Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  His sneakers stop on the concrete sidewalk. Then his voice shouts toward my retreating back.

  “Are you mockin’ me?”

  Mockin’.

  “Yes!” I shout, turning to walk backward so I can laugh directly to his face, tossing my arms up for extra measure. “Yes I am mocking you!”

  It takes everything I have not to throw him the middle finger.

  THIRD FRIDAY

  CHARLIE

  I slam my car into park, impervious to the fact that I’m in the middle of a busy road in the heart of campus; that fact probably giving me the courage to shove open my driver’s side door and step out into the warm air.

  It’s late—almost eleven o’clock—but still the perfect temperature for the tank top and jean shorts I’m sporting. Hair down and in wild waves, my sneakers hit the pavement.

  Without thinking, I stalk toward the truck, arms flying into the air.

  “Open your damn window, asshole!” I rage, so incensed I’m not one bit afraid of whoever is sitting behind the wheel of this honking truck. “What the hell is your problem? Are you purposely trying to blind me?”

  The driver does as he’s told; the window on his side starts to lower little by little, revealing the guy perched behind the wheel.

  Big. Blond. Bulky.

  Oh. My. God—I recognize his face immediately. It’s the jocktacular asshole from the cafeteria last week! The jerk who took my chicken sandwich and then tried to take both my burgers! What the hell is he doing, driving around in the dark terrorizing people?

  I walk straight up to his window so I can get in his face.

  “You!” Now I’m pointing at him, forefinger aimed at the middle of his mug. “Roll down your damn window!”

  He rolls it down the rest of the way. Then I hear the laugh.

  “You don’t look happy to see me again.”

  He’s not alone, but I only spare his buddy a glance—I have my sights set on this one.

  “Because I’m not, you…you…” Words escape me I’m so pissed. “Ugh, what the hell is your problem?” I shout into the dark, hands on my hips, indignant and outraged. I give the hood of his truck a pound with the palm of my hand for good measure, to punctuate how mad I am. “What are you doing? You’re going to get someone in an accident!”

  His laughing is loud, booming, and amused—three things that are pissing me off and not welcome right now. He can save his good humor for when he’s not being a thoughtless imbecile.

  “Well, well, well—look what the cat dragged in.” His twang is lazy and drawn out and—I won’t lie—really kind of cute.

  Shit.

  I do not have time to get mushy over that damn Southern accent. It sounds even hotter when he uses metaphors and slang that make no sense whatsoever.

  Focus, Charlie.

  “Your careless driving is what dragged me in.” I use air quotes around the word, stabbing the air with my forefingers.

  “There you go again, mockin’ my accent.” He grins, arm propped on the open window. “Not such a sweet thang, are ya?”

  Damn right I’m not—especially not when it’s Friday night, and I’m standing in the middle of the road yelling at the rudest guy I’ve ever met.

  “How dare you tail me like that? How dare you! Are you trying to get me killed?”

  His eyes are so blue, and with the light from passing traffic, I can see their vibrant color clearly—though they hardly need a spotlight shining on them to be beautiful.

  I take another a good look at him, something I didn’t do in the student union last week. Tan. Blond.

  Lots of stubble. Hair still too long.

  My gaze drifts to the hand that’s lazily hanging half out the window; it’s big and rough. He sees me looking and flexes his fingers.

  Curls his lips into a knowing smile.

  Cocky bastard.

  When he smiles, dimples press into both cheeks like two fingers pressing into dough; a visible gap between his teeth winks at me, too.

  How did I not notice that before? Oh yeah. It’s because I wanted to smack him in his arrogant face.

  “Babe, ya need to relax.”

  Babe?

  I stare.

  Give my head a shake to get the dust off my brain. I mean, honestly, there are cobwebs on my vagina—it makes sense that I’d be attracted to him. I simply don’t know any better.

  So what if he’s cute? He’s a danger and a menace to society.

