How to Date a Douchebag_The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but yes he knows. Why, what would you do if he didn’t know? Tattle on her?”

  Gunderson scoffs, disbelieving. “There is no way Coach Donnelly is okay with Anabelle living with a guy—no fucking way.”

  “How ‘bout you mind your own business, Gunderson?”

  He ignores me. “What’s it like?”

  “I just said mind your own business.”

  “Has she crawled into bed with you yet? Dude, that would be so fucking awesome.”

  Before he can say another word, I’m in his personal space, bumping my chest against his. “Say one more word about it and I’m going to—”

  Gunderson’s hands go up. “Whoa, whoa. Dude, what the hell is up with you tonight? Between you, Osborne, and Daniels, I always thought you were the gentleman—guess I was wrong.”

  “Guess so, or maybe I just don’t like you. Never have.”

  He rolls his eyes, glancing over my shoulder. “And I’m real broken up about it.”

  Why is this guy so fucking annoying? “Enjoy your night. It’ll be your one and only date with her.”

  “As if that’s up to you.” He snorts. “Wait a second…” He rears back to look me in the eye. “Are you—you are! You’re jealous aren’t you?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Gunderson. No one is jealous of you.”

  “You are. You’re jealous I’m here on a date with Anabelle Donnelly.”

  He’s struck a nerve and knows it, the little fucker. “No—I have a problem with the fact that you’re a lying scumbag who’s only going out with her to win a bigger bedroom.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Everyone fucking knows, Gunderson. It’s just a matter of time before Coach finds out.”

  But he’s no longer looking me in the eye; he’s scanning the room looking for an escape from this conversation.

  I get right up in his face so he hears every word I say. “If you think for one second I’m not watching you like a hawk, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “What is your damn problem, man?” Rex throws his hands up. “I haven’t done anything to you, and no one has slept with her. Trust me, she sent Johnson to her fucking dad’s house, so he won’t go near her with a ten-foot cock.”

  He laughs at his own joke, clever idiot.

  “You’re too dumb to stay away from her. You just can’t stop yourself from doing stupid shit, can you? First that bullshit with your old roommate Rabideaux, now this crap with Johnson, and that’s only the shit anyone has found out about. This isn’t the first time the two of you have pulled a stunt like this, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll apologize to her, because once her dad finds out, you and that pissant Johnson are going to be fucked.”

  Even under the dim lights of the bar, Gunderson is blanching, swallowing hard. Nervous.

  “I haven’t done anything,” he repeats with conviction. A firm nod. “Maybe you should climb down out of my ass before I complain to the bouncer that you’re harassing me.”

  “You’re so fucked.” I raise my arm, clamping my giant palm on his bony shoulder. “Consider this a friendly warning, eh?”

  I straighten the collar of his polo shirt, wanting to smack my palm across his face. “Now act normal and smile, because I promised Anabelle I’d behave myself tonight.” Pull back and get a nice, long look at him. “Keep your dick and hands to yourself, pony boy.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “Hands to your fuckingself.”

  “Jesus Christ, St. Charles, were you always as big a douchebag as Osborne and Daniels?”

  “Yes. Obviously I learned from the best.”

  Elliot

  Playing the white knight is exhausting.

  I’m sprawled out on my bed, the house pitch black except for the glowing television in the corner of my room, when out of the corner of my eye, I see Anabelle tiptoe past.

  Quiet as a church mouse, but not quiet enough.

  “Psst. What are you still doing up?” I call out to her in a voice barely above a whisper. We’re both awake, but the lights are all off. The mood calls for it, bedtime having come and gone hours ago.

  “I was thirsty,” she whispers. “Going to the kitchen for a drink. I was trying not to disturb you in case you were asleep. I didn’t realize you were awake.”

  “Yeah, can’t sleep.”

  “It would help if the TV wasn’t on.” Her eyes land on the flat screen then flicker back to me, narrowing. “Wait a second—are you watching our show without me? You said you were going to wait!”

  Oh shit.

  I cringe, busted.

  “I’m sorry! It’s been driving me crazy and you’ve been at your dad’s the past few nights so I thought I’d get caught up.”

  “Elliot, I’m not caught up either!” Her arms cross over her breasts, the thin, sexy tank top does nothing to conceal her breasts. “I feel betrayed. What kind of a friend does that?”

  “I just started it!”

  “That doesn’t make it right! How am I going to forgive you?”

  “Want me to rewind it?”

  From the doorway, Anabelle rolls her eyes. “Duh, yes rewind it! You want anything from the kitchen?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  My roommate isn’t gone for long, the pitter-patter of her bare feet in the hallway returning within a few minutes.

  Setting a glass of water on the bedside table, my roommate climbs into my bed—and it’s not that I feel it’s an invasion of my privacy, it’s just different.

  And let’s face it, I was never in danger of being ridiculously sexually attracted to my last roommates like I am with this one.

  “Do you mind if I crawl under the covers?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Please do, I silently add, so I don’t have to sit and stare at your long, smooth legs.

  On all fours, ass in the air, Anabelle pulls back the bedspread to join me. The tank she’s wearing dips, giving me a clear shot of her cleavage. I try to glance away when her boobs sway beneath the fabric.

