by Ney, Sara
ME, PLEASE. I’m begging.
I’m not yelling—he’s yelling.
I have no doubt I could put the new tire on myself, but do I really want to take that chance? I definitely need the help of someone more qualified than I. Plus, the last time he helped it was really nice—and not because he smelled good. Or because his muscles bulged. Or because when he got a little sweaty from heaving the heavy tire, it turned me on a tad.
A smidge, as my grandmother would say.
Jackson: Well if you insist.
Me: I do—if you can swing it.
Jackson: All right, I’ll take care of you.
Jackson: I mean. Of the tire.
Jackson: I’ll take care of the TIRE.
Me: Know what? I can almost hear you saying tire in your Southern accent.
Jackson: Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Me: It’s cute. I like it, I’m not making fun of you.
Jackson: Lol I didn’t think you were, I just wanted to hear you say you think it’s cute.
Me: You’re the worst.
Jackson: Hey, so—do you ever go out on the weekends?
Me: Do you mean parties and stuff?
My heart beat skips a little. Why is he asking what I do on the weekends? Is he going to ask me out? Crap, why am I getting so excited?
Relax, Charlie. It was a basic question. It means nothing.
Jackson: Yes, parties and stuff.
Me: Yeah, sometimes, depending. Why?
Jackson: I was thinking of hitting up Jock Row for a party at the baseball house this Friday.
Me: Do you usually party on the weekends? I thought there were rules about that.
Jackson: We have a 24-hour rule. No alcohol 24 hours before a game, but we can go out and be social as long as we behave and don’t break the conduct code.
Me: I see.
Me: Um. What does that have to do with me?
Jackson: Maybe you should come. If you aren’t busy.
Me: Maybe I should.
Jackson: You definitely should.
Me: All right.
Jackson: Seriously?
Me: Why do you sound surprised?
Jackson: Because you hate me lol
Me: I don’t hate you Jackson. I mean—you piss me off, but I’m sure you piss tons of people off.
Jackson: If you didn’t hate me, you wouldn’t call me Jackson.
Me: I’m NOT calling you Triple J. Or JJ, or the other nicknames they call you. That’s lame.
Jackson: Junior.
Me: Huh?
Jackson: Junior. That’s my other nickname. It’s Jackson Jennings Junior, so sometimes they call me that. My dad does.
Me: I think I might have read that somewhere.
Jackson: Were you googling me, Miss Charlie?
I roll my eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Googling him—he is so full of himself.
Me: You are so Southern sometimes…
Jackson: But were you? Googling me? You can’t lie, we’re best friends now.
I want to make a joke about breast friends but don’t want to sound like a complete pervert.
Me: My friend looked you up—it wasn’t me.
Jackson: And you were reading over her shoulder.
No, because I was driving and that would have been dangerous.
Me: I might have been listening when she read some shit out loud. Sue me for being curious. If I’m going to keep seeing you on the side of the road, I have to know you’re not a murderer.
Jackson: Lol good.
Jackson: Hey Charlotte?
I shiver at the sight of my name.
Me: Yes?
Jackson: I’m gonna hit the hay—we have two practices tomorrow and one starts at 4:30—but I’ll talk to ya soon.
Me: 4:30…in the morning?
Jackson: Yup.
Me: Dang. That’s stupidly early…
Jackson: Yup, but you get used to it.
Me: I would never get used to that, solely based on principle.
Me: Anyway. See you soon.
Jackson: Later, Charlotte.
And there goes that shiver up my spine…
SIXTH FRIDAY
JACKSON
She showed up.
I mean, she said she was going to, but I didn’t actually believe her. Not really, not even a little. I assumed she’d stand me up.
I’ve categorized Charlotte as one of those girls who isn’t into the lifestyle I live. Surrounded by fake people. Strict routine. Strict diet (her sandwich that day did not count because I was fucking desperate). Shit tons of working out. Coaches, professors, and agents riding my ass.
It’s too much for me to handle sometimes, and a girl like Charlie? No way would she deal with the bullshit that comes with being an elite college athlete.
Not that this is a date.
Just an invitation for two friends to attend the same party on a Friday night. I’ve never seen Charlotte out, not at a house party, not on Greek Row, not downtown at the bars. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if she’s even legal.
Granted, I don’t go out that much myself, but I know I’d remember seeing her out if I did. Truthfully? I spend most of my Fridays lamely cruising up and down the street, nostalgic about home, needing something to fill my time so I don’t spend it doing things I shouldn’t be doing—partying, drinking, sex.
Distracting things.
Unsure about whether or not I should approach her or let her come to me, I jam my hands into the pockets of my jeans and stand rooted to the spot. I’m in the corner of the living room, near the kitchen door, with a bird’s-eye view of the entire party.
Charlotte isn’t alone; she’s with three other girls—one from the car that I recognize and two that I don’t. They’re all shorter but cute. Done up like every girl in the room, they ordinarily wouldn’t stand out to me.
But now I know what a smart mouth Charlie has on her, what a brat she can be. I’ve seen with my own two eyes how riled she gets when she’s got her dander up or her panties in a twist. The thought has my lips tipping up at the corners, and I hide the smile behind the neck of my beer bottle.
