How to Date a Douchebag_The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  On the field, we choose teams. There are twenty-five of us today, so it’s a near even split to make two teams. I end up on one, Anabelle on the other, and we take our warm-up laps together once she ties her cleats.

  She’s so fucking cute.

  So pretty.

  Her black soccer shorts are thin, the socks she has pulled up her calves a bright neon pink and peppered with black dots. Her gray t-shirt says Sweating like a Sinner in Church and she has a yellow apron over it, her sports bra straps playing peekaboo with the collar.

  Sue me for noticing.

  Side by side, we jog around the field, Anabelle’s ponytail swaying the entire way. It’s jaunty and cute, and I’m excited to play against her today.

  It’s her first game with our group, and I can tell she’s nervous because she hasn’t stopped chattering the entire three laps we’ve made.

  “What if I accidentally take you out while I’m using my sweet, sweet moves on you?”

  “What kind of moves? This is regulation, you know, not gorilla-style.”

  She turns, jogging backward. “I don’t know. First I’d come at you like this”—she swerves—“then I’d fake you out like this.”

  Anabelle does a few toe taps, mimicking some of the fast footwork we use during games, breasts bouncing beneath her shirt.

  I avert my eyes. “You shouldn’t be giving me all your best plays.”

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  “Put your money where your mouth is Donnelly. The game hasn’t even started yet—isn’t it too early for trash talk?”

  Her laugh rings out. “It’s never too early for a little trash talk, St. Charles.”

  We run the lines of the field once more before the ref—who’s just another player volunteering to sit one out—blows a whistle. Anabelle is at midfield where she feels most comfortable, while I play sweeper near the opposite goal.

  Whistle blows.

  Feet move.

  Forty-five minutes later, the first half is over, a new one beginning. We don’t take long breaks or stop for time-outs because no one wants the game to take all night.

  It’s fast-paced and fun, with lots of bantering.

  I can hear Anabelle laughing at Devin, two sets of eyes angling my way during a penalty kick. My roommate hits my friend on the shoulder while they stand together, forming a wall to block their goal.

  It doesn’t work and my team scores.

  Everyone scrambles to get back in position.

  The ground is uneven in the park, the soccer field a hazard to run on, so when Anabelle trips in a divot and falls backward, I’m not surprised. I’m close enough to offer my hand and help her to her feet.

  Our palms slide together, fusing.

  I tug.

  She stands. Swipes the grass off her rear, long legs marred with grass stains. Blushes.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  “Wait.” Her fingers reach out, plucking at my hair. “You have a piece of grass stuck right…here.”

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles. “No problem.”

  I watch as she jogs away, eyes fastened on that ass. The long, colt-like legs striding back to her side of the field.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Fucking Devin.

  I turn and shoot him an irritated scowl. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the other side of the field?”

  “I took Brandon’s spot, he had to cut out early for a study group.” My teammate laughs. “Getting chummy with your roommate already, I see? Peel your eyes off her for one damn second, would ya?”

  “Shut up.”

  His laugh is loud and annoying as hell. “I knew you fucking liked her! You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me.”

  “I said, shut. Up.”

  “It is too damn cute, that’s all I’m saying.” He falls into line beside me, way too far back to be in his correct position. “Like little puppy dogs!”

  Curious, I can’t help asking, “What were the two of you laughing about during the penalty shot?”

  My knees are bent, eyes still trained on the ball being kicked around.

  “You, obviously.”

  “Jesus, Devin, would you cut the crap? What did you say?”

  He lets out a loud laugh. “I asked if you were being a kind and courteous roommate.”

  “You fucking liar.”

  “Yeah, I’m lying.” He sniffles, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “I asked her if she found you attractive, if she liked you as more than a friend.”

  “What the actual fuck! Why would you do that?”

  “Because I was curious and I knew you wouldn’t have the balls. Don’t fucking lie and say your dick doesn’t tingle thinking about her. She’s hot.”

  She is hot, especially in those short soccer shorts, with those flirty pink socks pulled up to her knees.

  “Well, what did she say, asshole?” He’s driving me insane.

  “What do you think she said?”

  I want to strangle him so hard right now. “God I hate you.”

  “Do you? Do you though? Or do you wish your balls were as big as mine?” He grabs his dick through his shorts, laughing.

  “Just fucking tell me what she said.”

  “Nah.” He ignores me, watching the players move around the field. “I don’t think I will.”

  Fantastic.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me; I have Anabelle on the brain 24-7.

  We’re playing with fire, and we both know it.

  Elliot

  When I enter the house tonight, Anabelle is snuggled up in the corner of the couch, blanket over her legs, highlighter in hand, hovering it over a book I’ve never seen.

  I can’t decipher the title from here, but its hot pink cover catches my eye. Setting my bag down by the door and kicking off my shoes before entering the living room, I join her on the couch, plopping down on the opposite end.

  “Hey.”

  She looks down at my feet, propped on the coffee table, happy to see me. “Hey. Welcome home.”

  “What the hell are you reading?”

  “A book? I bought it on the ‘Zon.” She turns the cover toward herself, reading it with a snicker. “How to Get Revenge on Someone and Stay Classy in the Process.”