  “I need to relax? Listen to me, you dick, watch how you’re driving. What you’re doing is dangerous.”

  “What is it I’m doing? Are your panties twisted up ’cause my truck is bigger than that piece-of-shit car you’re drivin’?”

  Piece of she-it yer drivin’.

  My car isn’t winning any beauty contests, but it’s hardly a piece of shit.

  Okay. It’s a total piece of shit—but it’s mine. I bought it myself, so Biff McBurgerThief here can shove that insult down his pie hole.

  And choke on it, too.

  “You need to calm down,” he says again, in what he probably considers a soothing voice meant to calm me down.

  I refuse.

  “You need to take this more seriously.”

  Those wide shoulders shrug. “No harm, no foul.”

  “Are you serious? Your lights were blinding me. I could hardly see where I was going, and you were way too close to my bumper.”

  Still is.

  “You’re spittin’ mad, aren’t ya? Like you just chewed up nails and spit out a barbed wire fence.” The brute has the nerve to laugh, as if the metal chrome of his super duty pickup truck isn’t currently butted up against the tail end of my car.

  The nerve.

  My stance widens, fists curled at my sides, clutched into tiny fists of fury.

  Ugh!

  The nostrils on my nose flare. “You think you’re tough shit because you’re on the football team, don’t you, jock strap? You think scaring defenseless girls in the middle of the night is funny? Do you?” I stab a finger in his direction, glaring.

  “I don’t see no defenseless girls ’round here.”

  Don’t see no. Lord, has this guy had any formal education?

  “It’s me.” I stab at my chest. “I’m the defenseless girl, you halfwit.”

  He is completely missing the point—hasn’t picked up on my sarcasm. Either he’s choosing not to, or he’s dumb as a box of rocks.

  I don’t know for a fact that he’s a complete moron, but based on stereotypes and what I’m staring at, I’m going to assume he is. Big truck. Bigger muscles. Shaggy hair. Bruised eye. Crooked smirk I want to wipe off his face. He looks like he was raised in the backwoods and sounds like it, too.

  “You hardly look defenseless.” He’s staring down at me from his perch in the driver’s seat.

  “Do you see any weapons?”

  “No, but I keep hearin’ one.”

  Huh? “What does that mean?”

  “Your mouth is runnin’.”

  Inside the cab of the truck, his buddy laughs. I glare at them both. “How dare you!”

  “I’m not the one who slammed on her brakes and hopped out of her car in the middle of the street,” he has the nerve to point out.

  “Your bumper is jammed so far up my ass I can taste chrome when I swallow.” Did those words just come out of my mouth? Damn, I’m kind of impressed with myself.

  The kid in the passenger seat laughs, and I wish I could reach in and smack him.

  “How about you be quiet?” I have to get closer to the truck to see his face, but I can make him out in the shrouded, dimly lit cab. He looks like a jockhole: big and built and strong— and smiling.

  Ugh, so annoying.

  “What did you expect me to do, keep driving?”

  “Nope. Kind of wanted you to slam on your brakes and hop out of your car in the middle of the street.”

  I can’t decide if he’s full of crap or not. He laughs, the Adam’s apple in his thick throat bobbing, t
endons visible from here, even in the semi-darkness.

  “Besides, if my bumper was up your ass, we’d both know it.”

  It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about car parts. It sounds like a metaphor for butt stuff, the bumper being his—

  “Darlin’, you look fit to be tied.”

  “Don’t you darlin’ me. I’m still half blind from those dumb lights, you jerk!”

  He rests his forearm on the window, leaning out while talking down to me. The sleeves of his plaid shirt are rolled to the elbow. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  I peel my eyes off his muscles. “You’re not sorry—you were doing it on purpose!”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” His teeth are blaring white, almost as bright as his headlights and aimed in my direction. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your damn business.” Wow, I sound salty.

