Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (12 page)

“
A
re
you really making me sleep on the floor?” Matt lies on four yoga mats taped together while I’m ensconced in his cozy bed. His room is about the same size as Ace’s with a small refrigerator, a desk, and a chair situated by the window overlooking the back of the house and into the common area all the houses share. It’s why they call this particular set of student housing the Playground. The guys party out there during the warmer weather and throw snowballs during the colder weather, or so Ace tells me.

There’s a door situated slightly behind the chair that leads to the bathroom. All the bedrooms have their own bathrooms. How nice for them. How awful for the cleaning crew.

Matt also has a nice large bed, larger than my twin, but instead of the sofa running across the far wall like in Ace’s bedroom, there are the yoga mats.

His bed smells nice, like citrus and…well, him. Of course, I like it, as I seem to like everything about him, and surreptitiously take another deep sniff. I’m going to have to buy an orange and rub it on Heather so that the smell starts having a negative connotation. Otherwise, I’m going to get excited at breakfast every morning.

Want any orange juice?

No, ma’am. It makes me orgasm. Can’t drink OJ in public now.

“Yes, I’m making you sleep on the floor. Why do you have the mats there anyway? If you had a sofa, you’d be able to sleep on that instead of the mats.”

“Because I like to stretch. Good stretching equals fewer injuries. But these mats are meant for stretching, not sleeping.”

“I know you don’t have practice tomorrow and that you don’t have practice for like three weeks, so I don’t care.” I stare at the ceiling so I can avoid looking toward Matt. He got undressed in his bathroom but came out wearing flannel sleep pants and no shirt. And those sleep pants are somewhere on the floor between us. He’d taken them off under the thin blanket covering him.

I almost swallowed my tongue at the sight of shirtless Matt, so I huddled under the covers, hands clenched together, exerting as much control as I can so I don’t launch myself at him. “You’re the reason I have to sleep here anyway. If you and the rest of the team hadn’t made Ace miserable, he wouldn’t have come home with a woman and essentially kicked me out of my room.”

“Why were you there again?” he asks.

I can hear the skepticism in his voice. It’s so typically male of him to think the opposite sex can’t be friends. Ace and I’ve tried to explain it. Most of my female friends get it. Ace’s friends assume we slept together and when Ace moved me into the friend zone, I continued to hang around hoping he’d realize what a prize I truly was.

“Because Ace is my best friend. Has been since third grade. We met in the nurse’s office. Ace had childhood asthma, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” he admits. “What were you in there for?”

I prevaricate, not willing to get into the whole diabetes thing tonight. “Wasn’t feeling well.”

He moves again on the mats. It can’t be comfortable down there. I can feel myself weakening.

“What if we sleep with the pillows between us like the Puritans did?” he suggests.

I can’t help but laugh. He’s got a one-track mind. “Did you take that class, too?”

“You bet your ass I did. Who knew the Puritans were so horny?”

“I don’t think it was the Puritans who were horny. I think it was Professor Collinsworth.” Professor Collinsworth is a tiny woman who looks like a raisin with white hair. Her class, Early American History, is all about sex and violence during the colonial period.

“When did you take that class? Were we in that class together?” There’s more rustling, and I can’t help myself from glancing in Matt’s direction. I find him lying on his side, propped up by an elbow, his golden, perfectly formed chest highlighted by the moon.

“Yes, but not until last semester. I didn’t know about it until my roommate Charity told me that it’s a great filler class.” A class to pad your GPA.

“Ahh, my student advisor signed me up for it second semester sophomore year.”

“You have Public Safety with her.”

“Describe her for me.” His head falls onto his hand as if he’s settling in for a nice, long chat. There’s something irresistible about a man who wants to listen about nothing and everything. I mentally add that to the reward column, which keeps getting longer each moment I spend with him.

“She’s about a foot shorter than you with wavy brown hair. Kind of has a ’50s pinup style to her. Wears a lot of silver bracelets on both arms. Jingles like a Christmas tree. Very attractive.”

Matt squints as if trying to picture her. “Not seeing it.”

Neither of us seems interested in sleep. It’s like the first night we were together, when all we wanted to do was talk. “If you slept with her, would you remember her?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?” He shrugs. His shoulder roll actually highlights his muscles, lifting the pecs up into the light and then down into the shadows. “I haven’t slept with
that
many women.”

“So you could name them all?” The seemingly unending list of
winners
that popped up in the hashtag scroll by in my mind’s eye. That bit weighs heavily in the risk column.

