Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2) (9 page)

“Look, Tantric sex is all about being in tune with your partner. First you clear away all the distractions. Turn off your phones, computers, televisions. Then you sit her on your lap, legs around your waist.” Hammer demonstrates the leg position in the mirror. I huff through two more lifts as he continues. “You stare at each other and every time she breathes, she’s supposed to rock against you. Pretty soon, you’re matching your breathing to hers.” My mind begins to match Hammer’s words with images of Lucy and me in my bedroom. Her long, sexy legs draped on either side of my hips, rocking her wet pussy against—

I drop the barbell with a clatter. “Will you shut up? I can’t lift 500 pounds with a hard-on.”

Hammer smirks. “Can’t have an orgasm by just breathing, huh?” I give him a one-fingered salute. “See, this is proof you need to have sex. That’s why you’re in college, dude. That’s why we play football. For the Grade-A pussy.”

I sigh. “Can we get back to the chick in Ace’s locker? Do you know her?”

Hammer is relieved to get away from the terror of dating and immediately answers. “She’s blond and hot. Do I need to know anything more about her?”’

“That’s all you got?”

“Her name is Lucy.”

I spin toward him, my mouth falling open. “What?”

It can’t be. I toss my towel into the bin and sprint out of the weight room. There’s a small group in the locker room but not enough to deter me. I arrow my way to Ace’s locker and shove his jersey aside. Sure enough, taped onto the back of his locker is a picture of Lucy, her arm thrown around Ace’s waist, looking into the camera and smiling as if she’s just had a good laugh. And Ace is gazing down at her like she just told him he’s going to play in the NFL.

Oh, this is so fucked up on so many levels I can’t even begin to count them.

W
ord of Ace’s
situation spreads throughout the team like a nasty virus. Ace didn’t keep his voice down when he confronted Coach Lowe, and by noon, everyone knew the general gist of the problem because locker room gossip moves fast. The assistant coaches were dispatched to make sure each player understood that if one word leaked from this locker room about the quarterback situation, that player’s scholarship would be immediately pulled—no football, no college education, just a boot in the ass kicking you as far away from the Warriors as possible.

No assistant came to me. No, I received a special ass kicking from Coach Lowe for not handling my part of the deal with any kind of finesse.

“This is a surgical procedure, not a goddamned hatchet job,” he bellowed as he stood over me. Coach Lowe made sure that I was sitting so when his saliva-covered words rained out of his mouth, my head was in a good position to catch it all. He spent a good thirty minutes ranting on how inept I was and how I’d get the captaincy as soon as his ass turned green.

I bit back some stupid comeback about how his diet wouldn’t affect my play on the field, and just bent over and took whatever he had to give me. He’s my coach, after all. His word is law, and his verbal beat downs are the kind where you just lie down in an awkward position and hope he maybe feels weird as he fucks you.

After he wound down, he sent me out to reinforce the message from the assistant coaches—alone. No Hammer, Masters, Darryl. By myself, I tracked down and talked to every defensive player, all thirty-eight of them, even the walk-ons. It takes me five hours.

By the time I arrive home, I’m exhausted and pissed off and not in any kind of mood for Hammer to be sitting in my room. It used to be that I could go to Masters' apartment—he has a single at the top of the house—but now that he’s married, Ellie’s up there and the door is always locked because they’re fucking.

There’s no damn privacy in this house.

“What’s up?” I ask curtly, throwing myself into my desk chair.

“You need a beer.” He tosses me one.

I don’t break down at the sight of the cold booze, but it’s a close call. I twist open the cap and drain half the bottle. “Shit, that tastes good.”

“Where were you? We’ve been looking all over for you.”

I give him a “you’re shitting me” look. “Coach had me go to every defensive player to remind them to keep their yaps shut over this. Remember?” I spoke to Hammer first because he was loitering in the locker room waiting for me.

“You just got back?”

I nod and take another long draught. “Caught one dumbshit posting to a message board pretending to be an anonymous booster.”

“Ah hell. What did you do?”

“I told him that even when he isn’t on the field, he’s still a Warrior and a member of the team. We wouldn’t be on the opposing team sidelines telling them all our secrets during the game and we don’t after, either.”

Hammer pauses with his beer at his lips. “Shit, man, that’s good.”

“I also told him that if he screwed up again, we’d make him run suicides nude in the quad until he puked.”

“An appeal to his emotional connection to the team followed up with a threat of public humiliation. I like it.” Hammer tips his bottle toward mine. “While you were out doing Coach’s dirty work, Darryl, Masters and I compiled this.”

He hands me a folder. “More stuff on Mr. Texas?” I ask. I set down my bottle and flip open the folder. It contains a class schedule, a work schedule, and a couple notebook sheets with meticulously printed information. The handwritten notes had to come from Darryl, our engineering major.