It’s a nice night, not too cold, so she has foregone a jacket and stands at the door in a cute shirt tucked into dark denim. Her blonde hair is down and wavy, and tonight she’s wearing more makeup than I’ve seen her in.
Her lips are glossy—I can see them shining from here when she cranes her neck to glance around the room and the light hits them just right.
Is she looking for someone?
I’m no fool—I know she’s looking for me. I take pleasure in the fact that she hasn’t spotted me yet and I can watch her for a few more undisturbed seconds before the spell is broken.
Charlie is beautiful.
So beautiful it makes me slightly uncomfortable. I might be headed to the pros and have an amazing career ahead of me, but physically, Charlie is out of my league.
I’m a brute. Scarred. Tall. Bulky. Bruised. Sore.
Light on my feet for the position I play but large nonetheless.
I run a palm along my jawline. I didn’t have time to shave this afternoon; my entire face is scratchy.
Fuck, my shirt is wrinkled, too, while she looks so fucking pretty. Why she agreed to meet me here is beyond me, especially after our rocky start.
It’s loud in this house, packed to capacity, and takes a few minutes to weave my way through the strangers gathered for the party. Her friends have all gone their own ways and when I reach her, she’s standing alone smiling, lips moving as if pleasantries are coming out of her mouth; words I can’t hear because it’s so damn loud in this house.
“Hey.”
“Hey. Having fun?” I catch her question because I’ve bent myself at the waist, leaned down to listen, and tilted my head at an angle so she can talk into my ear.
“Meh.”
We wouldn’t be able to carry on a conversation inside if our lives depended on it, so thank God they don’t.
Pull them away and refocus on Charlie.
She rolls a pair of eyes so blue when she catches my gaze on the stairs, I compare her irises to the ocean. Fuck. If I didn’t know I was sober, I’d think I was drunk. That was a dumb notion, and she’d gag if I said it out loud.
“I’m not going upstairs with you.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Kemosabe. I meant outside—where it’s quieter. On the porch.” There’s a bench swing out there big enough for two, if she can stand the thought of sitting next to me.
“Oh.” She looks chagrined, shifting on her heels and readjusting the purse draped over her shoulder. “All right, we can do the porch. Let me just…” Her sentence trails off as she searches the crowd. “I don’t know where my friends went. Normally they’d be hanging all over you. Haha. Let me just text them to tell them I’m going outside.”
Her phone appears from the back pocket of her jeans, and she taps out a quick message. Stuffs it back inside and tilts her chin in my direction. “All set.”
I hold the screen door for her after pushing through the main entrance, and we step down onto the wooden porch of the house with its wide veranda and overhang. White railings and staircase descend into a dark pit of a front yard, the streetlights lining the road doing little to illuminate the area in front of the house.
Only the flicker from two dull sconces flanking the entry provide any light.
“This isn’t creepy at all,” Charlie jokes sarcastically, instinctively moving to the far end, toward the swing. She rests her ass on it.
It squeaks on four rusty chains. They’re thin and clinging to the ceiling by tiny, round hooks.
Shit.
Should I stand? Would that be fucking weird? Me, just staring down at her? I can see down her shirt if I stand here—what if she thinks I’m being a pervert?
Like a bull in a china shop, I sit my ass down.
The swing doesn’t even swing; that’s how much I’m weighing it down, and I’m afraid to give it a push with the heel of my foot. God forbid it comes crashing to the ground.
Charlie already thinks I’m a moron; that would solidify it.
“You don’t look comfortable,” she says after a few moments, the rusty chains yelping with every subtle movement.
I wish she’d sit still.
I give the brackets above a worried peek. Frown.
“What?” Charlie wants to know.
“Nothin’.”
“Why do you keep looking up at the ceiling? What’s up there?” Now she’s glancing up, only she has no idea what she’s looking for. “Tell me.”
“The chains don’t look sturdy.”
“Oh, well.” Charlie goes to push us off, but I stop the swing from moving forward. “Are you scared it’s going to break?”
“Yup.”
“We wouldn’t have far to fall.” She laughs, as if me falling on my ass wouldn’t be a big deal. “Why don’t you relax?”
“But…” What if the swing does crash to the ground? I imagine the loud thud, hitting my head on the wooden planks, the rusty chains covering us with a clang.
“Jackson, relax.” I watch as if it’s in slow motion as she reaches over and her fingers brush the denim over my knee, giving me a reassuring pat before pulling away.
My body tenses up from the contact.
That didn’t help me relax.
Quite the opposite, actually. Game face, Triple J—shake it off.
And now I’m talking about myself in the third person, using the nickname she refuses to call me because she thinks it’s stupid, which she would no doubt give me major shit for.
My mind is a muddled mess; I do not want to date anyone. I do not want to have sex with her. I’m obviously attracted to her—Charlie is gorgeous—but I don’t want to screw her brains out. Okay, so, I have been thinking about banging her lately, but I won’t. I can think about it in passing, though…right?
Fuck.
Why did I invite her here tonight, and why am I sitting with her outside on the damn porch?
