Anyway.

I’m single and plan to stay that way.

I don’t do casual—I go all in or not at all, and right now, I don’t have time for women.

I’m no Puritan; I’m not waiting for marriage to have sex, but I’m in no hurry, either. My right hand does just fine taking care of “business”.

I watch the guys joke around. It’s late—far later than we usually work out, but we have a game coming up against a huge rival and Coach has stepped it up to two-a-days. Practice at the ass crack of dawn then again in the afternoon.

We’re also required to hit the weight room.

I won’t lie—I’m fucking tired as all hell.

Legs weak, I sink down onto a nearby weight bench and exhale. Lower myself to my back, grip the bar that’s set on the rack, the cold metal a contrast to my burning hot skin. I wish I could run it over my forehead to cool off and drench myself with water, but that will come later when I hit the shower.

I crane my neck. I can’t do these without a spotter, and there is no one nearby. Too lazy to call someone over, I lie still, staring up at the ceiling and the exposed industrial HVAC vents. Wires. Fluorescent lighting tubes.

Large Iowa banners flank the perimeter, hanging down the cinder block walls. Photos of my peers—student athletes—blown up larger than life and displayed around the room. The quarterback from our football team. A few varsity women’s rowers. Wrestlers. Track stars and soccer players. They’re all represented, their stats and championships displayed on huge plaques near the front registration desk.

I don’t get up, but I make no effort to lift.

I don’t have the energy.

Then.

My thoughts stray to that girl—the one on the road who got out of her car to bitch at me. Man, she was pissed. As angry as a barn cat and ten times cuter.

That day I took her sandwich in the union, her nostrils actually flared.

Freckles.

That’s what I noticed about her when she got up in my face; her adorable freckles.

Blonde hair, but don’t they all? Blue eyes. Nothing special about that. Pink cheeks.

And freckles.

Right—I mentioned that already.

No doubt about it, she was cute, and kind of tall. I definitely wasn’t dwarfing her by any stretch, and I’m a big dude. Most people back down when I get up in their shit, but not this girl. She was too pissed and too hungry to surrender.

And the second she climbed out of her car and came toward my truck with fire in her eyes? Shit. I don’t know, my stomach did a somersault.

Really fucking inconvenient.

Whatever, I’m not interested anyway. I’m not dating, remember?

If I were, though…

But I’m not, and I best keep that in mind.

My head turns. “Bledow! Get your scrawny, good-for-nothin’ ass over here,” I bellow to a teammate. He’s a sophomore second-stringer and is neither scrawny nor good for nothing. In fact, he’s a one of the best fuckers I’ve ever met.

Bledow comes immediately when called.

“Spot me?”

“You got it, Triple J.”

I nod, inhaling and exhaling sharp breaths, psyching myself up to lift the weight stacked on the Olympic bar, and push up.

I push everything out of my mind, focusing on the heavy, dead weight above me.

Fourth Friday

Charlie

This is getting ridiculous. Why do I keep seeing him, every freaking week?

Same truck.

Same spot.

Same time of night.

Same. Guy.

Is God punishing me? Why do I keep bumping into this idiot? Seriously. It’s becoming a joke at this point, and I’m tired of it. I’m sick of seeing his stupid, smug, arrogant face.

His handsome, dumb face.

He’s a Cretan—one with a serious set of balls, I’ll give give him credit for that. One who is pulled over on the road, hogging the shoulder.

Fortunately, I’m not alone for this ride, because this time, I’d love nothing more than to stick it to this guy; get out of the car and give him a piece of my mind. I’ve been daydreaming about it, as a matter of fact, since our last…encounter. Is that what I’m calling it now? An encounter?

Gosh, listen to me.

I steer my car to the side of the road, getting as close to the curb as possible so I’m pulled over on what little shoulder room there is, careful not to hop the curb. God forbid I scuff my tire—I can’t afford for them to get damaged.

“What are you doing?” Savannah finally notices we’re not in the turning lane—we are, in fact, pulled over. “Uh, hellooo.”

“Give me a second here.” I have to think about what I’m going to say.

“We’re not stopping for a hitchhiker.”

“This is a college town—there are no hitchhikers. Plus, there’s Uber for that.”

“Oh yeah—good point. So. What are we doing?”

I ignore her question to ask one of my own. “Roll down your window, would ya?” She has to do it for me because my car is so old, the windows are manual, not automatic.

“Why? What are you going to do?” She’s so nosey.

“Can you just do it without arguing?” Ugh, when did I get so bossy? “That guy is someone I recognize and I want to, um—say hello.”

Not.

My friend complies, shooting me a look as if I’ve lost my damn mind—and maybe I have, because I’m about to shout out the window in the middle of the road at an idiot who probably couldn’t care less.

“Hey! Hey, asshole!” I’m loud, projecting as best I can so he hears me.

He straightens to stand, turning slowly toward my idling vehicle. Crosses his arms and smiles—as if he’s actually pleased to see me, pulled over and shouting at him.

“Well if it isn’t Little Miss Priss.”

Miss Priss? “Is that what you’ve been calling me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

We’re going to add ma’am to the list now?

Great.

Everyone knows it’s a shortened version of the word madam, which we all know was the formal way to address a woman back when etiquette and common courtesy were common.

Yes ma’am does flow off the tongue nicely—if you’re a Southern gentleman.

Which this guy is not.

Southern jackass is more accurate.

“Is this your Friday routine? Blinding unsuspecting girls and hitting on them on the side of the road?”

His laugh fills the darkness, confirming my suspicions.

“That’s sick and twisted, and it could get you arrested.”

Couldn’t it? Surely that can’t be legal. I’ll have to google it later when I get home.

“Just havin’ a little fun, darlin’. No harm done.”

Gross. “Please stop calling me that,” I shout.

“Stop calling you what?”

It sounds like ‘Stop cawlin you wut?’

Ugh. The accent is too, too much.

“What the hell is going on right now?” Savannah asks, head whipping back and forth between me and Biff McMuscles. “Charlie, do you know that guy? I think I recognize him from somewhere…”

“No, I don’t know him. There was just an unfortunate incident involving chicken and a burger that I don’t have time to tell you about it right now,” I mutter, fixating my glare in his direction and narrowing my eyes. Lower my voice and whisper, “I wish he’d choked on it.”