He sighs deeply. “Probably not. Does it matter, though? The women I’ve slept with have wanted the same thing. Simple, easy release. There’s no shame in the hookup. Not for the girl or the guy as long as everyone’s on the same page.” He rolls onto his back, taking the peep show with him.

He has me there, and frankly, I don’t want to know his list of past conquests. I don’t know why I brought it up in the first place other than I need a reason to dislike him. I need to remind myself that he’s a risk with a capital “R” because my defenses toward him are so weak right now.

I play my last defense card. “You’re really not going to tell me what’s going on with Ace? What made you and Jack argue earlier?”

“No.”

He shifts again on the mats but doesn’t invite himself into the bed, even though I’m pretty sure he wants to. He’s not the only one.

Finally, I give in, because I’m weak and he’s so damned attractive. “You can sleep on the bed with me, but I swear to you if you try to feel me up tonight, I will cut off your hand.”

He’s up and at the bed before I finish.

Grinning down at me, he says, “I kind of need my hands. Would you consider cutting off a finger? Or three? Because apparently you can still be a damned good linebacker with only a few fingers.”

“Depends on the infraction.” I move over to the far side of the bed. Matt climbs in beside me.

“I like you, Goldie. And your insistence on labeling me as risky does not make me like you any less,” he says cheerfully and tucks his hands under his pillow. His elbow lands close enough to my head that if I simply turned my cheek, I could kiss it.

I force myself to lie still.

“I don’t know what that means,” I tell him.

“It means I’m not done with you.”

I frown. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Nope. You can’t stop me from liking you. It’s just a
thing
. Like the sun rising and the tides coming in.”

“You’re bored, aren’t you? You’re an obsessive sort of guy, and without the object of your obsession—aka football—to distract you, you’ve latched on to me for some reason. Is that it?”

“If that argument makes you feel safer, go with it.” The smile is still on his face. I can hear it in his voice. “The thing is, Goldie, if you don’t sleep with me now, it’ll be this niggling regret you’ll have all your life. You’ll be thirty-five and on your wedding day—”

“I’m not getting married until thirty-five?”

“Hush. This is my story. Anyway, you’re on your wedding day. The wedding march begins. The double doors open. At the end of the aisle stands some pasty-faced groom you settled on. In the back of your mind, you think, I wonder what Matty Iverson was like in bed. And then you won’t be able to walk down that aisle. You’re haunted by this lack of knowledge. You turn on your heel and run. Ultimately you ruin this poor sap’s life, make enemies out of his entire family, and spend a shitload of money you’ll never get back because you didn’t take up this opportunity when you had it.”

“That’s quite a line.”

“It’s the truth.”

I roll over and try to forget I’m lying next to the first guy I’ve been attracted to in a long time. Matt has no such problem. His gentle snores fill the air minutes later. It’s a long, frustrating night for me.

I
dream
the dirtiest dream that night. It consists of Matt’s very large hands throwing the covers aside and then running themselves all over my body. I moan so loudly when his fingers delve between my legs, I wake myself up. Only to find him sleeping next to me like a baby.

I place my hand over my galloping heart and breathe a huge sigh of relief that I haven’t woken him up and that I haven’t done what I warned him against—middle-of-the-night creeping.

Matt’s still sleeping and hasn’t moved an inch since last night.

I give myself a few moments to gawk at him. He has a hard, hot body that apparently does not need any covers because the sheet and blanket are kicked down around his thighs, revealing an expanse of golden skin stretched over muscled shoulders, chest, and abs. He’s an athlete, I remind myself. They’re all hardbodies. But as much as I tell myself he’s not my type, I can’t keep the lie in my head long enough to be convincing.

In my dreams, he was exactly my type. Probably my
only
type. I shudder and try to shake free of the vision of him touching me, kissing me.

His right arm is thrown across his forehead and his left rests across his abdomen. His fingertips are touching the waistband of his underwear and I’m helpless to stop my eyes from drifting downward where an impressive morning erection is barely held inside the stretchy fabric. My fingers itch to reach over and palm that bulge.

Holy hell, I feel lightheaded this morning.

I allow myself ten more seconds of ogling before I push myself upright—only to immediately fall down again. I guess my weakness is due more to low blood sugar than to my inability to control my body’s response to Matt. Or maybe it’s just my body thoroughly betraying me on all levels.

The thump serves to rouse Matt from his sleep. He blinks, slowly, gradually gaining consciousness. I avert my eyes when his hand drifts lower to cup himself. He halts halfway there, as if suddenly remembering my presence in his bed.

