Jock Romeo Read online

  JOCK ROMEO

  SARA NEY

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2021 by Sara Ney

  Editing by Caitlyn Nelson

  Editing by Jennifer VanWyk

  Proofreading by Julia Griffis

  Proofreading by Shauna Casey

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  Formatting by Casey Formatting

  All rights reserved.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems without “express “written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

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  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the “author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  A touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.

  -Plato

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Roman

  2. Lilly

  3. Roman

  4. Lilly

  5. Roman

  6. Lilly

  7. Roman

  8. Lilly

  9. Roman

  10. Lilly

  11. Roman

  12. Lilly

  13. Roman

  14. Lilly

  15. Roman

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Ney

  PROLOGUE

  LILLY

  Go to a house party, they said.

  It’ll be fun, they said.

  Wrong.

  Seems everyone else on campus had the same idea: hit Jock Row on the first Friday back for drinking and merriment and acting like asses.

  This is not fun—at least, not in my opinion. There are way too many people here, and I’m starting to feel claustrophobic. Not only that, I have to pee, and the line for the bathroom is insanely long. I’m not a camel—I cannot hold it for days, and I refuse to pee outside in a bush.

  There has to be another bathroom somewhere in this massive house. The one beneath the staircase where everyone is lined up is probably just a powder room with a single toilet. My eyes roam the perimeter, scanning for random doors that could lead to relief, but I find none. Nor am I willing to push my way through the dense crowd to the packed kitchen in hopes of finding one—this party is body to body to body, and the closer it gets to midnight, the more people seem to congregate.

  This has to be a code violation.

  There is a staircase leading to a second story, and I assume it’s probably off limits up there. Private bedrooms and all that. So that’s the direction I go, shouldering my way through the throng until I reach the wooden stairs, eyes focused on the dark hall at the top. There’s a door and it’s closed, a white piece of paper taped up with bold black Sharpie letters scrawled across it: DO NOT ENTER.

  I decide to enter.

  After all, I’m a girl with a goal.

  It may be a short-term one involving a toilet, but at least I have my sights set on something other than being drunk, yeah?

  I turn the doorknob and push through, stepping up into the second level, making sure to close it behind me. It’s not as noisy up here but still not exactly quiet, the sounds of people and music finding their way in.

  There is a bathroom straight ahead.

  Bingo.

  I make a beeline for it, sighing with relief as I lock its door, pushing down my jeans and plopping down onto the cool porcelain.

  “Ahh.”

  I haven’t even had that much to drink—room temperature beer holds no appeal for me tonight, but I didn’t want to sit at home in the dorm rooms on my first official Friday in college.

  I’m a freshman!

  In college.

  Not only that, I made the university’s cheerleading team and have added that to my list of accomplishments this year, too. Wasn’t sure I’d make it; I was so damn nervous during my tryouts I almost biffed it during the basket toss, one of the most basic stunts. Cheerleading 101.

  A few of my teammates convinced me to come out tonight. I’m a social person in general—you kind of have to be when you’re a cheerleader, jumping and dancing in front of thousands upon thousands of screaming, shouting fans at a football game—but every so often all I want to do is snuggle up with a good book on the beanbag chair. I brought it with me to college and it’s in my dorm room parked in front of the small television set that rests on a chest of drawers.

  Built-in desk.

  Metal bunk beds.

  My roommate hasn’t arrived at school yet, but I know her name is Allison and she is bringing the microwave—and I suppose that’s another one of the reasons I came out tonight: I’m too nervous to be in the room when she finally arrives.

  Classes start Monday.

  Practice began two weeks ago.

  The first game is Sunday.

  I let out a loud sigh as I pee in the toilet of the baseball house, looking myself over in the mirror directly across from it. My dark blonde hair that’s lost its curl because of the humidity outside on the walk over. My big brown eyes, lashes coated in mascara that’s sure to smudge by the time we finally leave. The big, gold hoop earrings.

  There’s a sound outside the bathroom door and I hold still, rigidly frozen on the pot, guilty of being a stowaway on a floor the residents of this house didn’t want anyone to come to.

  Shit.

  What if someone tries the door to get in and finds it’s locked?

  I frantically wipe and flush, washing my hands before pressing my ear to the door and listening for footsteps.

  Or voices.

  All I hear is the music and noise from down below, muffled but loud.

  With bated breath, I turn the lock then twist the doorknob, inching the door open and peering through the small gap. Shoulder my way through and tiptoe back down the hall toward the stairway, pulling open the door at the top so I can disappear back into the merriment below.

