Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (31 page)
Read Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) Online
Authors: Jen Frederick
“
T
hunderstruck” is
the song that plays before the Florida Gators and the Alabama Crimson Tide take the field. When future hall of fame John Smoltz walked out of the bullpen to close out a game for the Braves, the distinctive licks hailed down from the sound system and the crowd screamed
thunder
in unison.
It’s the soundtrack of the beat down the assholes in
Varsity Blues
receive after their trip to the strip club on Friday night, like none of them had ever seen tits or ass before. Shit, even the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders run out to the fucking song. I’ve kind of hated it, mostly because we don’t play the sick grind when we run onto the field.
Right now, as the sun peeks over the top of the stands and lays a solid ray of love on the field of my greatest accomplishments to date, and the girl sitting by me waxes poetic about the greatest game in the world, I get it.
Her.
This one.
The universe is talking to me. I don’t need lightning or a tornado throwing a car at my head. I don’t need a running back barreling through the line at top speed to drive home the message. It’s in the curve of her cheek, the delicate arch of her neck. It’s in her sweet legs and the longing in her face. She loves this place as I love it. She understands that winning at this game is about the head and the heart, not just the body.
I’d like to press her down on the concrete risers and show her exactly how well my head, heart and body work in unison. I breathe deep and try to get a grip on my rampaging emotions.
“And what about you? What are your plans?”
“I want to get a job. Not have to rely on my parents. Their...financial support is like a choker rather than a buoy.” She scrapes a hand over her head and down her ponytail. “God, I don't know why I'm telling you this.”
Because you know it’s me. That I’m the one for you, just as you’re the one for me. Like recognizes like.
However, she’s not seeing it as clearly. Already I can see her withdrawing, a little embarrassed by what she found herself sharing.
“It's the seats. The air is too thin up here.” I squint down toward the field. “The reason that you like these seats up here is because you’re lightheaded and possibly unconscious during most of the game, making all the shitty plays seem like a bad dream.” I stretch out my legs. “Worse there’s no leg room.”
“You’re supposed to stand,” she chides with gentle mocking. “You can’t sit while the mighty Warriors take the field of battle.”
I laugh. When she grins back at me in return I feel winded, and not from any exercise I’ve done this morning.
“I think it’s okay to sit during timeouts,” I manage to joke. I’m glad I’m sitting down, because if I’d been standing when she threw me that smile, I’d have fallen over.
“I can’t see you resting much.”
“I may have been a headache for my mom,” I admit.
Another smile, only a little one this time, tips the corner of her lips. I guess the idea of me being a hellion amuses her. I fold my hands behind my head. From my vantage point, I appear a little under a foot taller than her.
“You been here long?”
“Long enough to get worn out watching you run the stairs.”
My routine is five times around the field, and then up and down the stadium steps for thirty minutes. She must have been here a while. At my raised eyebrow, she merely shrugs, but the light pink that shows up on her cheeks gives her away. Warmth having nothing to do with the early morning sun settles over me. I’m not the only one feeling something here.
“Running these steps is good for my heart. As a bonus it sweats the stupid out of me.” I wink but then realize I’m wearing my aviators and trucker hat so that action is for nothing. For the best, really. Winking can be a douchebag move at times.
“Do you have a lot of stupid to sweat out?” She holds back a laugh.
I grin back. “It regenerates every day.”
This delights her and she finally allows the stifled laugh to escape. I can only stare at her for a second or two before I have to look away. She’s so goddamned beautiful it’s getting hard to sit here without looking like a total perv.
“They say admitting the problem is half the solution,” she agrees.
“The running is to get rid of the other half.”
At six fifteen, the sprinklers come on, spraying the turf. The artificial grass doesn’t need the irrigation to grow but it cools down the field and reduces the turf burn. An idea surfaces and I push to my feet. Leaning down, I hold out my hand. “Race you to the bottom.”
She stares at my big paw and then into my aviators. “I can’t.”
“No one will know.” And if they find out, no one will protest. After all, what will the team do? Suspend me? I wiggle my fingers.
