Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (3 page)

“Son?” Coach Lowe interrupts, tone mild as if he hasn’t just released napalm in his office.

“Yeah, Coach?”

“You’re dismissed.”

Okay then. I heave myself out of the chair and walk toward the door. Maybe if I turn around and come back in, the conversation will be completely different.

“Mr. Iverson,” he calls. I turn back just in time to see the patch sailing across the room. I catch it reflexively. “You forgot something.”

W
hen I get home
, I find my two roommates installed in front of the television eating ice cream and watching
Say Yes to the Dress.
While none of us is even dating, we seem curiously addicted to the show. I think it’s because we have shitty relationships with our moms and this show is all about the momma and daughter drama.

“Tell me there’s a half gallon left of that.” I don’t wait for an answer but throw my backpack on the chair and start rummaging in the freezer. If there was ever a night for real cream, sugar, butter and eggs, tonight was it. I need some relief after talking with Matt Iverson. His number has implanted itself in my head followed by the words
call me.

But I can’t eat sugar unless I want to risk sending myself into a diabetic coma, so I resign myself to the sugar-free, fat-free frozen yogurt, which I tell myself is just as good. Just like turning Matt down was the right choice. I stare at my frozen yogurt container with a frown.

“I was going to ask how your mock trial practice went, but since you’re shoving yogurt into your face like tomorrow is the last day on earth, I’m guessing it was shitty?” Sutton rests her pointed chin on the edge of the sofa. Her streaked violet hair clashes against the rich red velvet of the cushion.

“Shitty is too nice of a word to describe how poorly it went.” I throw myself into one of the two Papasan chairs that Sutton contributed to the décor and dig into the yogurt. The icy tartness hits my tongue, and some of my agitation melts away. “But it’s early. We still have a lot of time.” Regionals are right before Spring Break so there are nearly two whole months for us to get our act together.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Charity, my other roommate, informs me.

I pause, my spoon halfway to my mouth, and narrow my eyes. “Why not?”

“Remember 1C complaining about cockroaches?”

“What now?” 1C is an apartment inhabited by two Stepford Wives in the making—both blondes with stick straight hair, identically styled. Every time I’ve seen them, they’re wearing headbands. Who above the age of eleven still wears headbands? Even if their matching hairstyles didn’t remind me of the plastic women from the infamous novel, the robotic looks on their faces and the fake smiles they wear creep nearly everyone out.

But the number one reason we don’t like 1C is because they complain all of the time, and they regularly canvas the apartment complex to get others to sign on to their complaints. They’ve complained about everything from noise (it’s a goddamned college apartment complex) to garbage (too many pizza boxes stuffed down the trash chute) to non-resident visitors after ten (again, we’re goddamned college students).

“They got enough people to sign their maintenance petition, so an exterminator crew is coming next Tuesday. You can keep your stuff here, but you’ll have to find a place to stay.”

I do a quick calculation in my head. Five days. I’m not even convinced that they saw a cockroach. I don’t like changes in my routine. I can already feel my anxiety ratcheting up. Change is not my favorite thing in the world. I live by my routine. Hell, my health depends on it. “That’s bullshit.”

“I know,” Charity says glumly. “I’m staying at the house. I asked if you could come, but they’re so strict. We’re still in pledge mode, so only full sisters can stay.” Charity belongs to the Alpha Phi sorority whereas Sutton and I are those Goddamned Independents or GDIs as Charity calls us affectionately. I’d have pledged a house if it didn’t cost an arm and a leg. I have to save those limbs to pay for graduate school.

“Where are you staying?” I ask Sutton.

“I’ve decided that Luke is worth a second night,” she admits. “Basically I’m sexing him up so I have a place to stay. Let’s hope he doesn’t expect a third time around because if tomorrow is anything like Saturday night, I’m going to have to diddle myself to have an orgasm once he falls asleep.”

“I think I’d rather stay here and be exterminated.” I grimace. “I suppose I can stay with JR. He’ll be back by then and there’s so many bedrooms in his house that at least one will be free.”

“Speaking of our vaunted Western State Warriors, guess who finally showed up in my Public Safety class.” Charity waggles her eyebrows.

Apparently someone hot and sexy. “Dunno. Coach Lowe?” I tease.

“No! Matt Iverson.”

