off except one, the small lamp on my bedside table, its dim glow casting a light no brighter than a single candle would.

  She’s in bed.

  Not wearing one of my shirts.

  Her shoulders and arms are bare, comforter pulled up to her chin. I can make out a pair of white bra straps; they’re lacy and stark against her pale skin. Blonde hair falls over one shoulder.

  I gulp.

  Step all the way inside and shut the door behind me, sliding the deadbolt to the left. “Um, I’m not lockin’ you in or nothin’—I’m lockin’ everyone else out.” I feel the need to explain. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, I don’t want anyone walking in while we’re trying to, you know—sleep.”

  Is she being sarcastic? I can’t tell.

  I walk the few paces to my dresser, pull it open—though, do I really need a shirt? Shouldn’t I just go to bed without one tonight? The tit-baby in me is tempted to text Rodrigo and ask, but he’d just give me shit for it.

  I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it up my torso. Fold it into a neat square. Set it on my dresser.

  Now the pants. On or off?

  I’m wearing boxers under my mesh athletic pants, but are those enough? It’s underwear—is that weird?

  My stomach forms a knot, a pool of indecision, uncertainty, self-consciousness and regret that has me wanting to vomit all over my bedroom floor.

  If I don’t get my head out of my ass and in the game, I’m going to be filming the sequel to The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

  My fingers hook the inside of my pants and push.

  I inhale when they catch the tip of my dick, the same way my breath hitched when Charlie pushed them down earlier.

  Anticipation makes my heart thrum and my dick stiffen.

  My pants also get folded into a neat square and set atop my shirt. Then socks.

  I leave the stack and turn, glancing around the room like a tiger backed into a corner and looking for an escape route. I school my features; the last thing she needs to see is me panicking.

  I know I have a great body; it’s part of my job as an athlete to be in peak physical condition. It’s my mental sanity that could use some work right now.

  Charlie sweetly smiles.

  “Good choice on the bottoms. I wouldn’t want to wear pants to bed, either.” She grins as I shuffle to the side of the bed closest to the door, pull back the comforter, and slide in.

  I shoot her a stiff smile, nausea bubbling up in my throat.

  “Are you okay, Jackson? You look a little…” Her head tilts as she studies me, sitting up to get a better look at my face. “Sick.”

  She’s definitely only wearing a lacy bra.

  “I’m fine.”

  I can’t tell her I’ve never been this nervous—she’ll think I’m a sissy, not the strong guy she’s attracted to.

  “Hmm. I don’t think you are, but I’m not going to pry.” She plops back down, head hitting the pillow, hair fanning out against the navy pillowcase. She looks like a fucking angel.

  Beautiful. Serene.

  Pure.

  “I can leave if you want me to.” Her voice is soft and sincere.

  “I don’t want you to.” My voice catches, but I manage to say the words. If she touches me right now, I’ll probably fall off the fucking bed and embarrass myself more than I already have this evening.

  My back flattens and I relax. Sort of.

  For her part, Charlie is silent, rolling to her side and looking over at me as I try to get comfortable. She tucks a hand under her chin—the same way she did earlier when we were just talking—and studies me some more.

  Smiles.

  Then, “What’s it like being out on that field with so many people watching?”

  “It’s…” I don’t know how to describe it to her.

  It’s not like this is the first time someone has asked, but it’s the first time I try to dig deep for an actual answer. Usually I go with a generic reply—indescribable, nuts, loud—but because Charlie is genuinely curious, I put actual thought into my answer.

  “It is nerve-racking, but also one of the best adrenaline rushes you can have. The pressure of having every eye on you during an entire game is something you can’t…you just can’t duplicate it. If you make a mistake, everyone knows it was you and they boo you, but if you make an exciting play, everyone cheers. For you. So, it can be a kind of horrifying experience? Or it can be one of the greatest feelings ever.” I lower my voice as I think out loud. “Hearing the crowd all cheer at once brings chills all over your body.”

  Charlie lets my last line linger, giving it a little time before saying, “Wow. I can’t even imagine what that would feel like.”

  It’s something not many people will ever experience. I’m one of the lucky few who gets to know what it’s like—the minority of people who get to play in a damn stadium. Surreal.

  Never gets old. You never get over it, and I hope I never do.

  Charlie’s blue eyes are bright and full of wonder as she regards me across the mattress. “Has there ever been a time you haven’t wanted to walk out there?”

  I try not to stare at her cleavage, but it’s almost impossible; she has a great rack—full and pushed up to her throat because of the way she’s lying on her side. “Uh.” I yank my eyes off her boobs. “No. But there have been a few times I’ve been sick and probably should have stayed in bed.”

