Plus, he’s athletic and I’m not—as if that makes a difference? Shouldn’t he just be naturally good at everything physical while the rest of us mere mortals have to work at it?

With me on top, he’s buried to the hilt—thick and deep, and I moan because the sensation is…incredible.

“Charlotte. Fuck, Charlotte,” he moans, because really, are any other words necessary? Is there anything else to say?

“You feel so good, baby,” I murmur above him, lost in him. Lost in us. Lost in the fact that I love him. “Are you gonna come?”

“Yes.” His nod is jerky. “I think so.”

He thinks so, he thinks so. He’s not sure since he hasn’t done it before and that fills me with a strange sense of pride. A sense of satisfaction that no other girls have come before me.

I am his first and always will be.

A Gameday

Jackson

“J, your dad is downstairs in the kitchen.”

My what? Did I hear Tyson right?

He gives a knock, sticking his head through the open door, peering down at Charlie and me as we lie on the bed. I’m beat; we just had a game against Penn State—which we lost—and the ice bath did nothing for my sore muscles. I ache, I’m tired, I’m hungry.

Still, I raise myself to a sitting position, running a hand down Charlie’s slumbering thigh.

“Your dad, in the kitchen?”

“My dad is here?” That’s freaking weird. What’s my old man doing here? He never said anything about coming to the game.

“I mean, yeah? Looks like you but way angrier?”

Yeah—that’s Pops all right.

Shit.

I scoot to the edge of the bed and stand, pulling on my discarded Iowa t-shirt, grateful the bastard didn’t come into my room unannounced. The last thing I fuckin’ need is him walkin’ in on me with a girl in my room. He would absolutely lose his shit.

Bending, I kiss Charlie on the temple and she rolls, half naked in my direction, cracking an eyelid. It’s the third time this week she’s spent the night, and I’ve lost count of the times we’ve fucked.

I kiss her again.

“Wait here, I’ll be back.”

Her smile is groggy, her little wave sleepy. Her hand flops up then back down on the mattress, and I give her one last glance before slipping through the door and closing it softly behind me.

Hit the stairs, making my way to the kitchen.

My father is standing by the sink, staring out the window, out at the street, hands on his hips. He looks more like a drill sergeant than someone’s father, brisk and at attention. All business and no pleasure.

“Pops. What are you doing here?”

He makes no move to hug me.

“Came to see your game against Penn.” He turns, pulls a chair out from the table, and sits, legs spread, thick arms folded across a chest that used to be as broad as mine. Years of not going to the gym and eating crap have worked against him, adding about thirty extra pounds and loads of pent-up resentment.

Pops always wanted to play ball; just never had what it took. If he did, he’d still be in shape instead of a burnout living vicariously through his son.

I lean against the counter.

“What’d you think?”

“I think you should have won.” He plucks a grape from a bowl in the center of the table, the fruit Rodrigo’s sister brought when she got here this morning to tailgate with her friends.

Yes, we should have won, but we didn’t.

I don’t know what to say.

“You played for crap.”

Actually, I didn’t—I had one of my best games of the season, running the most yards. But I keep my mouth shut because it will only serve to piss him off if I defend myself. He’s just sore I’m playing for Iowa, and not at Notre Dame or USC.

I wait patiently for him to bring those schools up, his standard lecture on the rare occasions he comes to visit.

“You don’t seem upset,” he criticizes.

“There’s nothin’ I can do ’bout it now.” What’s done is done—the game’s been over for hours.

“Have you watched the tapes back yet?”

He knows we won’t watch those until practice this week. “Not yet. But I will.”

“Send them to me.”

Not likely, but, “Sure. I’ll see what I can do.” The air is filled with silence, and I rack my brain for a way to change the subject. “Where’s Ma?”

“Home.”

Well no duh. Why didn’t she come along? “Oh.”

“She had to work.”

Right. Because her job at the craft store is so goddamn important she couldn’t make it to one of her son’s football games. I try not to begrudge her, but it’s fucking impossible; Ma should have been my saving grace against my father, but she didn’t have the spine to stand up to him, either, letting him ‘have’ me instead. Our relationship isn’t normal, and I’m just now realizing it.

Depressing.

“I’m gonna need two tickets for my friends Daryl and Patsy for the game against Ohio in October. They’ll be in town visiting her cousins that weekend.”

No please. No thank you. “Sure.”

“Send ’em to the house so they don’t have to get them at will call.” He talks at me like I’m his employee.

God forbid his friends retrieve their free tickets themselves. Or actually pay for them.

“You hungry?” he finally asks. “Got any food in this place?”

Yes, but I didn’t pay for it and I’m not going to let him root around in the fridge and eat shit on someone’s else’s dime.

“No. We’d have to go out.”

He grunts, unsatisfied with that answer. Pops could easily lean forward and pry open the fridge, but he’s too lazy to make the effort.

We regard each other a bit longer, letting the strain mount. It’s always present when he visits; no amount of time in the other’s company has ever bridged the gap that’s been widening over the years. Not since I realized my independence regarding attending a college of my own choosing and living in housing with my friends.

My pops is chewing gum, and he gnaws on it with his mouth open, filling the air with his smacking gums.

My ass cheeks clench, eyes hitting the staircase when Charlie appears, barefooted and sleepy-eyed, her tentative smile growing shy when she lays eyes on Pops.

Fades, unsure, especially when his speculative scrutiny lands on her. There is nothing welcoming about him, nothing friendly, every sign he’s throwing out a warning.

Charlie sidles up next to me, bumping our hips in an attempt to be cute.

“Who’s this?” He silently judges her, mouth slipping into a frown, lips finally closing in distaste around his spearmint gum.

“This is Charlotte.” Tentatively, I slip an arm around her waist. Pop’s eyes don’t miss any detail—how my fingers loop inside the waistband of her jeans, how close she’s pressed into my side.

He’s aggravated. “Fine. Can you tell your friend this is a private conversation?”

“Pops.” I try to slip a warning into my voice, but it comes out weak instead. Like a boy still intimidated by his father.