Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(42)

I should have taken her out tonight.

Scarlett shivers. “Can we go now, please? I’m f-freezing.”

“Shit, I’m sorry—let me tell them I’m leaving real quick. Give me one sec.” When my hand clutches the doorknob, I turn, shooting her a cocky grin, gaze raking her up and down. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She shifts on her heels, eyes twinkling. “Very funny, wise ass. As if I’d walk the entire way home in these shoes.”

It takes me a record sixty seconds to dash inside the house, take the stairs two at a time, and retrieve the duffle bag I threw in one of the upstairs bedrooms earlier. Another two to let my friends know I’m heading home.

“Amado, I’m gonna bounce.” I walk through the kitchen, swiping an apple from the counter, sinking my teeth into the juicy meat and taking a huge bite. Wipe my chin when it drips juice.

“Where the hell have you been, amigo?”

“Front porch.”

“For the last few hours?”

“Look, long story, but I’m heading out. If anyone needs me for anything, do not fucking call.”

I’ll kill anyone who interrupts me tonight.

“Where you goin’?”

“I’m taking Scarlett home—it’s colder than a witch’s tit outside.”

“Wait, who?”

“Scarlett.” I sigh. “You know, Cock Blocker.”

I practically choke on the words but say them so he knows who I’m talking about, and it works.

His face lights up with recognition, dark features curious. “You’re taking that chick home? The legs God gave her don’t work? If she’s not going to leave on her own, have one of the freshmen take her home for you.”

Yeah, no, that is not fucking happening.

“Nah. I got this. She’s cool.” I tamp down my actual feelings; now is not the time or place to begin a conversation about it—not with her waiting on the porch for me, in the cold.

“She’s cool.” He’s skeptical, tipping his beer back and gulping. “Tengo dudas.”

His use of Spanish has me glowering. “I have no idea what you just said—speak English.”

“I said, ‘Somehow, I doubt that.’ But whatever dude—suit yourself.”

“I will.”

He laughs. “Whatever you say, bro.”

“She’s outside freezing her ass off, so I’ve gotta go.” I hold out my closed first for knuckles; he bumps them. “See you tomorrow in the gym?”

Already and always training for the season to start.

His black brows go up. “?A las seis?”

“Did you just say six o’clock?”

He laughs. “Sí.”

“See you at six.”


Scarlett

“Never have I ever…” His deep voice cuts into the dark cab of his truck.

I groan, head hitting the back of the passenger side seat as Rowdy’s sturdy hands grip the steering wheel, driving in the direction of my house.

“You are becoming obsessed with this stupid game.”

He glances over at me across the center console, the glow from each passing street lamp illuminating the interior, casting a bright mask of light across his gorgeous green eyes.

They slide down my torso and to my legs.

“Your answers amuse me—it’s my new favorite game.” He ignores my protests. “Plus, this is the best way to get to know a person.”

The fact that he wants to get to know me makes the butterflies in my tummy stir.

“By asking them embarrassing questions?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Can’t you ask normal questions? Like, ‘What’s your favorite color?’ Or ‘What are your biggest pet peeves?’”

“No, because those are boring, and I don’t really give a shit what your favorite color is—that’s something I can figure out on my own through the power of observation.”

I cross my arms. “You think you can guess my favorite color based on the one time you were in my house, go right ahead.”

He’s quiet a few moments, reaching to dial down the volume on the radio. “It’s blue.”

Whoa. “What makes you say that?”

“The pillows on your couch and the towels in your bathroom are blue, and your purse.”

Holy crap, he’s right—my favorite color is blue.

Rowdy grins, teeth blaringly white in the dim cab. “So I’m right?”

“Yes.”

“You know what else I think? You love this game as much as I do. It’s kind of long and drawn-out, like…”

Foreplay.

He doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what he’s thinking.

My face flushes because he’s right; I do like these games. They’re slightly ridiculous and cheesy and stupidly fun, and even though we haven’t gotten all that racy or sexual, the undertones of our recent conversations are getting more personal. Flirty. Testing our boundaries with each other, neither wanting to make the first move.

Rowdy finds my street without prompting, driving the hundred feet it takes to reach my house, pulling up to the curb and putting his truck in park. Idles, hands on the key buried in the ignition.