Come on.
She sighs and taps her knee, the one with the scar. “I really can’t race you. My knee might give out. I’m fine on flat surfaces, but running down a hundred rows would be asking for something bad to happen.”
Aw, fuck. That was stupid of me. “Then walk down with me.” She hesitates. “I’m not leaving until you slide on the field with me.”
“Gosh, what a wonderful and charming invitation.” She rests her hands on her hips. Whether she intends it or not, the action frames her perky tits nicely. I use the cover of my sunglasses to appreciate how generous the good Lord was with her.
“You know you want to,” I coax.
She purses her lips. The way that the center plumps out makes me bite my lower lip, to stop myself from leaning forward to see how that ripe bit of pink flesh would feel sucked into my mouth.
In a quick move I don’t see coming, she vaults the seat backs in front of us and races down the steps. Bad knee, my ass.
I clamber down behind her, and although I could overtake her, I hover in the background ready to catch her if she falls. Except I get the sense she’d rather have a hot poker up her ass than ask me for help.
“Slowpoke,” she says, full of smiles, when we reach the field.
“Did you hustle me?” I ask in mock indignation.
“Yup,” she replies without a shred of remorse. “Does that mean the turf contest is off?”
“No way.” I pluck the T-shirt out from the waistband of my shorts and tug it on. She makes a sound and I like to think it means disappointment, but since wet grass burn is no laughing matter, I cover up. “Longest slide wins,” I tell her. I swing my arms in warm up.
“What am I winning?” she asks.
I grin at her cockiness. “I’ll let you run with me tomorrow.”
“I can’t wait to lose then.” She rolls her eyes.
“Personal pride, babe. That’s what we’re competing for.” I’m not making dumb bets. I don’t need a bet to get what I want. After we’re done here, I’ll take her out to breakfast and find out everything about her. This is for the fun of it, because I want to see the longing in her face satisfied.
“You first then. I don’t want you to accuse me of cheating.” She nudges her shoulder against my arm, and that small, innocent contact is like a cannon right to my nervous system. I’m on the edge of obliteration but I want more. Now is not the time. The compression shorts under my running gear can only hold so much in.
“Don’t be sad when you lose. I’ll take you out for breakfast either way,” I reassure her and then take off before she can turn me down. At the twenty, I launch myself and slide a good seven yards.
“That’s not enough for a first down,” she yells from the end zone.
“Let’s see what you got!” I holler back. Rolling over onto my side, I prop myself up on an elbow and gesture that it’s her turn.
She places one foot in front of the other and swings her arms a few times for momentum. She sprints down, leaping forward and then slides to a stop about a foot past me. Damn. I drag her back by the ankle so that her face is next to mine.
Drops of water cling to her grinning face. I lean forward, ready to lick the moisture from her face but I stop myself when she winces.
“Your knee okay?” I ask, worried that she’d hurt herself.
“It’s fine.” Her chest rises and falls as she gathers her breath. I have to force myself to look away. Rolling on my back, I listen as her breath evens out.
Apparently the universe’s gift requires some work. I’m not afraid of hard work. As the great Vince Lombardi said, only in the dictionary is work preceded by success. Rolling on my back, I stare up at the gorgeous blue sky and revel in the fact that what I’d waited for arrived.
“So you love football, huh?”
She shrugs and turns her face to hide her smile. “It’s okay.”
Yeah, and I’m not Knox Masters, decorated defensive end, captain of the Western State Warriors, and projected top ten NFL draft pick.
J
en Frederick is
the USA Today bestselling author of Unspoken, part of the Woodlands series, and Sacked, part of the Gridiron series. She is also the author of the Charlotte Chronicles and has had several books on the Kindle Top 100 list. She lives in the Midwest with a husband who keeps track of life’s details while she’s writing, a daughter who understands when Mom disappears into her office for hours at a time, and a rambunctious dog who does neither.
C
opyright
© 2016 by Jen Frederick
Cover Photo © Michael Stokes Photography
Cover Design by Meljean Brook
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