No! Jocks Don't Date Guys

By: Wade Kelly



The JOCK Series: Book Two



What is a sexy soccer stud supposed to do when “following family tradition” falls 180 degrees opposite his closeted ideal?

From birth, Chris Jackson has been schooled on how to land a cheerleader. After all, his father married one, and his father’s father before him. Heck, even his older brother married a stereotypical cheerleader the summer before Chris went off to college. For two years, Chris dodges invasive questions about relationships by blaming his lack of female companionship on grueling practices and heavy course loads. But his lack of interest in girls should’ve given his family a clue. It isn’t until Chris mentions meeting a boy that his father’s synapses short-circuit.

Alonzo Martin is anything but a buxom blond. From his black hair, combat boots, and trench coat to his nail polish and guyliner, the mysterious introvert isn’t easily persuaded to date. Alonzo’s insecurities keep Chris at arm’s length, but Alonzo’s painful past might meet its match in the charismatic jock’s winning smile and sense of humor.

When opposites attract, only cheerleaders and gummy bears can help overcome fear and family tradition.





I would like to dedicate this novel to my readers, who continue to support me with encouragement, love, and praise: I need you, I thank you, and I could not go on without you. Thank you for waiting so long after Jock 1.




To my beta readers, who keep me on my toes and push me to reinvent myself in order to deliver the best story possible. Thank you Beth, Jeff, Will, and Taryn for believing in me… one more time! And to Mandy, thank you for joining my pack.



To my newest friend Lance. I’m so glad I met you. There are very few people in the world who carry about them an aura as warm and peaceful as yours. I hope you never lose your “Lanceness” because you are truly one of a kind.



And randomly, I dedicate this book to Rick R. Reed, who mentioned getting up at 4:30 a.m. in order to get his writing done early. You inspired me, and 2015 has been the most productive, and consistent, I’ve ever been as a writer. Thank you.





Chapter 1: New Coach





SOCCER PRACTICE was about to start when I noticed a guy all dressed in black walk around the corner of the stadium fence and climb the steps, two at a time. I watched this lone spectator out of the corner of my eye as I squirted water into my mouth, and then all over my face, from my favorite water bottle with the pull-top spout. My best bud, Doug, had given it to me for my birthday last May, and I swear it was the best gift ever because not only did it not leak in my car, but when the top was screwed off, the opening was wide enough to get my hand in to wash it. I took it with me everywhere.

I snapped the spout closed and tossed it in my bag. A casual glance around told me that guy was still there—watching.

As I assessed his ocular trajectory from the way his head was positioned, I realized he wasn’t watching me. He was taking in the whole field. Although the same thing could be said of me as I surreptitiously noted his characteristics while turning my head as if scanning the bleachers and the nearby sandpit. I was the sly, stealthy kind, if I did say so myself. Practice makes perfect, after all. The rest of the team didn’t need to know how easily I could get distracted from the actual reason we were all here at 8:00 a.m. Soccer was life, but in the other three hours of the day—when soccer, food, and sleep were not on my brain—I liked observing people. Guys in particular because I was always on the prowl for that one guy who would grab my soul and melt my heart.

Okay, enough sentimentality.

I mainly noticed this guy because one solitary dude, sitting at the top of the football stadium bleachers, dressed in a black trench coat and combat boots, in August, two weeks before classes started, wasn’t normal. Maryland was freaking hot in August! I picked up on details like that all the time. Things out of the ordinary, juxtaposed against the backdrop of college soccer, were fascinating. His presence was idiosyncratic in this setting and the very definition of my weakness. The oddities of life, the strange and weird, always drew me in.

Why was he here?

Sometimes I hated the way I spotted details, because people often wanted to go undetected when their individual oddity wasn’t popular or pleasant. Scars, for instance, rarely escaped my attention no matter how hard I tried to overlook them.

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