  “What happened then? What do you do when you’re sick?”

  “Nothing. You play through it.” That’s what you do when it’s your job and you have scholarships and agents and people depending on you to perform.

  That’s just what you do. You walk out onto the field whether you want to or not. Whether you’re sick as a dog or not.


  You just do it.

  Suck it up, JJ, Pops would shout from the sidelines. If you’re going to puke, do it in the end zone. I was never allowed to be home sick in bed.

  “I don’t think I could do it. I’m too big of a wimp. Like, I get my period and the cramps alone turn me into the biggest baby. No way could I walk out onto a field if I didn’t feel good.”

  “You would. Trust me—you would.”

  “Mmm, I’m not so sure. You’re built of sterner stuff than I am.”

  “Maybe,” I agree, knowing she’s right. I might have been raised—trained—to play, but I also believe people are born with the qualities that make them stick with it. People are born fighters, winners, follow-throughers.

  You can’t teach it or learn it; you have it or you don’t.

  “How many cold baths do you take in a week?” she asks.

  Cold bath? “Um, none?”

  “You know, that pool thing filled with ice?”

  Oh, she means the ice bath. “A few times a week, depending. It helps recovery after a game or hard workout, for inflammation and shit.”

  “Is it actually filled with ice?”

  “No. I mean, some of them are, but ours are more state-of-the-art. It’s a fancy tub with really fucking cold water. Then you get out and get into the hot tub, then back into the ice bath.” It’s a form of torture.

  “That sounds awful.”

  It really is. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Are you sorry you chose Iowa? Will it hurt your chances once you graduate?”

  Maybe. But I doubt it. “Not according to my agent. I’m at the top of my game.”

  “Top of your game—what does that mean?”

  “It means…” How do I say this without sounding like an arrogant prick? “It means I’m one of the best players in my position.”

  “At Iowa?”

  “No. In the country.”

  Charlie’s eyes get wide. “Really?”

  Seriously. How does she not know this—hasn’t she googled me yet? “Yes, really. Do you not follow along? Are you not my biggest fan?”

  She laughs, and her boobs seem to get even bigger. “I don’t follow along, sorry. The game you invited me to was the only one I’ve been to in forever.”

  “It’s America’s pastime—how do you not have a team?”

  “America’s pastime is baseball.”

  Is she for real? “No, it’s football.”

  “Hmm.” She purses her lips. “Agree to disagree.”

  “Do you even watch baseball?”

  I can see her blushing from here. “No.”

  Her disgruntled reply makes me laugh, and without thinking, I reach for her, extending my arm and resting my large palm on her bare shoulder.

  We both freeze.

  It’s my knee-jerk reaction to apologize, but Charlie isn’t giving me a look of disgust. Nope. She’s biting her lip and smiling, white teeth illuminating her face.

  God she’s so pretty.

  Palm splayed, my fingers fan out. Stroke her soft skin, thumb moving over her clavicle. I knew girls were softer and more delicate, but I’ve never actually touched one like this.

  Charlie’s face changes the longer my hand stays on her body; I watch it go from surprised to fascinated to…turned on? Her pupils are dilating and her chest is starting to heave, which is weird. Is that right? My hand on her shoulder is actually getting her aroused?

  Shit. This is too easy. Maybe I don’t have to have much experience—maybe it has to do with the person you’re with.

  Maybe if you’re really into someone, you don’t have to be smooth or suave—maybe just being myself is enough.

  I test the theory.

  Move my hand south.

  Charlie’s nostrils flare as her eyelids droop.

  Huh.

  “Tired?” I move my hand back up to her shoulder. Let it trail down her upper arm.

  “Um…not really.”

  Man her skin feels amazing. Mine is sunburned and chafed and rough in comparison. I could touch her all night, and I’m confident now that she’d let me.

  She continues watching me, still rolled to her side. Boobs still deliciously squished together and on display, her stark white bra a lacy little number that leaves little to my imagination—I can see her dark nipples through the fabric. Try not to notice them pucker when I let the pads of my fingertips linger on her bicep.

  We lie like this for who knows how long, my hand resting in the same spot, fingers exploring but not to their full potential. I don’t have the balls to put my hands anywhere else; what if she slugs me? What if she likes it and I don’t know how to handle it?

  What if, what if, what if.

  Fuck!

  “Jackson. Stop overthinking everything.” She’s whispering, and it’s sexy as fuck despite the words being cajoling. “You’re not going to screw it up.”

  How does she know what’s on my mind? Is it that obvious?

  “You’re so cute,” she adds.