He turns his head lazily toward me. “Hey.”

“Good morning.” I try to smile but even that seems like too much of an effort. Is it any wonder I’m cautious? Because here I am in a gorgeous guy’s bed, and I have to tell him I’m not healthy enough to leave. I battle back my embarrassment.

“Sorry about that.” He gestures with his head toward his crotch. “Habit.”

“No worries,” I reply as if seeing a guy fondle himself is a regular occurrence in my life. “So I have to ask you a favor.”

“Sure. What do you need?” He rolls over and props himself on one elbow.

“Can you grab my backpack? There’s a black acrylic case, about the length of a pencil. I need that.”

He leans forward, concern etched in his strong, sexy face. “You okay?”

“I’m a...” I take a breath because even after all these years, I hate telling people I’m a diabetic, but he’s going to open the case and look at the needles and wonder if I’m a drug addict. Besides, what does it matter what Matt Iverson thinks of me?
It matters because you like him more than you should.
I shove that voice aside and say levelly, “My BG feels low but I need to test it.”

He doesn’t hesitate. One moment he’s on the bed and the next moment he has my case in hand. I fumble with the latch. Without a word, he snaps the case open and holds up the glucose meter. “Tell me what to do.”

“You sure?”

“Goldie, I deal with this shit all day long. We’re always getting injected with something. Cortisone, platelet injections. Can’t be a football player and be scared of a needle.”

I search his face to see if he’s hiding any disgust or dismay, but all I can find is readiness. This is
ordinary
to him, and the risk list I’ve been adding to—the one with all the pictures of his past liaisons, the one scribbled with the warnings of Ace—starts to look badly imbalanced.

“Prick my finger and press the strip against the blood.” I bite my lip. “I don’t have any communicable diseases, but you might want to get some gloves.”

“Nah, I trust you.” He handles the equipment with ease, pulling out a lancet, taking the sample, and then shoving the strip easily into the meter reader. “So what’s BG stand for? I’m guessing not ‘big guy.’”

“Blood glucose. You’re good at this,” I observe. “If the football thing doesn’t pan out for you, you can go into medicine. Be a nurse.”

“What do you mean if this doesn’t pan out? I’m a football god.” He winks at me. “Small ‘g.’”

I believe it. Despite the tiny number of college players moving on to the pros, Western has sent more players to the NFL than any other college in the country. It’s why Ace came here even though he knew he wasn’t guaranteed a starting position.

“What about after football?”

“Well after my fifteen years of dominating at the inside linebacker position, I’ll retire from the pros and focus my time on terrorizing my kid’s friends.”

The glucose meter beeps and he turns the screen so I can see the readout. I make a face. It’s lower than it should be.

“Two boys to follow in your football god—small ‘g’—footsteps?”

“Nah. I want to have tea parties and a reason to dress up silly and post pictures on Instagram that will go viral and have everyone saying how awesome a dad I am.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.” I check the meter again, but the readout hasn’t changed. I grimace. “Can I ask you another favor?”

“Yep, and you don’t need to ask for permission, either.”

“I need a glass of orange juice or skim milk.”

“We have OJ for sure. Probably not skim milk though.” He pats his firm stomach. “Growing boys and all.”

My eyes linger there far too long to be polite. When I finally pull my gaze away from his ripped torso, I find him grinning at me. There’s something devilish on the tip of his tongue.

He doesn’t disappoint. “I’m pretty to look at, aren’t I?”

“Yes, yes you are,” I laugh with relief that he doesn’t mind I was totally perving on him.

“You lie here and think about how awesome I am while I go and get your juice.” He walks out, uncaring that he’s still sporting a bit of wood in his shorts. I guess that’s what it’s really like to live in a house full of guys.

He returns in no time, bringing a plate of eggs, toast, a huge mound of bacon, a glass of orange juice, and a Gatorade.

“You were only gone a couple minutes,” I say suspiciously as I struggle into a seated position. He drops the plate on the side of the bed and hauls me upward, slipping a pillow behind my back before taking a seat by my side. He hands me a glass.

“I stole it from Hammer.” He sweeps my hair out of my face as I sip on the orange juice. “You okay?”

The first hint of worry bleeds through. He was so nonchalant earlier, as if having a girl in his bed with a medical problem was no big deal, but by the concern in his eyes I can see now that he was trying to put me at ease.

My risk assessment suffers another blow.

“I’ll be out of your hair in fifteen minutes.”