  The guy turns his body, neck craning away from me. “Tyson,” he says, “listen to the mouth on this one.” He smirks, grinning down at me, the stupid asshole. “She’s spittin’ fire, and I bet she’s hungry for a chicken sandwich, too.”

  Finally, an acknowledgment that he knows who I am.

  I try to get a good look at this Tyson, but it’s difficult given the flickering streetlights above and the dim one in the cab of the truck. What I do see, however, is the telltale glow from a cell phone, illuminating this mysterious passenger person’s face.

  “Wait a second—are you filming me?” It most definitely looks like this guy is pointing the camera of his phone in my direction.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “Proof.”

  Proof? Of what! Of all the ridiculous, stupid things to say!

  “Uh, excuse me, I’m the one who should be taping you— you’re three times my size, and you’re the one harassing me.”

  “No one is harassin’ you, and no one made you get out of your car.”

  “Do I have to keep repeating that you could have gotten me in an accident with your headlights?”

  He turns and says something to his friend that sounds suspiciously like, “It might be easier to forget about this one.”

  I strain to hear the rest, but it’s difficult above the sound of cars easing their way around us on the street.

  I step a bit closer, confident that although this bo-hunk is an imbecile, he’s harmless—not a kidnapper, not going to sexually harass me, not going to harm me in any way.

  Call it intuition.

  “I’m sorry, what did you just say to him?”

  He turns his attention back to me. “I’m not the one screamin’ on the side of the road.”

  Huh? That makes no sense.

  I might be mad, but I’m not screaming. “That’s not what you said.”

  McMuscles chuckles when Tyson bumps him in the universal, bro-code kind of way. They laugh again.

  “Nope. It ain’t.”

  “What did you say?” I know he was talking shit about me.

  “Now why would I go and tell you that? You’re already in a hair-tossin’ mood—no need to ruffle them feathers more.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means you’re pissed enough already,” the other guy says from the deep recesses of the truck, translating the Southern mumbo-jumbo.

  “Thanks for the translation, genius. Pretty sure I could have figured it out on my own.”

  Biff looks down at me, eyes shooting a cursory glance into the side mirror, finally noticing the steady line of cars gathering behind his giant vehicle.

  “How ’bout you get in your car and head home—home where it’s safe.”

  Where it’s safe? “I was safe until you started riding my tail and your lights temporarily blinded me.”

  “Just go home.” His eyes harden a bit, mouth drawing into a serious line.

  “How ’bout you don’t tell me what to do.” The nerve of this guy.

  Seriously.

  His giant, hulking body leans in my direction, arm still resting against the door. “Suit yourself. We’ll just sit here in the middle of the road while everyone stares until you buckle your seatbelt and drive off.”

  Why am I still standing here arguing with this Neanderthal? Obviously he doesn’t get the reason I’m pissed. It doesn’t occur to him that I got out of my car because his actions were reckless.

  What I should have done is call the freaking cops. “I’ll go—but not because you’re telling me to.”

  “Good. You should go.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I’m leaving so I don’t keep blocking traffic, not because you’re telling me to.”

  He winks.

  “Don’t wink at me.” He smiles.

  My eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “I’m watching you, bucko.”

  “I would love it if you were.” He has the nerve to laugh again, to shoot me another cocky wink.

  “Stop flirting with me.” I have no interest in this guy. Not only is he a creep, he’s the furthest thing from my type. I give my hair a toss over my shoulder. “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

  “Go.” He hangs out the window a little, giving his fingers a wiggle. Revs the engine of his giant truck once when I walk in front of it, his dumb headlights a spotlight on my retreating ass.

  Great. Just great.

  * * *

  JACKSON

  The girl glares daggers at my windshield as she walks back to her car. If looks could kill, I would be a dead man.

  For a split second, I have the thought that if I were interested in women and dating, she would be exactly the type of girl I’d date: a little spitfire, full of passion and sass. Any girl riled enough to climb from the safety of her car to scream at a stranger sitting in a dark truck has gumption.

