Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (16 page)

“Birds and flowers?” I gape at him. The last thing I think of when it comes to Lucy is birds and flowers. Big words, long blond hair, yes. Delicate, fluttery things? No.

“Second,” he continues as if I’m not even here. In fact, is he dictating into his phone? “Don’t ever mention that you had sex in the past. It’s good to be experienced but not too experienced. You want to be the gentleman in the streets, but the guy who can get his freak on—because you read it in a book—in the sheets. Third—”

I hold up my hand before Hammer can go on. “No, sorry. I don’t listen to your advice anymore.”

He looks hurt. “Why not? I’m a professional.”

“Your articles consist of
how to recognize when your type is the asshole and what to do next
and
how to enjoy yourself when your partner is selfish
, which have zero to do with dating.”

“They have everything to do with dating,” Hammer protests.

“If you have a vagina, which I don’t. I’m asking Masters.”

“Wait a second. Masters? Dude was a virgin six months ago.”

“And now he’s married.”

I run upstairs to the third-floor apartment and pound on the door. It swings open a minute later, and Ellie steps out, flushed. “Bye, babe.”

Masters is right behind her sporting sleepy eyes and a smug-as-shit smile. They just had sex.

“Ellie, just the person I want to talk to. I’m going over to a girl’s place. Should I bring something?”

“I don’t know. What’s the context?”

“We’re just hanging out.” Hopefully having sex later so I can wear the same smug-as-shit smile.

“Yeah, I’d definitely bring something. Maybe something to drink. A snack even. If you’re hungry, bring something for yourself.”

I know exactly what I’ll bring. “Thanks.”

Hammer’s at the base of the stairs looking offended. “I could have given you that advice.”

“Dude, fine. Next time I need some advice on obscure phrases for sex, I’ll come to you. Now get out of the way. I need to throw some clothes on and get to the Brew House.”

“
H
ey
, ladies.”

Two girls, one with purple hair who I saw walking with Luce the other day and a brunette, stand just inside the entrance to Luce’s apartment. Both faces hold a certain amount of skepticism, as if opening the door wider might let in a host of demons, not just one dude.

“I’m Sutton, this is Charity.” The purple-haired girl tips her head toward the brunette.

“Nice to meet you. I brought coffee.” I hold up the cardboard beverage container. “I wasn’t sure what you all wanted but the Brew House said Lucy usually drinks a sugar-free peppermint mocha. I got the fully leaded for you guys.”

“You went to the Brew House and asked what she likes to drink?” Sutton’s eyebrows shoot high onto her forehead.

Shit, have I made a mistake here? Should I have played it cooler? “Too stalkerish?”

“Too awesome.” Sutton drags me inside and slams the door shut.

“What else did you bring?” the girl with enough rings on her fingers to start a jewelry store asks. She takes the beverage holder from my hand, and Sutton reaches for the bag under my arm.

“He brought sugar-free ice cream,” announces Sutton.

The two stare at me like I’ve got two heads.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask with slight alarm. I look down to check whether my zipper is shut. Yup, the barn door is closed.

“Did you really bring over a container of sugar-free ice cream and a skinny latte with sugar-free flavoring?

I take a sip. “It tastes okay.” Fuck, coffee is disgusting but this is for Luce, so I’m suffering through it.

“What are you?”

“Are you real?”

Their skepticism is disconcerting. “I think the real question is what kind of guys are you dating that this is a phenomenon rather than an ordinary occurrence.”

Fortunately, Luce blows in before the two can dissect me any further. “Here.” I shove the drink into her hands. “For you.”

“Thanks.” She takes a deep sip and hands the drink back to me along with her backpack.

“How was mock trial?” Sutton asks.

“Terrible. Heather seems to have forgotten everything. I was off my game and kept missing objections. Emily was completely rattled and Randall had to leave the room four times to keep from yelling at us. I don’t get Heather. She’s like two different people. One day she performs flawlessly and two days later it’s like she doesn’t even remember that she’s on the team.”