  There’s someone at the top of the steps, and he’s sitting.

  I know this because I literally crash into him when I put my foot out to descend, followed by an “Oof!” and a profuse apology.

  “Oh my gosh, I didn’t see you sitting there.” I bend to take him by the shoulders as if the force was strong enough to send him flying.

  He did not go flying.

  “I am so sorry,” I enthuse, stepping around him, down two stairs and turning to face him.

  “No—it’s not your fault. I’m the one who shouldn’t be sitting here.”

  I tilt my head and look down.

  It’s not easy to see him clearly in the dimly lit stairwell, but he’s a gangly boy with a buzz cut. Red t-shirt. Jeans.

  Embarrassed half-grin.

  “Then why are you sitting here?”

  He shrugs, and I notice his lanky shoulders.

  He can’t be any older than I am, probably a freshman, too.

  “I guess I’m hiding.” His hands are clasped ove
r his knees and his phone is out—he was probably playing on it as a diversion, if I had to guess.

  “Hiding? From who?”

  “Everyone.” He laughs, pushing up the glasses rested on the bridge of his nose.

  “You’re hiding from everyone? Why don’t you just leave?” That’s what I would do if I hadn’t forced myself to come and be social tonight—one last hurrah before the football season kicks off and its curfews and check-ins by the coaching staff and rigorous workouts and nutritional regimens hinder my social time.

  Also, I’m asking a complete stranger way too many questions.

  “I came with my friends from high school.”

  “So?”

  “So—if I leave, they’ll make fun of me.”

  Some friends. Why are guys such dicks to each other? All that toxic masculinity bullshit infuriates me.

  “Well do you mind some company?” This perch is a great spot to stay out of the fray without actually leaving the party, which doesn’t appear to be dying down any time soon. Hunting down my teammates to say goodbye and leave on my own holds no appeal, either—safety in numbers and all that. It wouldn’t be a smart idea walking through campus by myself in the middle of the night.

  “Um, sure.”

  He does not look sure, but I plop down beside him anyway, scooching him over with a bump of my hips.

  “I’m Lilly,” I say. “Freshman. How ’bout you?”

  “Same.”

  “What’s your name?”

  His head dips in embarrassment. “Roman.”

  “Cool name, bro,” I tell him, resting my elbows on my knees and gazing down at the bright lights of the living room below. A song has just started that everyone goes wild for, and the floor shakes as students jump up and down, dancing. “Holy crap, the floor is going to cave in on itself.”

  “Might, depending on where the floor joists are if the weight’s not evenly distributed and how old the house is.”

  Nerd alert. “Are you an architecture major?”

  “No, it’s just basic physics.”

  I think we’ve established that I’ve been botching up all things basic lately, so I’m no help when it comes to physics. Math. Science.

  Not my strong suits.

  “What is your major if it’s not architecture?”

  “Tech.”

  Oh.

  That’s boring—everyone is a computer science major. He probably wants to create apps and stuff.

  “Tech for what?”

  The eyebrows above his glasses quirk up and down. “Automotive or aerospace.”

  “Like—programming cars and stuff?”

  Beside me, he nods. “I haven’t decided, but yes, something like that.”

  Oh.

  That makes what I’m about to say sound lame and juvenile.

  I sigh. “I’m an English major with a business minor. My parents wouldn’t let me major in art, so I had to settle.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this; he’s a stranger and does not give a crap. “I like to craft.”

  When Roman looks over at me, the lenses of his glasses catch the light from downstairs and I can’t see his eyes against the glare, but I can almost hear what he’s thinking: An English major with a business minor? What the hell are you going to do with that?

  I know this because my father has asked me that question a million times, and I never have an answer for him.

  “I’m sure you’ll find something you’re passionate about. We make our own destiny.”

  I nod slowly.

  We make our own destiny.

  Those are some pretty profound words for a freshman guy at a kegger.

  “Is that what you’re doing? Creating your own destiny?” I’m teasing him but I’m also curious—I’ve never heard a guy say something like that before, and it’s intriguing.

  “Sure. I mean, every decision we make today impacts what happens tomorrow, don’t you agree?”

  Um.

  Yes?

  “Of course I agree.”

  Roman has his eyes trained on the action at the bottom of the stairs, where a small group of girls are congregating and whispering, their heads pivoting every few seconds to watch whatever—or whomever—is across the room.

  Probably some hot dude one of them has a crush on but is too afraid to approach.

  Roman is watching the girls intently before clearing his throat and glancing over at me.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” I finally ask him. He doesn’t strike me as the type to be dating; I’m certain his course load will keep him as occupied as I expect to be during the school year, but you never know—maybe he has a cute little girlfriend hidden away somewhere.