“It’s everything you need to know about Lucy Watson. She works at the Brew House, takes sixteen hours, is a junior Public Policy major who enjoys spending her free time doing something called mock trial. She lives with two other girls—both babes—and weirdly has had no serious boyfriends since she’s been at Western.” Hammer reels off Lucy’s autobiography like he’s a narrator on the History Channel. “Ahmed said she broke up with her high school boyfriend before parents’ week her freshman year and that she’s had a series of hookups, mostly with a few fraternity guys her roommate Charity introduced her to, along with some classmates. There’s a list in there.” He nods his head toward the folder.

The last piece of paper is a sticky with seven lines on it, which must be names, but I can’t really decipher Ahmed’s handwriting. I carefully shut the folder so I don’t give in to the urge to rip the yellow sticky into tiny pieces.

“How does Ahmed know her?” I try to school my voice into being as disinterested as possible.

Hammer spreads his hands in disbelief, the beer bottle dangling precariously between his index and middle finger. “He says Ace and her are friends. Childhood buddies. Couldn’t believe it because she’s hot and there’s no way you can be friends with someone that hot, even if you’re Ace, right?”

I nod because Hammer’s speaking the truth. There’s no way I could only be friends with Lucy.

“So he just barfed up this information to you?”

“Not exactly. His girlfriend was there when I asked about the picture in Ace’s locker. She kind of told me everything. Ahmed just wrote it down.”

I toss the folder onto the desk, feeling guilty and a little dirty for knowing this stuff about Lucy. I don’t even ask where they got the other information. There’s always someone around who’s willing to bend the rules when a Warrior’s in the equation.

B
y Tuesday
, I’m a jittery mess and I can’t even blame it on my diabetes. The sad fact is that I can’t get Matt Iverson out of my head. He’s dominating my thoughts when I should be focusing on mock trial and figuring out just how I’m going to fix our terrible team dynamic.

Over the weekend, I created a few instructional sheets for Heather—a list of courtroom procedures along with a detailed list of the objections she could make. She only needs to make a couple for the judges to give her a good score. Tonight I’m going to work on crafting a tight direct examination.

She may not want them, but I’m doing this stuff anyway.

But mock trial doesn’t hold my interest long enough, and Matt creeps in again. I know I’m right about him—he’s bad news for me. He might be the sweetest guy in the world for the right girl, but I’m not her. My mom might be easily turned by a pretty head, but I’m not, no matter how powerful Matt’s sex appeal. He’s like an Exxon Mobile disaster, spilling his pheromones all over the ocean of female good intentions.

Good sex is not a reason to date anyone. To have a hookup? Yes. To date? No.

So just have a hookup
, an inner voice suggests.

Because good sex leads to wanting more, and the one vibe I don’t get from Matt is that he’s a second- and third-round sort of guy. There are too many checks in the risk column and too few in the reward column.

As I’m putting on my coat, the worst thought occurs to me. What if he spots me going to Ace’s house and thinks I’m stalking him? Hurriedly I grab Sutton’s wool pea coat and tug a black cap over my head, hoping that it’s enough to render me unrecognizable.

In the few times I’ve been to Ace’s, I’ve never seen Matt, but today would be the day for that, wouldn’t it? I can just see him saying, “Hey, Luce”—and of course it would be ‘Luce’ because my two syllable nickname is one too many for Matt—”Hey, Luce, I didn’t realize you wanted my address instead of my phone number. But come on inside, my dick’s ready for you.”

Actually, my sex-deprived brain added that tidbit. He probably wouldn’t say that to me—emphasis on the
probably
.

All my worry is for nothing because by the time I get to the Playground, there’s no sign of him. The front door to Ace’s house is open, so I just walk in. Fortunately, only Ahmed and Jack are sitting in the living room.

Jack flashes a worried look in Ahmed’s direction but Ahmed waves his hand. “It’s just Lucy. She doesn’t care, do you, Lucy?”

“Nope.”

Apparently Ace has a girl in his room. I check my watch. It’s three in the afternoon. I swear to God that Ace can’t go one twelve-hour period without having sex. Because the guys all watch each other’s back religiously, if I was dating Ace I wouldn’t be allowed upstairs until he was done with his current fling, Stella.

Only it’s not Stella standing in the doorway of Ace’s bedroom. It’s a thin, busty blonde wearing the traditional gear of all winter Midwestern sorority girls: tight yoga pants, Ugg boots, and a pretty coat with an infinity scarf. Maybe the two were practicing yoga poses in there, although that wouldn’t explain why his tongue is currently exploring the back of her throat for what I presume to be tonsillitis.