“Maybe she’s a twin. My former teammate Masters has an identical twin. They used to do twin switches on us all the time.” I take Lucy’s coat and hang it on the hook, placing mine on top of it. There. It’s my jacket covering hers. Not Ace’s. Not the Ken doll’s from the coffee store. Mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

I’m an only child. I don’t like to share. Won’t share. Don’t believe in sharing.

Lucy shudders. “A twin? The world does not deserve two Heathers. But you know? I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s turn the television on.”

“You sure you want to watch that show?” Sutton asks in a stage whisper.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Luce responds with annoyance.

Sutton jerks her head toward me. “Because
he’s
here.”

“Don’t change your plans on my account.” I raise both hands.

Their version of a psychological drama is a show about wedding dresses. During the opening credits, my phone rings. I ignore it. Lucy is sitting only a half cushion away from me and I’m plotting how to eliminate the distance. With her two roommates watching my every move, I don’t make much progress.

Against my will, I’m drawn into the sad story about two women who can’t stand up to their moms and how they’re desperate for just a smile from the older women. I guess it
is
a psychological drama, but hell, I’d watch a dozen weepy chick flicks if it meant Lucy was within touching distance. Halfway through the second one, she’s pushed her bare feet under my thigh. For warmth, she informed me.
Whatever excuse you want to give, Goldie. I’m here to warm everything from your toes to your pussy to your delicious-looking mouth
. My phone beeps again.

“You can get that,” Lucy says.

“You’re sure? I don’t want to be rude.” I don’t really know the details of dating anymore. I know answering my cellphone when I was dating Megan was a huge pet peeve of hers.

“Yeah, I mean, the show’s pretty repetitive. Charity’s on her phone and Sutton’s doing homework.”

I slip out my phone. “It’s Hammer.” I turn the screen to her so she can read the
’sup?

Me:
Watching TV.

Hammer:
What do you think of spa day?

Me:
I guess?

Hammer:
Ask your panel of experts.

Me:
Panel of what?

Hammer:
Lucy and her friends. Ask them.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I turn to Lucy. “My roommate Hammer writes a man’s advice column for a women’s magazine. He wants me to consult you on whether his list of euphemisms for sex is any good. Feel free to say no.”

Charity slaps her hands against her face. “Oh my God. Is Harry Wright Jr., your roommate?” At my nod, she turns to Sutton and Lucy. “Harry writes ‘From My Three Eyes’ column in
Monologue
.”

“‘Three Eyes’? For real?” I had no idea what Hammer’s column was named.

“It’s cheeky. We know what it means.” She rolls her eyes at my shock.

Cheeky? Sounds vulgar. I realize my assumptions of women are all wrong, but that’s my own damn fault for not spending more time with them when they have their clothes on.

“I love ‘Three Eyes,’” Sutton exclaims. “I had no idea he was a football player or that he went to Western!”

“He wants to know if he can come over to hang.” I turn the phone again so Lucy can read his message, knowing she’ll appreciate it.
I’m available to meet with my new fan club. Tell me when and where.

“Sure, why not?”

“Tell him to bring us something,” Sutton declares. “What do we want?”

“We’re out of microwave popcorn,”

“On it,” I tell them.

Me:
Price of admission is popcorn. There are five of us.

Hammer:
Make that six. Masters is bored now that Ellie is at work.

“Okay if my buddy Masters comes over? His wife is working.”

“Sure. The more the merrier, but someone will have to sit on the floor.”

“Hammer can. He’s used to it. He has three sisters.”

I don’t know if he’s used to sitting on the floor, but he’ll do it and he’ll like it because I’m not moving my ass from Lucy’s sofa until she physically hoists me out of here.

I’m part of her life now. She’s not getting rid of me.

M
atty is too damn charming
for his own good, I decide the following morning.

And it isn’t his size or body or face that turns me on. It’s
him
. His easygoing nature, his willingness to answer anything put in front of him, the way he makes fun of himself. It’s so easy to be around him. He brought me sugar-free treats last night, watched four episodes of
Say Yes to the Dress,
and we laughed ourselves silly over Hammer’s list.

He left with his friends but not before giving me a long hug—one that left me in no doubt whether he’d have liked to stay the night. Both Charity and Sutton gave me a hard time, saying I was a fool not to take what was being offered to me on a silver platter.