  “Oh Jesus.”

  Anabelle sighs. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about this whole Eric and Rex debacle thing, and I’m just not ready to let it go. Like, I don’t want to be a psycho, but I don’t think they should get away with acting like complete douchebags. Know what I mean?”

  “I hate even asking, but what does the book say you should do?”

  “Well, it’s not good news.” Anabelle clears her throat, opening to the middle of the book, trailing her thumb along one of the pages. “When you act in desperation to get revenge on an ex, this not only makes you look crazy, it can also make you look like a complete psycho. Seriously, you’re better than that.”

  “It says that? For real?”

  “Yeah, for real. It’s such a bummer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because everything I’ve researched is telling me to let the whole thing go. It’s depressing.”

  I shrug. “I mean…you could. Those idiots are never going to learn their lesson.”

  “Oh, and then there’s this!” She clears her throat dramatically. “Let karma handle the situation.” Anabelle snorts, reading. “You are not starring in a movie—this is real life. You might think you have the tools to pull off revenge flawlessly, but you do not.”

  The book flops down in her lap, and my roommate tosses the yellow marker onto the coffee table. It hits the hard surface and bounces to the floor.

  “How do the authors know I don’t have the tools to pull off revenge flawlessly? They don’t know me—they don’t know my life.”

  “Do you have the tools?”

  “No, but they don’t know that.” Anabelle tosses the book to the side n
ext to her on the couch. “Ugh, I want my money back! This book is garbage!”

  “Anabelle, don’t you think it’s time to tell your dad?”

  “Probably, but I want to explore all of my options first—and correct me if I’m wrong, but getting back at those guys was your idea.”

  “No, I want them to be held accountable for the shit they’ve been doing, not get revenge on them. They keep getting away with their crap. Telling your dad would finally put a stop to it.”

  “Elliot, I went out with the guy, remember? He’s harmless enough. Honestly, I just think he’s rather impulsive.” Anabelle’s arms go above her head, stretching. She changes the subject. “I am so sore, my shoulders are killing me. I thought I was in better shape than this, but these soccer games are kicking my butt.”

  “Should we chill out and watch TV? I can massage your back if you want.”

  “Yes, oh my God, would you? I would love that!” She sits up, animated, scrambling to her feet. “I’m getting my pajamas on. I know it’s early, but I’m beat, and then you can give me a back massage.”

  She does a happy dance on her tiptoes in the center of the living room.

  “Seriously? That’s all it takes to get you excited? The promise of a shoulder rub?”

  Her finger points in my direction, one eye narrowing. “You said back massage.”

  “Semantics.”

  My roommate rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Whichever way you want to rub me, I’ll meet you on the bed in ten minutes. I’m not missing this opportunity—I haven’t had anyone work on my back in ages.”

  Whichever way you want to rub me… Meet you on the bed…

  Head out of the gutter, St. Charles. That’s not what she meant.

  I know, but I can’t help it.

  I trudge along behind Anabelle down the short hallway to my room, shutting the door behind me and peeling off the clothes I wore to my classes and while studying in the library, where I just came from.

  I’m pulling on a pair of navy mesh shorts when she knocks, giving the elastic waistband a snap and opening the door.

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were still, you know…getting dressed.” She’s gaping at me, intense blue eyes swiftly raking my bare chest and abs, standing in sleep shorts and a tank top. “Do you want to throw a shirt on or something?”

  “It’s fine, I’m good. Come in and make yourself comfortable—you always do.”

  She doesn’t take offense at my good-natured teasing.

  “Haha, but also, don’t mind if I do.” She almost literally throws herself on my bed, landing on her stomach, head at the foot, facing the television. Props her chin in her hands, waiting for me. “I brought this.”

  Magically, a bottle of lotion is produced, tossed on the comforter next to her. She stretches like a cat waking from a long nap. “For real, this is so exciting.”

  “You’re the easiest person to please, I swear.”

  “Basically.” Anabelle raises her head. “If I don’t fall asleep, I’ll return the favor, promise.”

  “You better not fucking fall asleep—I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone massage my back.”

  This interests her immensely and she perks up. “Wait, you’ve never had a back massage?”

  “No?”

  “Ever?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, what the hell, Elliot? How can I, in good conscience, lie here letting you rub my back when you’ve never had anyone rub yours?” She scoots over, pointing to the mattress. “Lie on your stomach, I’ll do you first.”

  I wave my hands in front of me in protest. The last thing I need is her warm hands roaming my body. “No, no, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”

  “Are you crazy? Back massages are the best—like, better than an orgasm. You’re first, so lie down.”

  “And you call me the bossy one?”

  “Quit stalling and get on the bed, St. Charles.”

  Obediently, I climb to the middle of my bed in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, legs hanging off the side. Next to me, the mattress dips, Anabelle on her knees, approaching my side.

  A finger glides down my spine. “It will be easier for me to do this if I’m sitting on you. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Is that the approved method?”

  “No, but my arms will get tired if I have to lean over you the whole time.”

  “Do whatever then, I don’t care.”

  I stiffen when Anabelle swings one leg over my body, straddling my ass. Warm palms at my lower back.