It’s quiet and dim and intimate, and there’s no one outside but the two of us, which is unusual. Normally, people are spilling out of the house, passing by, walking to other parties, neighboring houses—including mine—hosting their own loud, drunken keggers.
Charlie is the first to break the silence. “Do you live around here?”
I raise my arm. “I live there.” Point to the white house directly across the street, its lights out because everyone I room with is inside the house behind me.
Her brows go up, surprised. “You live across the street?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that the football house?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“It’s not as big as I thought it would be.”
I chuckle, hiding my smile by turning my head. She doesn’t catch it and continues prattling on.
“Bet you never get any rest.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty loud.”
“Lots of girls, too, I bet.” Charlie’s sly, passive-aggressive comment isn’t lost on me. She’s fishing for details, wanting to know if I’m a horn dog, encouraging the groupies who hang out there, parading them in and out of my room.
“Indeed there are.”
It’s the truth. There are loads of girls hanging out at our place, almost every day of the week; some days, it feels as if they’re dumped off by the truckload. Fine, not all of them are skanks—some of them are the girlfriends of my teammates. Those girls are mostly gold diggers, spreading their legs for any player with a hard-on, hoping to get pregnant, or wifed, or WAGed.
They sit around uselessly, in the living room, kitchen, and common areas, dolled up and posing. They laugh too loud, wear too much makeup and too few clothes. Fucking fake.
Desperate.
Thank God my bedroom door has a lock on the outside and a deadbolt on the inside.
I tell her so. “I have to keep my door locked. Once, I came home really late and there was a girl in my bed.”
Charlie’s lips tighten into a thin line, but she makes no comment about it.
I continue. “I don’t think she even knew whose bed she was in. Had to get help bootin’ her ass out.”
Her smile is thin, the silence stretching between us. It grows incredibly awkward. Was it something I said? I’m only telling the truth, which is that girls chase after athletes all the time. Comes with the lifestyle and the territory, and not everyone is cut out for it.
Charlie isn’t one of those people; I can see it written all over her face.
I’m not looking for a girlfriend, but I feel the urge to reassure Charlie I’m not the kind of dude who sleeps around, to give her the positive affirmations she obviously wants: I’m loyal. Faithful.
Pure as the driven snow.
Purer than she is, I reckon.
Her feet attempt to give the swing another shove; she’s irritated. Would love nothing more than to see me flat on my ass, knocked down a peg or two. Knows I’m worried the swing is going to collapse and is punishing me for not defending my honor.
“I don’t sleep around,” I blurt out randomly.
She attempts a conspiratorial wink. “Sure you don’t.”
“You can stop stereotypin’ me, thanks.”
“I’m not.” Her protest is feeble, to say the least.
“Bullshit you’re not.” I laugh at the lie.
“Fine, maybe I am, but you don’t have to defend yourself to me. I’m a nobody, though I am curious why I should believe you aren’t banging every girl who slips into your bedroom at night.” Her blue eyes roll toward the heavens.
“It’s too easy.” Yeah, it would be easy, like shootin’ fish in a barrel. “So, yeah…” I draw the word out. “I’m a virgin.”
I don’t know what possesses me to say it
, but I do, and now that it’s out there, there’s no taking it back. Maybe I just want her to know I’m not fucking every vagina that walks into my house.
Charlie stops trying to shove the swing into action. “Shut up.”
“I’m not fuckin’ around with you right now—I’m bein’ serious.”
“What?” She looks genuinely stunned. I look down at our feet. “Forget it.”
“Um, no. It’s too late. I…think I heard you right? I just don’t…believe you? There is no way.” She’s repositioned herself so she’s facing me, one leg now up on the bench seat, the other dangling over the side. “Say it again.”
“Nope.” I cross my arms and kick my feet out, slouching with my legs spread.
“You are not a virgin.”
My wide shoulders shrug. I don’t care if she doesn’t believe me, but I sure wish she’d lower her fuckin’ voice a few decibels.
Keep tellin’ yourself that, Triple J. Keep right on tellin’ yourself that…
“Jackson.” Here come those fingertips again, this time on my forearm. Her nails are pink, that much I can see. “Be serious.”
I give her another careless shrug. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“Because, you’re…” She doesn’t finish her sentence. It lingers there, the spaces being filled by stereotypes and preconceived notions I can almost hear her say, even if she’s not speaking them out loud:
Because you’re an athlete. Because you’re popular.
Because you’re a football player. Because you live in their house. Because you’re a guy.
“So what do you usually do on Friday nights?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.
Charlie laughs. “Oh no you don’t—nice try though.” Her hand is still on my arm, resting like a hot iron near the crook of my elbow, branding my skin. “Jackson.”
God, stop sayin’ my name like that.
“Charlotte.”
Her little smirk is amused—way too fucking cute and too fucking…cute. Kissable. Bratty. Sassy. She’s not intimidated by me, my salty attitude, or my size.
In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think the little minx liked it.
“How are you a virgin?”
My thick brows go up. “Are you?”
Charlie removes her hand and returns it to her lap. “No.”
