Jockblocked: A Novel (Gridiron Book 2)(15)

He eats all but two of the fries and pushes the plate toward my side of the table. “Let’s trade. I want to see if I like squash soup because it sounds disgusting and looks a little like the pureed carrot shit I had to eat as a baby.”

We exchange dishes, but I don’t eat anything. Instead I watch as he uses my spoon to taste the soup. He pulls the spoon from his mouth with a pop, and I swear my entire body starts tingling. “Mmm. Good. A little spice and a little sweet. Don’t know how much of that is you and how much is the soup, though.”

This is like foreplay. I’m going to have to douse myself in a glass of water. Under the table, I squeeze my thighs together, but that movement only serves to remind me how little action I’ve seen downstairs. Between him licking the spoon and telling me he wants to taste me, I’m more turned on than I can ever remember being. Which really, really sucks. “Why are you flirting with me?”

He gives me a look that says I can’t be that dumb, but apparently I am. I blame it on him. “Because you’re smoking hot and I’d like a taste of you directly from the tap.” He sets my spoon down. “The better question is, why won’t you go out with me? I’m not bragging because there’s something between us.”

“Where do I start?”

He laughs. He actually laughs at that. “Geez, you have that many. Hold up for a sec. Need to put my big boy pants on.”

I roll my eyes. “How about you answer a question of mine?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Why are you trying so hard?”

“Honestly? Because it’s fun.”

I raise a brow in pretend confusion, but I know exactly what he means. “Fun?”

Cheerfully, he eats more soup, still using my spoon, before answering. “Haven’t had to try this hard in ages. Again, not bragging. It’s just the truth. I don’t need to work for it anymore. Girls come to me.”

“Right, you’re so not bragging.”

“I’m not.” He shrugs. That’s just how it is.” He pauses. “I play football.”

“I know.” His eyes light up, and I know what he’s thinking. I hold up my hand. “I didn’t ask around about you. I recognized you after you left last night. Why didn’t you tell me you played football?

“It didn’t seem important.”

“Bullshit. Being a Western State Warrior is a big deal on campus. Girls fall all over themselves to be with you.”

“Sure, but is that what kind of guy you think I am? Or maybe the better question is whether you’re the type of girl who’s impressed by that? Because I don’t see it.” He arches an eyebrow.

He’s got me there. “I’m not impressed by that stuff. It’s the other way around, actually.”

For the first time tonight, he frowns. “That’s why you won’t go out with me?”

“You could talk anyone you want into dating you. You could probably sell ice to a polar bear.”

“If that’s true, why are you still resisting?”

I think about my deal with JR, which was pretty much a non-issue until this moment. Promising to stay away from football players wasn’t exactly a sacrifice on my part—I have nothing in common with Ace’s teammates, and their lifestyles don’t mesh with mine. I’m not a prude or anything, even though Ace has accused me of being one from time to time. Having sex in public isn’t my thing. Nor is getting so drunk I can’t remember who I slept with the night before. I’m not a party girl. And I’m not interested in party boys.

Matthew Iverson, as attractive and as tempting as he is, definitely falls into party boy category. Or at least I think he does. I mean, he plays for Western—he has to be a party dude, right?

He’s also waiting for an answer. I settle on, “You’re not my type.”

By the way his brows shoot upward, I can see I’ve surprised him. “You’re anti-football or anti-athlete?”

“I’ve never dated either, so I can’t tell you.”

“It’s not fair that you’re anti-football player. It’s discriminatory. I’m going to need to speak to the Honors Council about this,” he jokes. “Who is your type?”

I toy with the last tofu fry. “I dated Keith, my co-worker at the Brew House.”

“Keith?” Matt’s forehead furrows as he tries to remember the rather unremarkable Keith. “He looks like a Ken doll. His hair is all—” Matt rubs his hand over his own perfectly mussed black locks.

“He uses a lot of product,” I admit.

“So you like metrosexuals?”

“No.” It never occurred to me that Keith is a metrosexual, but he did have more products in the bathroom than I do. “I guess I thought he was…” I don’t have a better word, so I just say it. “Safe.”

I’m kind of embarrassed at how weak my reasoning is. It doesn’t sound good stated out loud. I feel my cheeks starting to burn. Scrambling, I try to articulate a few better excuses. “You’re funny and attractive and any other girl would be thrilled to be sitting where I am right now.” I tip my head toward the table of four girls who still can’t tear their eyes away from Matty. “But I’m busy, you look like a lot of effort, and I don’t think you’re a good risk.