  “No.” He chuckles.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “You honestly think I’m dating someone?”

  “Why are you saying it like I insulted you—are you too good to date? Is no one smart enough for you?”

  It would make perfect sense that he wouldn’t want to date a dullard; guys like him—ambitious ones with their lives planned out—rarely find time for a person who doesn’t possess the same drive and determination.

  I would know because that’s how my dad is.

  Roman is silent again, eyes trailing back to the girls at the bottom of the stairs.

  I recognize one of them as Kaylee Sheffield; she’s a cheerleader, too, but she’s a flyer and we don’t practice in the same groups so I rarely have the chance to talk to her.

  “They’re pretty,” I say. “Do you want to go talk to them?”

  He snorts. “As if any of those girls would give me the time of day.”

  Ahh.

  I get it.

  Roman doesn’t date because he doesn’t have the self-confidence. I’ve seen plenty of people like that before, not just guys but girls too, doubting and second-guessing themselves because they don’t think they’re good enough—the same way I’d never feel smart enough to date a guy who wants to work at NASA and program spaceships.

  “I don’t think you should judge them based on their appearances. Everyone has a type.”

  His neck swivels. “We’re on Jock Row at a baseball party—I’ll give you one guess as to what their type is.”

  Fine, he’s got me there, but only on a technicality.

  Still.

  He’s stereotyping them the way he’s probably stereotyping me, but guess what?

  I’m used to it.

  Cheerleaders may not be considered the studious type, and sure, I’m no brainiac so some of the stereotypes in my case may be true—but I’m kind and determined and give everyone a chance. I try not to judge, and I try to give people the benefit of the doubt.

  I fiddle with the bracelet on my left wrist, the one I braided a few nights ago in front of the television, sitting my bum on the floor while I watched a reality matchmaking show. It’s made of my favorite colors—green and pink—in an intricate pattern I learned one summer at camp.

  I rub the soft yarn between my thumb and index finger.

  “So, you think if you went down and talked to those girls, you’d get rejected?”

  Roman doesn’t look at me. “Um, what do you think.”

  “I think you shouldn’t doubt yourself.”

  He’s silent, but in the dim shadows, I can see his lips purse; he wants to respond but isn’t going to.

  Then, finally—

  “What about you? Why aren’t you down there flirting and having a good time?”

  My head gives a tiny shake. “I don’t have the energy—I have to be up early tomorrow, but since everyone was coming out tonight, I also didn’t want to sit in the dorms by myself.”

  Plus, I didn’t want to be there when the new roomie arrived.

  “Why do you have to be up early tomorrow? It’s Saturday.”

  “Practice.”

  “Practice for what?”

  Oh god, he’s going to make me say it.

  I sit up straighter, stiffening my spine. “I’m a cheerleader.
We practice six days out of the week.”

  I brace myself.

  Wait for whatever sarcastic, biting remark he’s going to sling back about airheads or blondes or cheer—but none come.

  “You must be good if you made a college team.”

  I blush.

  Golly gee. “I guess.”

  “Why are you being so modest? You should be proud of yourself.”

  “I am proud of myself.”

  I am.

  I’m proud. Like he said, it’s not easy becoming a collegiate cheerleader; I’ve busted my ass for the past five years, cheering for my high school, cheering on a competitive team, doing camps, workshops, training. And that doesn’t include working out to stay fit and strong.

  It’s been brutal and certainly hasn’t been easy.

  Not everyone can do it and not everyone does, but I’ve proven myself over the years.

  “You look like a dancer,” Roman comments.

  I look like a dancer? What do dancers look like? Is that a type?

  “How can you even tell?” I laugh. “It’s dark up here.”

  “I don’t know—I can just tell.” He laughs back.

  “What dorm are you in?”

  “I’m not in the dorms. I still live at home.”

  “How do you still live at home?”

  “I’m local. It only takes me fifteen minutes to get here, so to save money, I’m not living in the dorms.”

  “Oh.” I pause, searching for some more words. “How is that working out for you?”

  “Don’t know yet since school hasn’t started, but I imagine it’s going to be like high school, just have to drive farther.”

  True. Good point.

  “Why didn’t you go anywhere farther? Did you, like, not have any choices?”

  “Yeah, I had plenty of options. I got a few scholarship offers, too, but my aunt lives with my parents and she’s kind of old. They sometimes need help with her, so I couldn’t go too far. Plus, I need time to figure out what it is I want to do, you know?”