“Ahem,” I clear my throat. Ace’s head rises lazily to look in my direction while his companion makes a throaty sound of disappointment. “Should I wait downstairs?”

I wonder if they had sex on the couch and whether I can find a clean pair of sheets in this place. One of the perks of living in the Playground, a set of eight houses bought by a booster to house the starters, is the laundry and cleaning services. It’s a good thing, because otherwise this place would smell like balls and sperm.

The first time I came here some guy was casually fondling himself on the couch. There are more women in and out of the bedrooms, bathrooms, and game rooms than go through the MAC counter at Macy’s on Black Friday. Less than half the guys on the team have girlfriends, and even the ones who are in relationships have a loose idea of fidelity.

If I wasn’t friends with Ace for so long, if he wasn’t like a brother to me, I’d probably have a hard time hanging out with them. As it is, I shut one eye to their indiscretions and remind myself that as long as I’m not the one putting my heart on the line, the team is full of good guys.

When I arrived on campus as a freshman, Ace and his buddies—already moved in from summer camp—were there to carry everything from my dad’s truck up three flights to my dorm room. Three weeks later when my high school boyfriend of four years decided we’d never make a long-distance thing work, they took me out, filled me full of vodka and orange juice (and made sure I didn’t end up in a coma), and proceeded to tell me how pretty I was and how worthless the shithead was. Ace and his merry band of linemen, wide receivers, and running backs are sweethearts as long as you don’t fall in love with any of them.

Ace is giving me a high-def example of why Matt is a bad risk. I take him on and I’ll be just one girl out of a long line of girls who have crushed over a Warrior only to have her feelings hurt.

Plus, the guy hasn’t shown his face at the Brew House since last Thursday. He knows I work there and showed up two days in a row, but after Crowerly’s it’s been radio silence. If he thought me being a vegan was bad, which I’m not, just wait until he gets a load of my diabetes. It’s a hassle and some guys get really impatient with my strict dietary habits. Again, the pretty boys are flight risks. They, like my mother, don’t stick around when the going gets tough.

It just goes to show that football players will say anything to get laid. All that stuff about how much fun it was for him to have to try so hard with a girl, making me think he was actually serious about putting in the work to win me over? Ha! Maybe Matt did his own risk assessment and decided I wasn’t a big enough reward.

Not that I care. I
want
him to quit pursuing me. Makes it a whole lot easier to put him out of my mind.

You’ve spent all day thinking about him, dummy. He
is
on your mind!

Fine, that’s true. But starting right now, I am not allowed to think about him anymore.

I lean against the wall and watch Ace stroke the blonde’s hair, no doubt telling her that he’ll see her later even though if he did, he’d probably avoid her. She giggles and lifts her face for another kiss. Ace plants one on her forehead, which isn’t what she wanted, then he turns her toward the stairs and gives her a friendly pat on the ass.

She frowns when she sees me, so before she incorrectly assumes I’m here for sloppy seconds, I lie. “I’m his sister.”

The girl’s face brightens immediately but falls when Ace interjects. “More like kissing cousins, really.”

“Ace was dropped on his head as a baby, so most of the time whatever comes out of his mouth doesn’t make sense,” I reassure his friend.

She flicks her gaze from Ace to me, and from the way the lines around her mouth relax, I can see that she’s categorized me as non-threatening. It could be because my hair is lying limply against my sweaty face. Damn, Sutton’s coat is hot. It could also be because I’m wearing ratty old jeans and a pair of boots that look like I’m headed for a construction site, but it’s Ace. I don’t have to dress to impress him.

She gives me a patronizing smile and turns back to Ace. ““I’ll see you tonight at the Gas Station then?”

He raises a hand. “I’ll be there.”

I barely refrain from rolling my eyes at his noncommittal way of seeing her off. It’s enough for the girl because she blows him a kiss and trips lightly down the stairs.

“Not even going to walk her to the door?” I ask as I brush by him into the room.

“That implies I invited her here, which I didn’t. She showed up, took her clothes off, and told me she felt like celebrating with a winner today because she’d gotten some good news. I had some time to kill before we went out tonight.”

Okay then.

It smells like sex, but his bed is perfectly made. I remind myself to put a blanket on the sofa if I decide to sit on it. I stride over to the windows and throw one open. Ace chuckles but lights a stick of incense.

“Thanks for letting me crash here tonight.” I set my backpack next to the bed and gingerly climb onto the side.

“It’s no problem. So your place is getting exterminated?” Ace throws himself into the corner of the sofa.

“The girls down in 1C convinced management that we had a bug infestation and that they’d sue if something wasn’t done. Then they went around and got a bunch of the residents to sign some anti-bug petition.”

Ace squints. “1C. Those the Stepford twins?”

I nod. I’m sure I’ve complained about them before to Ace.