  “Do you know her?”

  “No.”

  My friend and teammate Tyson pushes. “Because it definitely seemed like you know her.”

  I sigh, putting my car in drive. “Can’t you just leave it be?”

  Tyson raises his brows at me. “Goddamn I love it when y’all country boys say y’all shit like ‘leave it be.’”

  He totally misuses the word y’all, plugging it into all the wrong spots, but I don’t have the time or the energy to school the idiot on its proper use. It’s nothing new; Tyson loves repeating the shit I say, following me around like a puppy— or a kid chasing after his favorite player on a team.

  Though we’re teammates and he’s a fucking fantastic football player in his own right, he has some odd hero-worship thing where I’m concerned, and I cannot shake the poor idiot.

  He tags along when I’m bored and want to go driving, sitting shotgun during my cruises.

  “She definitely knew you.”

  Yes, she definitely knows me. Not my name, or anything about me—or shit, maybe she does and just acts like she doesn’t recognize me. I mean, it’s not like I’m hiding who I am. I have a reputation on campus and around the country as one of the best wide receivers in the NCAA. Shit, my face is plastered on a banner hanging at the football stadium, in color and fifty feet tall.

  Granted, my face is covered by the facemask of my helmet, but it’s there, nonetheless.

  “She’s not the first girl to get out of her car because lights were shining in her eyes,” Tyson says, staring out his window and tapping on the door.

  No. She’s not.

  My truck is jacked up so high, no doubt it does blind anyone I sneak up behind. At one point, I was going to adjust the headlights and angle them downward, but the screws were rusted on too tight, and I wasn’t wasting fifty bucks to have it done at a shop. Luckily, only a few brave souls have gotten out of their vehicles—dudes included—to chew my ass out, but what am I supposed to do, go spend twelve hundred dollars on a new set of smaller tires?

  I don’t fucking think so.

  I wouldn’t do it even if I could afford it. Which I can’t.

  “You know, we could be onto something,” he says cryptically.

  “Don’t tell
me. I don’t want to know.” When I put on my blinker and cut back into traffic, my passenger is already keyed up with an idea. Sits up a bit straighter in his seat, looking excited and mischievous.

  “I’m just thinking out loud here, but what if…” He lets his voice trail off mysteriously. As if I’m going to be intrigued enough to ask questions.

  “No.”

  “Let me finish.”

  “No.”

  I head toward the football house, trying to tune out the sound of Tyson’s voice, wanting to end this evening. Seeing that girl—again—was enough excitement for one damn day. We have to grab our gym bags and head to the weight room.

  No rest for the weary, not with a game against Madison coming up. Besides, it’s not like I have anything better to do.

  No partying. No drinking. No fucking around.

  Hence driving around a college town and cruising the strip— it’s the only entertainment that reminds me of home. Harmless, fun, and free, if you don’t count the gas my truck guzzles in the process.

  “What if…” Tyson begins again, as if I didn’t just shoot him down. “We make a game out of it.”

  “A game out of what?” My eyes haven’t left the road, but my ears have perked up.

  “A game out of people getting out of their cars to scream at you.”

  “That’s a terrible idea for so many reasons. One, it’s not safe. Two, I could get in fuckin’ trouble.”

  “Why? You’re not doing anything. You’re just driving your own vehicle.” He’s turned to face me, the dumb jock actively interested in his own stupid idea. “We could come up with rules.”

  “That just makes it worse.”

  “How so?”

  “Because. It just does.” How does he not get it? “Besides, what kind of rules could you possibly make up for something as dumb as people getting out of their cars?”

  “Dude—fun ones. Like getting one point if it’s a guy who gets out, five if it’s a girl.”

  I mean…that does sound kind of fun. Still.

  “No.”

  “Oh! You get ten points if the girl is a brownbagger, twenty if she’s hot and you’d bang her.”