I open my can of soup and consider the whole risk assessment thing. Sutton’s right. He doesn’t appear to be much of a risk at all, or no greater risk than any other guy I’ve gone out with before. And the rewards? Holy hell, the rewards are like having a million dollars at the bottom of a bungee jump. My stomach’s in my throat, but it’s totally worth it.

As I dump the can into the bowl, the wall phone rings. I pick it up, hoping it’s Matty. If it is, I know what I’m having right after lunch. I grin to myself.

My happiness fades when I hear the voice.

“It’s me. Let me up,” Ace says impatiently.

He texted a few times since the Tuesday night debacle, but I haven’t completely forgiven him. It was an asshole thing to do, and none of his texts have been apologies. I suppose he thinks I’m going to that movie with him tonight. I’m not. I scheduled a practice with Heather and Randall.

I feel a twinge of guilt that I broke my pact with Ace: he’d stay away from my roommates and I’d stay away from the football team.

It was easy up until I met Matty. After all, I lasted nearly three years unimpressed and unmoved by the entire team. And it’s not like there weren’t opportunities, but none of them interested me. If I’m going to date Matt, I’ll need to tell Ace. He deserves it.

However, Ace acting like an asshole doesn’t really mean we aren’t friends anymore. At some point, we’re going to have to hammer this issue out so we can go on being friends. I press ‘9’ on the phone for a few seconds to release the lobby door and let him in. “Hey, Sutton. Ace is here and I think he wants to talk about something.”

“Want me to disappear into the bedroom?” she asks from the couch where she’s been vegging out the past forty-five minutes.

“Do you mind?”

“Nah, I can work on my Roman history paper. Should I pop out and save you in say, twenty minutes?” She flicks the television off and pushes up off the sofa.

“Hopefully not.”

A knock on the door signals his arrival. Sutton mouths that I should yell if I need her.

I pull the door open to find Ace bracing himself with one hand against the wall. He looks worn and tired.

“Are you still drunk from last week?”

“I wish.” He raises his sunglasses so I get a good look at his bloodshot eyes. “Sorry about the other night.”

Finally, an apology. I forgive him immediately. No point in holding grudges, but hopefully he’ll tell me what’s wrong. Still, I tell him exactly what I thought of his behavior. “It was a shitty thing to do, but you’re forgiven.”

After all, I got to spend the night with Matt, no matter how chaste it was. And since then I’ve had my “spa day” with him. No, spa day does not work. The night spent with Matty was not full of zen moments and tinkling wind chimes but of hot, needy, sweaty excitement. I’ll need to report to Hammer that spa day as a euphemism for sex has to go. “Come on in.”

Ace sort of slumps in, walking heavily as if his joints hurt. He drops into a kitchen chair with a thud and leans back on two legs.

The kitchen set is my favorite piece of furniture in the whole apartment. Charity, Sutton, and I had driven to Chicago over Spring Break because that’s all Sutton and I could afford. Halfway there we stopped for lunch at a small-town diner and discovered they were renovating the place, getting rid of their old metal-rimmed tables and vinyl-covered chairs—the ones with the sparkly fabric underneath the plastic coating. We fell in love with them immediately and Charity’s parents paid to ship them back to our apartment.

The set will be Charity’s when we graduate, and I don’t want Ace breaking a chair leg before then. I hit him on the back of his head on my way to the microwave.

“Ouch! What the hell was that for?” he yelps. The chair, however, is safely back on all four legs.

“You were leaning back on the chair.” I stick my bowl of soup in the microwave and punch in the time. Turning around, I rest my butt against the counter and wait for Ace to tell me why he’s here. Other than to apologize.

He heaves a sigh. “I guess I deserve that.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on? First, you’re a total ass on Tuesday. If you didn’t want me to stay at your place, you should have told me.” I count off his sins on each finger. “Second, you send me lame ‘what’s up’ texts when you know you should be apologizing. If you don’t start talking, I’m calling your mom.”

“You got any more soup?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“Third, you’re ignoring me even though you’re about to eat my food, which is so rude there’s probably a picture of you next to the word in the dictionary right this minute.”

