Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2) Page 13

  “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.”

  15

  Matty

  “Does he?” That asshole. I can’t believe he’s breaking the locker room code. Maybe it’s all friendship to Luce, but Ace hasn’t gotten the message. Jack’s not this way with his sister, Ellie, and Hammer’s been trying to pawn off his little sister to any teammate willing, despite the unwritten locker room rule of no sisters, no girlfriends. None of us has taken him up on this. His little sister is fucking terrifying.

  She gives a small, noncommittal shrug as if she’s slightly embarrassed she brought it up, but now that it’s hanging out there, I want to address it. At least I know what some of the things are in her con column.

  “I don’t know that I like hookups more or less than any other guy,” I say diplomatically. But what in the hell am I supposed to say? I’ve had my share of hookups, but what college guy hasn’t?

  She makes a humming sound, which doesn’t sound like approval or disagreement.

  “I mean, I’m not a virgin, and I don’t believe in the whole myth that sex saps your energy.”

  She hums again. Christ, could she say a few words? I’m dying here. If I had a collar, I’d be tugging on it. “I make sure everyone has a good time. Remember rule number one?” She nods, another wordless gesture. “You can jump in here anytime.”

  Lucy swallows and smiles a perverse little grin. “No, I was enjoying the show.

  “You little shit.” I grab her knee and squeeze it through the blankets. She doesn’t even flinch.

  She takes another baby sip of her orange juice. “Can I ask you another question? I don’t want you to be offended.”

  “Well, we are besties…” I gesture for her to continue.

  “Why is it so many of you athletes are such…well, players? Ace showed me that Instagram feed. I agree hookups aren’t a bad thing. I’ve had a few of my own, but that many?”

  My first reaction is to growl at the thought she’s had any guy but me, but then I realize how frickin’ hypocritical that is. It never occurred to me that the multitude of times I’ve had my picture taken with a pretty girl would slot me into the risk category.

  I scratch my head, trying to think of the most non-offensive way to explain this. Because me saying I just take what’s offered to me on a nonstop basis isn’t going to win points. Not with this girl. Hell, probably not with any girl I wanted to have a relationship with.

  And is that what I want? A relationship?

  I guess so, because I wouldn’t be chasing after Luce this hard if all I wanted was a lay. I knew where to get that, how it feels to have that non-emotional hookup. Somewhere along the line, maybe after I heard her sigh the second time at the coffee house, I thought I want to be the one to make this girl sigh with happiness, not with frustration. Then she slayed me with her soft eyes and her smile and her hilarious risk assessment ideas.

  I need to find the right words to make her understand that I belong in the reward column.

  “Football is hard,” I start. “To be a college athlete at this level, football is your number one focus. Sure we say we’re student athletes, but we spend six hours a day doing football crap and two hours doing schoolwork. Our job is on the field. That’s what we’re paid to do. We go to practice, travel to the games, work with the trainers, watch film, and when we’re not doing those things, we have to be lifting, so there’s not enough time to develop a relationship.”

  “But they do happen. I mean, Ahmed’s been dating someone his whole time here.”

  “Ahmed’s girlfriend is one he had from high school. In fact, most of the girlfriends are pre-college. Or maybe the guy met his girl during his redshirt season where he didn’t travel and wasn’t playing every weekend.”

  Her head tilts to the side as she considers my words. “So you’re saying it’s just easier to sleep with multiple people? Why not the same one over and over?”

  “Because you sleep with anyone more than a few times and it gets messy. Feelings start to develop and then everyone ends up unhappy.”

  Her voice is low, soft when she says the next unexpected statement. “You sound like you’re speaking from personal experience.”

  I swallow and look away from her. Her words stir up a few uncomfortable memories. But somehow I find myself spilling them. My mouth opens, and the words fall out, as if I need her to know that I tried hard to be something other than the prototypical college athlete. “I dated a girl during my redshirt year. You don’t do much as a redshirt because you aren’t going to see one down of football on the field. The most important task is strength and conditioning and learning the playbook, but it’s not the same thing as actually playing. She was a fun chick and the relationship thing seemed doable. Then I started the second game of my redshirt freshman year after Donovan Highsmith got injured. I never gave the position back. Coach noticed me and told me I had a real chance of going pro, but I had to give it my all.”

  “And your girlfriend didn’t understand?”

  “She…yeah, that’s a nice way of saying it.” Megan, my only college girlfriend, had turned from being a sweet, fun girl into an unhappy, demanding one. I could never spend enough time with her.

  She wanted to go out and I wanted to go to bed at nine so I could be alert and energized for a 6 a.m. run. The only time I drank was Saturday after a game. Never before. My classes were designed to accommodate my football practice and playing schedule. She wanted me to take classes with her.

  In the end, she spent more time screaming at how horrible a boyfriend I was than we did having sex. “I disappointed her a lot. Didn’t want to do that again. I was a shitty, shitty boyfriend,” I finish. And that wasn’t the worst of it, but Luce doesn’t need to know the details of my failure.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think your philosophy not only makes sense but is kind of honorable.” Her hand creeps across the covers to touch mine.

  Her words lift somethi
ng inside I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying for a while now. My breakup with Megan hadn’t felt honorable at the time but, looking back, it was the best thing for both of us. I fold my fingers around Luce’s, hoping I’m not holding too tight. Hoping she doesn’t realize how I’d like to have her hand in mine for the foreseeable future.

  “So where’s your ex now?”

  I shrug. “No clue. She graduated. She was a year older than me and I’m a fourth year junior. I suppose she has a job and is somewhere living an adult, responsible life, dating junior execs and middle managers.” At least I hope she is. “How about you? Any guys moping around campus because you broke their hearts?”

  “Nope.” She pops the last bit of dry, uninteresting toast in her mouth before answering. “My sole boyfriend was in high school and he broke up with me my third week of school. He goes to Cal Poly and decided he didn’t want to try out the long-distance relationship thing.”

  “That sucks,” I say, but in reality I’m thrilled.

  “You look torn up over it,” she says sarcastically.

  Have I mentioned how much I enjoy it when she busts my chops? Because I do. I grin unrepentantly. “I’m sorry you got hurt, but not sorry you’re single.”

  “That’s honest, at least.” She tugs her fingers, and I reluctantly release her. The plate is empty, and it’s obvious she’s getting fidgety. I guess I can’t keep Goldie here if she wants to leave, no matter how much I’d like to. “It doesn’t really matter whether you’re a player or a monk,” she says.

  “Are we back to the risk assessment?”

  “Partly. Tell me what else you’re interested in other than football. Because Ace? Ahmed? Jack? The only thing they ever talk about is football.”

  “Hey, it’s not my problem the offense is full of guys who are one dimensional. I’ve got other interests,” I protest and get to my feet.

  “Like what?”

  She doesn’t even look at me. Under her disinterest, my near nudity feels awkward and embarrassing. I swipe the flannel sleep pants off the floor and shove my legs into them.