  “Oh my gosh, it’s so warm in here.” She makes a show of plumping the pillows behind her head, propping them against my headboard so she gets a better view of the TV, arms crossed over her chest. “This bed is so much more comfortable than mine. There’s so much of it, I could get lost in here.”

  “Right.” ‘Cause really, what else is there to say? I can barely concentrate on the remote control in my hand, fumbling around for the pause button. Hit play, doing my best to settle on my side of the bed.

  My side of the bed.

  It sounds so…permanent.

  My side. Her side.

  Knock that shit off, Elliot.

  Christ, if the guys saw me right now, they would be laughing their asses off at how awkward I’m acting. Amateur.

  I shoot Anabelle a sidelong glance then focus on the show we’ve started binge-watching together at night, usually two episodes in a row—sometimes three—until one of us is too tired to keep watching.

  We’re on season four of a show showcasing a hyper-dysfunctional family living in the city, enduring one fucked-up scenario after the next.

  It’s riveting. We can’t stop watching.

  “Was that your foot?” Anabelle laughs. “Stop that, it’s cold!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Want me to warm you up?” she jokes, her toes wiggling under the covers, dangerously close to mine. She hunkers down deeper into my blankets, not unlike the night I carried her into my house, passed out in my arms.

  Flopping on her side, she rests her cheek on her hand, watching me. “Did I tell you I got my cleats in the mail today? And my mom managed to find my shin guards and some socks. They’re hot pink with black polka dots.” Her laugh is low.

  Cute.

  I look down at her, startled by how relaxed she is compared to the inner turmoil I’m feeling. Seriously, she doesn’t seem at all fazed by lying here
so close to me.

  “Don’t you dare fall asleep on me. We’ve only been watching this show for ten minutes and you’ll make me watch it all over again from the beginning.”

  Her lips curl into a catlike smile. “That’s probably true.”

  She’s not fussy or high maintenance, but she does like to know what’s happening on her favorite shows. Hates when I watch without her. Makes me rewind if I’m talking during important parts. Makes me rewind if she’s talking during important parts.

  “Why is she going out with him? Tell me why,” my roommate says to the TV. “I swear, if she screws things up with Steve, I will be so pissed.”

  I glance over. “I thought you hated Steve.”

  “I do, but of all the guys she keeps banging, I like him the best.”

  “But he’s a criminal, and last week you said he was too skinny.”

  “He is.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  Anabelle sighs. “I just can’t do skinny jeans on a guy, okay? It’s weird.”

  “I wear skinny jeans.”

  “No you don’t. Yours are tapered—there’s a huge difference.”

  I’m not going to argue with her when I have no fucking clue what she’s talking about.

  “Do you want me to rewind what we just missed?”

  “Yes please,” she simpers, nose buried in my sheets, and I actually hear her inhale. “These smell so good.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I pause. “Thanks for washing them this weekend.”

  “Thanks for hauling the garbage cans down to the curb yesterday when it was my turn.”

  “No problem.” It was her turn—I know this because she made a chart when she moved in so we could share responsibilities. There are only like, five chores, but if a chart makes her feel like she’s contributing, I’d be an idiot to complain.

  I rewind, go a little too far, and hit play. We watch again in silence until I wonder out loud, “Are women really attracted to guys who look like that?”

  “Pfft, I’m not.”

  “Every guy she goes out with looks like a creep. I don’t get it.”

  “It’s fake, Elliot.”

  “I know that, Anabelle. I’m merely making an observation.” I roll my eyes. “Out of all her boyfriends, who would you date?”

  “Gross. You’re going to make me choose from those guys? I can’t. I’d rather throw up in my mouth.”

  “Just pick one.”

  “Fine. I’d pick Gus—not because I want to, but because you’re forcing my hand.” She rolls to her back, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re going to be up all night if we keep talking.”

  I click rewind. “Should we just turn it off?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’m tired. My heart’s not in it.”

  We laugh, and she sits up to take a drink of water. Falls back onto my pillows, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, lobbing from side to side when she moves.

  “I guess I’ll go back to my room.”

  I hesitate, not wanting her to go, already missing her but not knowing if it’s appropriate for me to ask her to spend the night.

  Casually, “Nah, you’re already comfortable. If you promise to keep your hands to yourself, you can stay put.”

  “Yes, please. I’m too lazy to walk all the way across the hall.”

  “The whole ten feet?”

  “It’s so far.” She chuckles in the dark when I hit the power button and my television goes off, making the room pitch black.

  “Wow. This is dark.” Her voice cuts through the night.

  “Isn’t your room dark?”

  “Not this dark. I have a streetlight outside my window that keeps me up sometimes. One of these days I’ll order some curtains, or maybe I’ll buy myself a sleep mask.”

  “I can help you hang curtains.”

  Her hand finds me in the dark, patting its way up my forearm. Bicep. Giving me a squeeze.

  “Good night Elliot.”

  I yawn, lying flat, rolling to my side, facing the door. “Night roomie.”