  “You’re so tense, Elliot. Try to relax,” she coos, making it worse. “Tilt your head to the side, that’s it.”

  I hear the lotion bottle snap open. Click closed. My roommate’s palms rubbing together, warming it up. “Sorry, I don’t have any actual massage oil. This will have to do.”

  When her hands make contact with my back, I almost groan it feels so fucking good. Warm. Smooth. Pressure in all the right places, pushing gently into my muscles.

  Slowly.

  Slower still, caressing along my shoulders, thumbs and fingers working together to soothe the burning on my right side.

  “Doesn’t this feel great?” Her soft voice cuts into the silence. “You’re loosening up. That’s good.”

  I feel her leaning as her hands move up and down my spine until they stop, hovering at the base of my neck. Thumbs stroking the skin below my hairline, back and forth.

  Kneading.

  Her torso dips, hands maneuvering my arms, placing them at my sides. Palms slide up and down my biceps.

  For several minutes, she rubs my arms and shoulders. Then she skims down my ribcage unhurriedly, in no rush, making little humming sounds inside her throat.

  I know I’m not imagining the feather-light way her hands drift down my spine. I remain still, letting her touch me, basking in it.

  Remain still when her lips kiss the tender spot of my shoulder where it meets my neck, nose nuzzling behind my ear, her breasts rubbing against my back and what the fuck was that all about? What does she think she’s doing, trying to drive me insane?

  “Okay! Done!” Just like that, her hands are gone and Anabelle is sliding off my body like she didn’t just kiss me, innocent doe eyes widening when I glance up at her. “I’m sorry that was cut short but I’m dying for my turn.” I watch as she lies down next to me, facing me, grinning. “Ready when you are.”

  I rise to my haunches, unsure. “You don’t expect me to sit on you, do you?”

  I’m afraid I’ll crush her if I do.

  She shoots another smile across at me. “You can if it’s easier. You won’t smother me. I trust you.”

  Right. She trusts me, and what better way to affirm that than my erection digging into her ass crack?

  Yeah, don’t think so.

  Reaching for her bottle of lotion—it’s shea butter—I squeeze a decent amount onto my palm, imitating the way she rubbed her hands together before starting her massage on me.

  Get ready to place my hands on her back, pause. “Hold up, I just realized I have all this lotion on my hands.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where do I put it?” She’s wearing a top, and now I can’t lift the hem or it’ll get it dirty. “Do I just rub my hands along your arms or what?”

  Anabelle laughs, burying her face in my quilt. “No you goof, you put them under my shirt.”

  Under her shirt. Sure. “Got it.”

  Her tank top is threadbare, the hem sitting at the base of her spine, skin already playing peekaboo. Poising my fingers along the edge of the fabric, the pads press gently on her exposed flesh, tentatively.

  Sheepishly.

  “Don’t be shy—a little lotion on my tank won’t hurt anything,” my roommate whispers, eyes already closed, smile playing on her lips. “Just rub my back, don’t worry about the technique.”

  Jeez, I suck at this.

  “Okay.”

  I have no choice but to hook the fabric with my forefinger, making
room for my hands, giving them berth to glide their way up, under her top. They catch the cotton once, smearing. Twice, fighting their way up, awkwardly.

  Anabelle chuckles. “Should I just take my shirt off?”

  “What?” I can’t have heard that correctly.

  “Maybe I should take my shirt off. It might be easier—your hands are so big.”

  My hands are big.

  Her skin so soft.

  Smooth.

  Warm flesh.

  Perfect spine.

  I marvel at it, under the incandescent lighting of my bedroom. Marvel at how intimate this moment is, how much faith and trust Anabelle is placing in me.

  I haven’t had a girlfriend in a really long fucking time, but I don’t recall a single instance as intimate as this, not even the sex.

  Transfixed, I watch when she turns away for privacy and peels away her shirt, tossing it aside. Settles, once again on her stomach, chin resting on her hands.

  Sighs, content.

  “Let me know if my hair is in the way.”

  “It’s not.” It’s piled atop her head, a few loose wisps of the baby-fine hair escaping; I imagine it’s tickling her neck.

  Her waist is narrow, ribcage peach perfection.

  Her breasts are flattened, side-boob creating a glorious distraction as I finally lay my hands on her skin, firmly rubbing her back.

  “That feels amazing.” She’s quiet a few seconds. “Can you do me lower, right here?” Her left hand reaches back to grip my wrist, dragging it down, right at the waistband of her sleep shorts.

  I place both hands on her obliques. Her iliac crest, just above her ass.

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Oh God, that feels good.”

  I can’t tell if she’s doing it on purpose—the moaning—but regardless, it’s turning me on. This whole massage is, from Anabelle’s bare flesh, to mine, to the little sounds she’s making as she lies motionless beneath me.

  I have no idea how low to go or where I’m allowed to put my hands. So, I play it safe, staying above her waist. Gently caressing her teres major, her deltoids and trapezius, all the places I’m learning about in kinesiology, but this is different than practicing on another student or a prop.

  This is a woman I’m growing desperately attracted to.

  This is my bed.