The Jock and The Wallflower
T HE party was in full swing by the time we arrived at a quarter ’til ten and if it hadn’t been for my best friend, Scarlett Wade, clutching tightly to my hand and forcefully dragging me forward, I would have happily bolted out the door. I really didn’t want to be there. At all. Only a week into my sophomore year, I simply wanted to spend the weekend doing what I had done every weekend throughout my freshman year: I wanted to hang out in my cluttered dorm room with a bag of popcorn and a good book, or maybe an old black and white film. I certainly didn’t want to attend the Kappa Psi Delta fraternity’s Back to School Bash—quite honestly, I had to question the sanity of anyone who did want to attend any event hosted by a fraternity made up of football jocks, baseball jocks, and basketball jocks. It was Jock Central. And me… well, it was safe to say no one would ever mistake little five-foot-five-inch, one-hundred-forty-five-pound me as anything remotely related to a jock. I had, however, spent my entire high school career with an invisible target posted on my back, inviting any and all jocks and their friends to torment me in whatever ways they deemed amusing.
Scarlett knew this, of course, as she and I had been best friends since fifth grade, and on more than one occasion Scarlett had jumped wildly to my defense when some asshole tried to badger me in her temperamental presence. No one wanted Scarlett pissed with them. She wasn’t a wilting southern belle by any stretch of the imagination, never mind the fact she was only an inch taller than me. Scarlett’s dainty, blue-eyed, blond beauty fooled many tragic fools at first glance, but most quickly learned that Scarlett didn’t tolerate stupidity, arrogance, or bigots and she could and would stare down men twice her delicate size, if and when someone landed on her bad side. I adored her beyond reason. I wasn’t close to my family, but I had Scarlett. I knew I could depend on her come hell or high water, and it was because I did indeed love her that I allowed her to talk me (thoroughly strong-arm me) into attending Kappa Psi Delta’s Back to School Bash. “ Brent’s going to be there and I’d like to maybe show up and flirt a little, to find out if he’s really interested .” Brent was—of course—a jock, as the Kappa Psi Delta directive apparently mandated, but having talked to the star pitcher on several occasions, I had to admit he seemed like a decent sort. If he hadn’t been, I would have told Scarlett as much. Period. She was certainly strong-willed and capable, but the protective nature of our friendship went both ways, and I looked out for Scarlett’s well-being whenever I could. She had dated a few jackasses in the past, but Brent seemed intelligent, levelheaded, he didn’t come across as painfully arrogant, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he was very much interested in Scarlett. And Scarlett (damn her) knew I was utterly interested in and completely enchanted by Brent’s best friend and Duke’s star right fielder, Avery Beckett.
Yeah, call me a short, skinny little hypocrite; I wasn’t a great fan of jocks in general, but damned if Avery Beckett wasn’t an exception to the rule. But being an exception didn’t matter all that much, considering a) I hadn’t seen or heard anything that suggested Avery was gay or even bisexual, and b) if by some glorious chance Avery was indeed gay or bisexual, there wasn’t a chance he would ever look twice at me. He was a freakin’ Adonis. Six feet tall. Broad shoulders, powerfully long legs, narrow hips; Avery was solid muscle with deliciously bronze skin, brilliant blue eyes, sensual full lips and sun-kissed sandy brown hair. And he was smart. He had shared the same creative writing class as me the previous semester (not that Avery had known I was alive, let alone in the same room with him), and I was blown away each time Avery posed a question or answered
T HE party was in full swing by the time we arrived at a quarter ’til ten and if it hadn’t been for my best friend, Scarlett Wade, clutching tightly to my hand and forcefully dragging me forward, I would have happily bolted out the door. I really didn’t want to be there. At all. Only a week into my sophomore year, I simply wanted to spend the weekend doing what I had done every weekend throughout my freshman year: I wanted to hang out in my cluttered dorm room with a bag of popcorn and a good book, or maybe an old black and white film. I certainly didn’t want to attend the Kappa Psi Delta fraternity’s Back to School Bash—quite honestly, I had to question the sanity of anyone who did want to attend any event hosted by a fraternity made up of football jocks, baseball jocks, and basketball jocks. It was Jock Central. And me… well, it was safe to say no one would ever mistake little five-foot-five-inch, one-hundred-forty-five-pound me as anything remotely related to a jock. I had, however, spent my entire high school career with an invisible target posted on my back, inviting any and all jocks and their friends to torment me in whatever ways they deemed amusing.
Scarlett knew this, of course, as she and I had been best friends since fifth grade, and on more than one occasion Scarlett had jumped wildly to my defense when some asshole tried to badger me in her temperamental presence. No one wanted Scarlett pissed with them. She wasn’t a wilting southern belle by any stretch of the imagination, never mind the fact she was only an inch taller than me. Scarlett’s dainty, blue-eyed, blond beauty fooled many tragic fools at first glance, but most quickly learned that Scarlett didn’t tolerate stupidity, arrogance, or bigots and she could and would stare down men twice her delicate size, if and when someone landed on her bad side. I adored her beyond reason. I wasn’t close to my family, but I had Scarlett. I knew I could depend on her come hell or high water, and it was because I did indeed love her that I allowed her to talk me (thoroughly strong-arm me) into attending Kappa Psi Delta’s Back to School Bash. “ Brent’s going to be there and I’d like to maybe show up and flirt a little, to find out if he’s really interested .” Brent was—of course—a jock, as the Kappa Psi Delta directive apparently mandated, but having talked to the star pitcher on several occasions, I had to admit he seemed like a decent sort. If he hadn’t been, I would have told Scarlett as much. Period. She was certainly strong-willed and capable, but the protective nature of our friendship went both ways, and I looked out for Scarlett’s well-being whenever I could. She had dated a few jackasses in the past, but Brent seemed intelligent, levelheaded, he didn’t come across as painfully arrogant, and I didn’t doubt for a second that he was very much interested in Scarlett. And Scarlett (damn her) knew I was utterly interested in and completely enchanted by Brent’s best friend and Duke’s star right fielder, Avery Beckett.
Yeah, call me a short, skinny little hypocrite; I wasn’t a great fan of jocks in general, but damned if Avery Beckett wasn’t an exception to the rule. But being an exception didn’t matter all that much, considering a) I hadn’t seen or heard anything that suggested Avery was gay or even bisexual, and b) if by some glorious chance Avery was indeed gay or bisexual, there wasn’t a chance he would ever look twice at me. He was a freakin’ Adonis. Six feet tall. Broad shoulders, powerfully long legs, narrow hips; Avery was solid muscle with deliciously bronze skin, brilliant blue eyes, sensual full lips and sun-kissed sandy brown hair. And he was smart. He had shared the same creative writing class as me the previous semester (not that Avery had known I was alive, let alone in the same room with him), and I was blown away each time Avery posed a question or answered
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