  Another soft chuckle and she yawns, too. “I love it when you call me that.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know why—it’s not much fun as far as nicknames go, but…I’m glad I’m here.”

  The room is silent as I think of what to say next.

  “Same.”

  Anabelle

  I don’t know what time it was when we both fell asleep, but at some point in the middle of the night, we gravitated together, something I’ve never done before when in bed with another human. I’m wrapped up like a pretzel.

  I don’t know when I rolled up beside him, or when my cheek found the space above his armpit, resting there…or when I threw my leg over his thigh, tucking it between his legs.

  Palm flattened out over his ribcage.

  His arm around me, pulling me in.

  When did we curl into each other?

  Does it even matter?

  His body is so warm, and I’m in no rush to unfurl myself, content to listen to the rhythmic sound of his heart. It’s beating relatively slowly, so without having to look, I know he’s still sleeping.

  Bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump.

  Steady.

  Constant.

  Just like Elliot.

  Over the course of a few short weeks, he’s become more than just my roommate; he’s become my friend. Big. Strong.

  Solid.

  Every muscle on him is firm and toned. Tan from playing soccer with no shirt on, his upper body is carved to perfection, not too hard, not too soft.

  Perfect.

  Eyes still closed against the morning sun, the tips of my fingers do the exploring for me. Softly drift from their spot on his sternum, trailing across his ribcage, pressing into his hot flesh in slow, lazy circles.

  Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

  His heartbeat quickens.

  My hand runs over his skin, up along his collarbone. The space between his neck and shoulder, languid and carnal, back to his chest.

  He smells good.

  I always notice, but more so when we’re piled on his bed watching television, every time he shifts on the bed. Fresh like a shower, like soap—no heavy cologne or body spray. Just water and soap and him.

  I crack an eyelid when my fingers skim along the underside of his pecs, chancing a glance at his face.

  He’s awake. Watchful. Massive palm beginning a leisurely stroke up and down my back, his touch leaving a hot trail in its wake.

  As my thumb caresses his nipple, my eyes travel down the length of his long, lean torso, settling on the front of his athletic pants, on the stiffening dick there.

  Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

  Biting down on my lower lip, I continue to caress his skin. Chest, sternum, stomach. It’s so smooth—he has almost no hair, nothing but the sexiest of happy trails. It’s light brown and looks soft, starting at his belly button and disappearing into that mysterious place I can’t help fixating on.

  Happy trail. Pleasure track. Garden path.

  Guh!

  We don’t even flirt. I should not be eyeing the goods.

  Well, we do flirt occasionally, but not in the traditional sense. The routine we’ve fallen into goes way beyond comfortable. It’s sweet the way he takes care of me when we’re only roommates, buying my favorite foods and leaving the lights on so I don’t have to come home to a dark house. Leaving me notes instead of just texting me.

  Cute little notes with smiley faces on the bathroom mirror.

  Twice, he’s walked me to class.

  Twice, I’ve walked him to his.

  Last week, when I knew he had a late study group, I made him a sandwich to take along so he wouldn’t starve. Yesterday, when I was running behind, he stood by the door holding my backpack, watching as I rushed around the living room, desperately trying to slide my shoes on. Ended up driving me so I wouldn’t get locked out of class for being late.

  Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

 
His heart thumps and I’m not sure if I want to stop touching him, even though we’ve officially crossed an invisible line we can’t walk back over.

  Elliot’s hand continues rubbing my back, sliding up and down my ribcage, his palm that big. Massive hands meant to touch my skin, fingers that play with the hemline of my tank top. Glide beneath the material, hiking it up, etching hot, burning lines on my spine.

  His hand stops on my ribcage. Thumb strokes back and forth, grazing the underside of my breast.

  It’s then that our eyes finally meet.

  I wish I could read his mind or see into his soul, because I can’t for the life of me read his expression. Tired, half-hooded eyes, his mouth—those lips I’ve been secretly wanting to kiss—is impassive.

  We don’t speak. We don’t have to.

  I have nothing to say that wouldn’t be awkward anyway, so I keep my lips sealed shut and concentrate on the way Elliot feels pulled up beside me. How it feels being wrapped in his strong arms.

  How it feels having his hand almost touching my boob.

  Glancing down again at his boner, I feel somewhat guilty that he has a hard-on and we’re not yet at the point where I can do anything about it. So, I just watch it spasm every now and again, every time I touch him somewhere new above the waist.

  Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

  A heart is racing but I’m not sure if it’s his or mine.

  I’m not sure whose heart is beating fastest.

  Elliot

  A shift happened this morning.

  I can feel it in the air as we get ready for our pick-up soccer game, shyly smiling at each other and joking all the way to my car.

  I sneak a few covert glances at her over the hood of my car when she climbs in, her long hair pulled into a ponytail, her goofy grin confusing the shit out of me.

  We listen to music on our way to the park, windows down all the way, cool breeze blowing Anabelle’s ponytail into long wisps around her face. Every now and again she looks over and smiles, biting down on her bottom lip before turning back toward the window.

  What was that look? Is she flirting? Just being nice?

  Jesus, I can’t tell.

  I need a fucking manual.