“Who’s that?” Sutton doesn’t know a thing about football. She fell asleep during the one game we watched together here in our apartment. And the live games? Forget about it. She left after the first quarter. Charity sometimes attends with her sorority sisters if it’s part of some fraternity exchange party but otherwise, they have zero interest in the game. The players, on the other hand? They are interesting but JR—or “Ace,” as everyone here at Western calls him—and I made a pact. No pissing in the other’s pool. I don’t date football players and he doesn’t mess with my roommates.

“He’s on the defense,” I explain. “Linebacker. Will be a pro after his senior year.” I look at my spoon and then down into the half-empty carton of frozen yogurt. I should probably stop.

“He’s this huge mountain of sweet male meat,” Charity shares with Sutton. “He’s got this longish black hair that stops around here.” She waves her hands under her chin. “And the bluest eyes. I swear they’re fake. Are they?” The question is directed at me.

I drag my attention away from the icy treat and to my two roommates who are looking at me with intense interest. “I have no idea. I’ve never talked to him. Ace hangs out with the offense, mostly Ahmed and Jack Cameron, more recently.” Ahmed’s the running back, and Jack Cameron is a new guy—a tight end with magic hands that never seem to drop a pass and with sticky feet that somehow always manage to stay inbounds. “I think Iverson is best friends with Hammer Wright and Knox Masters. According to Ace, anyway. I don’t hang out with his teammates.”

Well, I did once. Operative word being
once
. The one time I went to the Gas Station, the preferred hangout place for the football team, Ace was swallowed up by well-wishers. He forgot I was there, and I had little interest in being shoved around by the mass of people trying to slap his back.

He’d apologized the next day, but I didn’t go out with him again. When we do hang out, it’s usually here although I’ve been over to his house a few times. I try to avoid that because nine times out of ten, someone is having sex in the living room or the kitchen. JR—I mean Ace—says it’s because sex is an athletic activity, no different than lifting or running.

“Ohhhhh,” Sutton breathes out. “I had Intro to Communications with Hammer Wright first semester sophomore year.”

“Sutton, are you blushing?” Charity exclaims. Sutton is not a blusher. She can rip off the bawdiest statement as if she’s standing in church reciting the Lord’s Prayer, so this slight reddening of her cheeks is highly unusual. “You are! What did you and Hammer get up to?”

“Nothing.” Sutton grins ruefully. “Unfortunately. I threw myself at him several times, but he never noticed.”

“He’s a dog. You are better off,” I offer comfortingly. I don’t know the defense well, but most of the single guys, Ace included, freely partake of what their elevated social status provides—a never-ending line of college girls wanting to know what it’s like to sleep with a star. It’s one reason I’d never date a football player. They don’t know how to hit the “off” button once they’re not on the field anymore. Life’s a big fat game to them, and girls are just objects they move around on the board.

“A hot one,” Sutton admits.

“And his hot dog has probably been licked so many times he’s on the WHO list of dangerous diseases,” I retort.

Charity waves her hands, the multitude of bangles clanging cheerfully against each other. Charity would never be able to sneak up on anyone. She wears too much jewelry. “Who cares? I can’t stop staring at this Matt guy. He’s always wearing short-sleeved shirts, no matter how cold it is outside, and when he takes notes, his biceps muscle flexes. I swear the room gets ten degrees warmer when he walks in. I’d love to give him a little ride.”

“It’d only be for one night,” I caution.

Charity shrugs. “Again, who cares?”

Sutton disagrees. “Here’s my theory. I think guys do one-night stands because their egos can’t take the blows that a more sober second hookup would deliver. They don’t want to hear they are bad in bed, so they do one-time-only events.”

“What’s our excuse for our lack of regular companionship?” I joke.

None of us has had a decent relationship since we came to college. I broke up with my high school boyfriend a month into my freshman year. Sutton has tried to date guys on and off, but when none of those relationships panned out, she’s settled for random hookups with guys like Luke. Charity was madly in love with one of the Western basketball players, but he graduated in December and hasn’t called her since, thus confirming my anti-athlete bias.

“We’re looking for the unicorn,” Charity says. “The guy who’s a good lay and decent out of bed.”

“I had a good lay once,” Sutton informs us. “Two years ago. Spring Break. Greece.” She fires out details like they’re bullets shooting from a gun. “That guy from the Philippines had a tongue like a snake.”

“That’s a terrible visual.” I shudder.

Sutton is undeterred. “It felt amazing. He licked places I didn’t even know had nerve endings.”

“Two years ago was your last good sexual experience?” Charity asks with genuine concern.