  “I’m cute?” No I’m not. Puppies are cute. Kittens are cute. Babies are cute. I’m Goliath. A huge bastard who fights battles on the grass—a guy who happens to have raw talent and not much else going for him.

  “Say ‘Thank you, Charlie.’”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Say ‘I’m cute.’”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  Charlie narrows her beautiful blue eyes. “Say it and I’ll move closer to you.”

  That has my attention. “How close we talkin’?”

  She wiggles her eyebrows, lending a smarmy air to her comment. “Real close.”

  “I’m cute.” I punctuate the sentence with another eye roll, but a smile has bloomed on my mouth. The little shit could probably get me to do anything, include eating a pile of shit.

  “You are cute,” she agrees, inching forward. “Real, real cute.” Charlie has to push back the covers so she can get her body closer—so she doesn’t get wrapped in them—and when she does, I get a full body shot. An up-close-and-personal introduction to her tits. Stomach. Hips. Skimpy underwear.

  Oh my fucking god.

  My dick? He’s noticed, too, and he fucking loves it.

  Charlie scoots across the mattress, across my navy sheets. Sliding inch by inch with her beautiful, perfect body that’s not perfect at all, until her tits are against my chest. The only parts of us that are joined.

  Our faces are inches apart.

  “So now what are you going to do?” She’s challenging me.

  When my palm finally finds her hip beneath the covers, Charlie moans deep in her throat—as if her body’s been waiting for it to happen and sighs, too. Moans again when my palm glides down to her ass cheek and slowly caresses her there. Pulls her in closer so our pelvises meet, my cock wanting to burrow in the space between her thighs.

  “You feel so good,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss my mouth, bringing an arm up and running her fingers through my hair. Nails gently scraping my scalp.

  She’s adorable and fucking sexy and I love when she teases me.

  “I like you so much, Jackson.” Her fingers graze my cheek. “You don’t even realize…” By the look on her face, I’d say she means every word. The hand cupping my face is as tender as the soft set of her eyes.

  We lean in at the same time, mouths connecting. Lips pressed together, they open simultaneously. Tongues unhurriedly dragging and languid, like a drug. Intoxicating and delicious, like toothpaste and arousal.

  I remember her mouth on my dick, which is already stiff, and the thought makes the blood pumping through my body completely harden it.

  Charlie’s soft groan spurs me on, and my hand roams from her hip to her ribcage. Up and over, my thumb catches a glorious amount of side boob, and her tongue goes deeper into my mouth. It’s wet and hot. Wanton.

  I hesitate briefly; I’ve never felt a girl up, and I’ve certainly never removed anyone’s bra.

  Sliding my hand over her breast
, cupping it in my palm, I swear to fucking God, my balls tighten painfully. And when Charlie disconnects from my kiss to tip her head back, I seize the opportunity to latch onto her throat. Kiss the column of her neck, inhaling her perfume and lingering on her pulse point.

  Kiss my way down. Collarbone. Valley between her breasts.

  Hook the strap of her bra with my thumb and drag it down her shoulder.

  Charlie’s breast is hot. Everything I pictured the times I pictured her naked. Round, with dark, rosy nipples. Pert and puckered, it wants my mouth on it.

  I inch down on the mattress, pulling the lacy material aside.

  Know I’m making all the right moves because Charlie inhales a breath and jams her fingers into my hair as my lips latch onto her nipple. Lick it and blow, watching the skin tighten with fascination. Run my thumb over the hardened nub, around and around, before flattening my tongue and dragging it over the perky tip.

  Another inhaled breath. A sigh. My name.

  “Oh Jackson.”

  Oh Jackson—goddamn right, that’s my name.

  Charlie rolls so she’s flat on her back, arching her spine, giving me full access to her flesh, fingers still buried in my hair. Twirling the longer strands around the index, languishing under my touch.

  I explore, raising my head and letting my hand drift. Trailing it down her bare torso, palm gliding toward her panties. They match her bra—white lace, a bit see-through. I glimpse the dark hair between her legs.

  Slowly hitch the waistband and raise it to peek at what lies underneath.

  Charlie grips the bedspread, breath catching with every movement I make inside her drawers.

  She has hair down there.

  It’s dim inside the bedroom, but I can still see it. Neatly trimmed but still—hair.

  “Is that okay?” she timidly asks.

  “It’s not my body,” I gruffly reply, not caring that she isn’t bare.

  “I know, but still. Does it bother y-you?”

  “Why would it bother me?”

  I catch her shrug. “You know—if you put your mouth down there?”

  Oh, I’m definitely putting my mouth down there…

  She pushes the point. “If you want me to shave it, I will.”