Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(88)

I don’t blame her—she’s walking into a den of wolves, but if she’s with Amado, she’s probably not a groupie, and he’ll look out for her.

As they pause in the entry to the living room, Sheffield gives them both a short wave.

“Hi.”

Dante jerks his head to the side. “Guys, you remember Amelia.”

We’re both openly staring—it’s hard not to. Dante has never brought a girl around, not while I was living here, and I would have heard about it if he had recently—our goddamn friends are nosey as hell. Curious as a group of unruly toddlers.

Sheffield sprawls in the center of the couch, remote control in his hands, pausing the game. Looks the girl over from head to toe then back up again, wrinkling his forehead.

“I thought you said her name was Lucy.”

The girl finds a smile, and then her voice. Brushes back a long strand of dark hair. “Nope. It’s Amelia. You must be confusing me with someone else.”

They make a really good-looking couple.

“Shit, sorry.”

Dante’s arms slides around his date’s waist. “Anyway, we’ll be in my room. Don’t bother us.”

We watch the pair walk out of the room, and I unlock my phone.

Scarlett: What will I tell my boss?

Me: I forgot you have to work; I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m just being selfish.

Scarlett: There you go again, using semicolons in your text messages. You know I can’t resist good grammer. Gramar? Grammar? CRAP, HOW IS IT SPELLED?

Me: No one knows!!!!

Scarlett: lol. So—a party tonight, huh? And you want me there?

Me: It’s not a big deal, babe—not if you need to work.

Scarlett: You’re okay going alone?

Me: Me? Yeah. I mean, I miss you, but what’s a few more nights of jerking off in my cold, dark bedroom? It has a lock and all the porn I need.

Scarlett: Same.

Me: I hope you’re thinking of me when you diddle yourself.

Scarlett: Please don’t ever says diddle again. It just made me die inside.

Me: lol, sorry.

Scarlett: You really want to come stay with me this week? I have tampons in my bathroom, and I’d have to empty all the psycho meds out of my medicine cabinet.

Me: Trust me, I looked in your medicine cabinet the first time I came over. I had to see what level of crazy I was dealing with.

Scarlett: I don’t even want to know…

Me: You really don’t.

Scarlett: I’m thinking…if I leave here by 3:00, I can be back by 6:30, depending on how many times I stop

Me: Does this mean you’re coming back?

Scarlett: On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad do you miss me?

Me: Elevnty.

Scarlett: Well then, what other choice do I have?

***

“You know what? Instead of this party, how about we go on an actual date? Like to dinner, or…I don’t know, to the movies.” She’s trying to change the subject, trying to change my mind about the party.

I take a left at the stop sign, turning onto Jock Row.

“I want my friends to get to know you—once you’re in, Scar, you’re in. They’ll look out for you the way they look out for me. Don’t be scared, babe—they’re going to love you.”

She scoffs, staring out the window. “Stop, they will not.”

“You’re right—I’m probably going to spend the entire night pissed off, because chances are, they’re going to try to bang you.”

I pull up to the baseball house, park my truck in the driveway. It’s cold—frigidly so—but Scarlett wore a black, off-the-shoulder top, so different from any outfit I’ve ever seen her in, I’m wondering if anyone will even recognize her tonight.

“Are you sure they’re not going to be…you know…” She waves a dainty hand in the air, unable to finish her sentence. Not wanting to be rude.

“Dicks?” I pull her in close. “I’m the fucking captain of this baseball team,” I remind her. “I say whether or not they get to act like pricks.”

A few of them will probably act like pricks, guaranteed.

They’re jocks—it’s in their friggin’ DNA.

We’re walking toward the house, hands clasped together, and I have to slow my pace so Scarlett can walk in her heels. They’re tall wedges, so she’s a good four inches taller now—easier to kiss on the mouth—and her eyes are rimmed in dark liner. Lashes a million miles long, covered in black mascara.

Long hair down, big silver hoops flirting with the skin on her neck.

How the fuck did I get so damn lucky?

Seriously.

And before I start spouting off about fate and all that other lovey-dovey bullshit, I reach for her hand, help her climb the stairs of the porch, steam from our collective breaths fogging up the night air.

My hand reaches for the doorknob, but before I tug it open, I turn to her. “Do you think once we step through those doors, we’re going to be miserable because we’re not alone?”

Her mouth twists as she looks around. “We had some really good times out here on this porch. It’s like our spot.”

“I’ll buy this house some day, rip the porch off, and bring it with us when we have our own place.” Our house. Our porch. Enough kids for a little league team.