Sutton nods. “With a partner. I can get myself off fine, but that’s about two minutes and then what?”

I nod. She speaks the truth. I miss having sex with a guy I have feelings for. I think that’s why my relationships here at Western have failed. I can’t summon up the requisite…passion for any guy. I keep trying. Keith is the fourth guy I’ve
tried
with, but the sex is so bland I’m better off masturbating. Alone.

Charity shrugs. “I’ve had good sex with partners. You have to be more vocal and take charge though. Most of these guys think just jabbing you is going to get it done. Not to mention the opposite end of the spectrum, where they think they’re awesome and want to show off their amazing moves.”

“No, the worst is whiskey dick where they keep going and going and you’re willing to do anything for them to either come or get the fuck off,” Sutton interjects.

“Jesus, we’re jaded.” Maybe I should start looking at sex like exercise. Lord knows, with the increased stress in my life from mock trial, my glucose levels are going to be completely out of whack. I’m going to need to do something besides eating right to manage my blood sugars. And gobbling a tubful of frozen yogurt isn’t the way to go about it. I get up and shove the nearly empty container back into the freezer.

“It’s all part of growing up. Welcome to adulthood,” Sutton jokes.

Sadly, though, I think she’s not too far off the mark, which is yet another reason why turning down the gorgeous guy at the Brew House was a good idea regardless of how sultry his lips looked forming my name or how his rough hands scraped against my softer, more tender skin. I have a sinking feeling he’s good in bed. He’s got a way with his body—graceful despite the size—that said he was comfortable in his own skin.

“What’re you thinking about now?” Sutton asks.

I give myself a little shake. I really need to stop dwelling on this guy no matter how blue—
Oh, god.
I turn back to my roommates.

“Some guy hit on me at the Brew House,” I say slowly as the puzzle pieces click together. Blue eyes. Jet black hair. Muscles so nice they’d get a nun excited.

“Jon Cryer or Charlie Sheen?” Sutton is a film major.

I make a face. “How about neither?”

“Okay, pick your own look-a-like actor.”

“How about, instead of an actor, I pick Western State football player. I didn’t recognize him last night without the eye black and helmet. Plus, he was wearing glasses.”

Sutton hoots. “He Clark Kented you!”

Jingle. Jingle.
Charity waves her hand at Sutton to get her to stop laughing. “Seriously, Matt Iverson hit on you last night? What’d you say? Are you going out with him?”

Sutton jumps in. “I know exactly what she said. He’s not my type.” She turns to me. “Am I right?”

I shrug. “So I have a type. Sue me. I don’t think liking a certain flavor of unsweetened yogurt is a bad thing.”

“Sure, if you’re eating
yogurt,”
Charity cries in dismay. “But this is prime, Grade A manflesh.”

“We need to hold an intervention.” Sutton sighs. “What was the excuse you gave?”

I make a face at Sutton who, in turn, sticks out her tongue at me. Fine, I did give him an excuse. “I was working on my mock trial stuff. Plus, he seems like he’d take a lot of effort. Doesn’t matter now. Ace and I have the pact. No football players for me.”

“There are eighty guys on that team. Who cares what Ace thinks?” Charity’s long hoop earrings swing as she bobs her head in indignation.

“Agreed. Besides, Ace just made that stupid pact up so he can keep you to himself.”

I reach into the cupboard so Sutton doesn’t see me roll my eyes. I’ve heard her theory before about Ace’s crush on me. Sounds like she’s still clinging to it despite the number of times Ace has been in this very apartment talking about the girls he’s been banging.

Charity is beside herself with disappointment. “Other than your extracurricular activities, sixteen hours of school, and twenty hours of work, surely you could make time for someone who looks like that. I’d bang him so hard.”

“Then you call him. Here’s his number.” I stomp over to my bag, pull out the paper he scrawled his digits on and shove it toward her.

“He gave you his number?” Sutton says in disbelief.

“Yup.”

“I give up on you.” She turns around and folds her arms across her chest in disgust.

“You’re the one who said good-looking guys are probably bad in bed,” I remind her, ignoring that inner crone voice yelling,
Liar!
“Besides, most of the single football players go through women like tissues. Look at Ace.” I’m gratified when both of my roommates give reluctant nods of understanding. “Matt just gives off this vibe of someone whose default toward women is always ‘on.’ He’d probably flirt with a tree if he knew it was female.”