He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “I think I slept with them last semester.”

“Ace,” I groan. “Why?”

“They offered to do me together. Who turns that down?”

Normal people. “You know I can’t stand them.”

He shrugs. “I’m not dating them. I just slept with them.”

I throw a pillow at his face. “You’re terrible.”

He throws it back. “They weren’t that good actually. I thought they’d be all over each other, but one watched while I did the other. It was actually kind of weird. Hey, I bought diet pop for you and picked up a bag full of Splenda if you want to bake tonight.”

This is Ace in a nutshell. A horndog who manages to wrest his attention away from his own dick long enough to be a thoughtful friend.

“You like this star quarterback business.” Even in high school, Ace’s stint as quarterback was overshadowed by a star running back. He came here without much hope of ever starting, but injuries opened up a space for him last year. He made the most of it, and I’m thrilled for him.

“It’s the bomb, Lucy girl. All the chicks I want. Everyone bends over backward to give me a pass. Even my professors give me a high five and the TAs suggest that I can take it easy. It’s nothing like high school, that’s for sure.” He stretches his legs out and folds his arms behind his head. His smug look reminds me again of what he was doing before I arrived. Or should I say as I was arriving?

Which reminds me, “Am I going to need a set of sheets for the sofa?”

“Take the bed. Marissa and I didn’t make it to the bed.” His words hold about as much emotion as a stone. Poor Marissa. As if to emphasize his disinterest in the topic of Marissa and their hookup, he flicks on
Family Feud
. Steve Harvey asks what the top five answers are for the question “something people do when they are tired.”

“Drink caffeine,” I guess.

“Take a nap,” is Ace’s answer, then he asks off-handedly, “Want to come to the Gas Station with us tonight?”

“No.” I kick my backpack. “I’m working on some things for the mock trial team.”

“I can go and beat her up,” he suggests.

“You really can’t because I’m sure that would be grounds for suspension. I can see the headlines now. ‘National Championship quarterback arrested for assault and battery.’” But I’m touched by his instant defense.

Ace tips his head back and drains his bottle. He has the next one open and poured down his throat before he responds. “Better than ‘former National Championship player demoted in favor of true freshman recruit,’” he says bitterly.

I blink in surprise at his quick change in mood. A moment ago, he was complacent and self-satisfied and now he’s pissed off? What’d I miss? “What are you talking about?”

Ace’s face darkens. He finishes the second bottle and opens a third. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Every once in a while, he gets in these
I hate everyone so I guess I’ll go eat worms
moods. Privately I refer to it as male PMS, but I shouldn’t be surprised because Ace’s bad moods usually occur in the off-season.

During the season, he’s focused and determined and he rarely sulks. These small snippets of time when he can generally ignore school and focus on drinking and screwing girls all day is when he becomes maudlin and unbearable.

You’d think he’d be the most upset during the season. I read the sports blogs, sometimes. I can’t spend too much time on there because I get angry on Ace’s behalf, but no one talks about him being an NFL quarterback. In fact, no one really talks about him playing beyond college. When they talk about him, it’s almost as if he’s a liability to the team—one that the vaunted defense manages to overcome game after game after game.

But no, it’s the downtime that gets to him. Ironically, that’s when I get to spend the most time with him because he isn’t up at the crack of dawn for practice and going to bed early because of curfew. And in this mood, he’s not going to share anything unless he’s ready, so I try changing the subject, but he beats me to it.

“You see Matt Iverson again?” Ace’s tone is nonchalant, but I don’t miss the slight edge to it.

“No. Why?”

He shrugs, not taking his eyes off the game show. “Just wondering if he’s still bothering you.”

“He was never bothering me to begin with. I told you, he was nice.” This new topic is just as bad as the old one.

“And I told you, he’s a dog. You’re not in the locker room, Lucy. They’re
all
dogs. Or maybe they wish they were, because if they could lick their own balls like a dog, they’d never leave their rooms.”

Matt Iverson is a foot taller than me, ripped like a stone statue, and big enough to break me in half. I nearly swallow my tongue at the image of the big guy bent over, sucking his own dick because that is kind of hot. Wisely, I don’t share this thought with Ace.

“Guys like Ives spend hours on Instagram before away games, looking up sorority pictures or local ‘talent,’ as they call it. Then they private message these girls and set up hookup dates. On every single away game,” he stresses.

Okay, that is skeevy and gross when Ace puts it that way, but something impels me to pony up yet another defense of Matt. “They’re young and single, right? And as long as they aren’t hurting anyone, then it’s none of my business.”

“Hammer, Ives’s best friend, nearly sat a game last year because he’d been injured by his girlfriend. He went to an away game, hooked up with a local. His girlfriend drove up to surprise him.”