“There’s no hurry.” He drapes himself like a giant cat across the lower half of my body, reaches over for the plate and sets it between us. He doesn’t try to feed me or treat me like a baby. Instead, he watches me with studied casualness as I eat my eggs, occasionally stealing a slice of bacon while I gobble up the breakfast he stole from his roommate.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been pampered like this. If this is the kind of treatment women get after a night with Matt, I can see why he’s so popular.

“I can see by the sad face you’re thinking of something not good, and I have to say that the rule of this bed includes no bad thoughts,” he declares as he grabs his Gatorade and proceeds to drink a quarter of it.

“You have rules in bed?” I find myself fascinated with the movement of his Adam’s apple. Even the act of him drinking is somehow sexy and strong. I give myself a mental slap.
Get it together, Luce.
Oh Christ. Now I’m referring to myself with
his
nickname.

“Only one: everyone has a good time.”

My mind gallops toward all the interesting pictures that a good time entails. His head between my legs. His hands cupping my breasts. His mouth moving everywhere.

“Those eggs must be really good,” Matt observes.

“Why do you say that?” I ask as innocently as possible. Surely he couldn’t tell what I was thinking about.

He grins. “You just moaned a little.”

“I did not.” Did I? If I did, I want to die. Really just want to crawl under the blankets and hope the earth swallows me up.

“Okay, maybe you didn’t.”

I assess him suspiciously but decide the best way forward is denial all the way. I have a feeling that if I reveal I’m in any way receptive to him, he’d have me on my back, clothes off, faster that I can say
hut hut.

As if that’s a bad thing
, the evil creature in the back of my mind whines. I push her aside and finish eating my breakfast.

“You thinking about Ace or whatever big thing you were sighing about the other night?” he asks.

Neither. I was thinking about you and your sexy body.
Do you mind putting on a shirt? “Both topics violate your rules of the bed.”

He heaves a big sigh. “See, I’m trying to ignore that you’re nearly nude and that I would love to explore all that creamy skin, but I’m guessing that’s off the table, so I’m trying to change the subject.”

I try to remember why we aren’t actually doing the things he’s suggested, but then I remember my stupid risk assessment. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Changing the subject is a superb idea. I clear my throat. “So do you have class today?”

He takes a deep breath and looks past my head out the window. “Yeah, I have Public Safety with your hot friend.”

His reference to Charity as hot annoys the heck out of me. Mostly because there’s no impediment to the two of them getting it on. And the thought of Matt feeding Charity breakfast in bed, despite Charity being one of my closest friends, makes me want to Hulk Smash this breakfast plate. “You think Charity is hot? I thought you didn’t know her.”

“You said she was hot. I’m just repeating your description. Although…” …" He pauses to take another sip of his Gatorade. “A girl’s definition of hot is different than a guy’s definition.”

“Well, by all means, educate me.” I fold my arms.

“Okay, but I’m going to be crude. Since we’re besties now, though, I figure that’s okay.”

“How are we besties?”

“What? You have sleepovers with people who aren’t your besties?” He slaps a theatrical hand over his bare chest, and my eyes unwillingly fall, again, on that beautiful piece of art.

“Matt…” I say warningly.

He grins into his bottle, not at all chastened. It would likely take a gaggle of nuns to get him to behave and maybe not even then.

“Hot is a word used to describe anything that gets our dicks hard. It could be red lips or a sliver of skin between the waistband of a girl’s jeans and the top of her shirt. It could be, hell, smell. Hot’s not the same as pretty or attractive or interesting or nice. It’s just,
fuck that makes me hard.
Girls use it to describe guys they want to bang.” He snaps his mouth shut as a thought occurs to him. By the naughty gleam in his eyes, I know exactly where his dirty mind went. “Does that mean you want to bang Charity? Because, Goldie, I would be so down for that.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s a negative in the risk assessment.”

“Ah, I was just kidding.” At my raised eyebrow of disbelief, he clarifies, “Okay, I’ll admit that seeing you with another girl would be hot. But the truth is seeing you in any kind of sexual situation would turn me on. I was at the Gas Station over the weekend. There are willing women every two inches, but I didn’t find any of them hot even though, objectively, I’m sure other people would. It’s not the other girl in that threesome fantasy. It’s
you.
”

And crap. That’s a positive in the risk assessment. The way he says
you
—as if he really means it, as if I’m currently the only thing he finds hot right now—is so damn tempting.

I flail like a drowning victim for another lifeline.

“Ace says you’re a player and would break my heart.”