He waves his hands in surrender. “Yes. Fine, I’ll answer whatever you want, just…I need some food.”

The microwave beeps, and I carry the soup over to him. “Start talking.”

He stirs the beef stew around a few times, as if he can find the answer to his problem when the potatoes and carrots are positioned exactly right.

“Is it that your coach wants to replace you with a new player?”

His head jerks up. “Christ, is it already out?”

My heart squeezes at the pain in his voice “No. No, it isn’t. I guessed based on what you said the other night.” He gulps, and the look on his face reminds me of the time he showed up on my doorstep when we were ten to tell me his daddy was moving out. I say as gently as possible, “Eat your soup, Ace.”

I turn and busy myself with the routine of lunch. All the noises of meal prep—opening the can of soup, dumping it into the bowl, opening the microwave—sound overloud when there’s complete silence behind me.

When Ace does speak, his voice is tight and hard. “The Warriors are signing a five-star recruit, ranked number three in the country. He’s a quarterback.”

“So?” I carry my heated soup over to the table. “You won the National Championship. He can start after you graduate.”

“Coach says that I can either move to safety or play backup.” His mouth twists into a bitter line. He shuts his eyes, likely wanting this to be a bad dream he wakes from.

I reach over and squeeze his hand. “What do you want to do?”

His eyelids flip open. “I’m the quarterback. I want to stay the quarterback.”

“But if you don’t move, then you’ll be benched, is that right?”

He releases a harsh laugh. “You know what’s so ironic? In football, the bench is for starters. You have to earn that place on the bench. No backup, no clipboard Jesus, dares to sit there. Don’t know why they call it
benched
in football.”

I let him vent. If he’s come here for advice, I don’t know what to tell him, what to say. The only thing I can offer is a sympathetic ear. “What’s the rest of your team say?”

“Like Iverson?” he asks snidely.

I carefully set my spoon by my bowl and remind myself that Ace is like a wolf with his foot in a trap—hurt and angry. “Like Iverson. Like Jack. Like Ahmed. Like all of them, Ace. You’re a team. It’s not golf. You can’t go off on your own, score a bunch of points, and then be hailed as a winner. You have to play with twenty-one other people in order to prevail.”

“Whose side are you on?” His hands fist on the table. He’s not hearing anything I’m saying.

“Yours, of course.”

“Really?” He stares at me as if he somehow can divine all the dirty thoughts I have about Matty in my head. He leans forward, and there’s a look, an expression, that I don’t like.

“Ace—” I say warningly.

He ignores me. The angry part of the wounded animal is taking over. “I’m sure that you think you’re qualified to give me advice about sacrifice and the greater good because you’re too piss-ass scared to step outside your careful little box you’ve constructed for yourself, but I want something bigger for myself.”

I strive for calm. Ace is lashing out, saying something he’ll regret and apologize for tomorrow. This is nothing.

“I know you’re hurting, JR, but—”

“Fuck.” He rises from the table so fast the chair tips over and soup splashes over the rims of the bowls. “I don’t know why I came here. You don’t understand. You’ll never understand.”

He slams the door so hard my jacket falls off the hook.

Sutton pokes her head out as soon as the apartment door slams shut.

“What was that all about?”

“Ace is having a difficult time,” I hedge. At the sink, I grab a sponge and start mopping up the mess. “He and the coach are having a disagreement.”

“Didn’t Ace just win them a championship?” Sutton pitches in without asking. I throw her a grateful look as she holds up the bowls so I can clean underneath them.

“That’s what I said, but I guess the coach is thinking about a new direction. Already. And Ace isn’t taking it well.”

“I bet he’s mad about the Matty Iverson thing, too.”

“I didn’t even get into that,” I admit. “Ace was too angry, and he stomped out of here before I could even bring it up.”

“I don’t know why you put up with him,” Sutton mutters.

“Right now? I don’t either.” My friendship with Ace started so long ago I can barely remember a time that he wasn’t part of my life, but even childhood bonds can get so strained that they break.

“At least tell me that you’re still thinking about Matty.”

I raise rueful eyes to hers. “I can’t stop.”