How to Date a Douchebag_The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  “I was at the gym.” He leans against the doorjamb, broad shoulders slouching, hands in his pockets. Those big, capable man hands were on my body.

  Every inch of it, just hours ago.

  I peel my eyes away, sinking them down to my notebook, embarrassed, chest and cheeks turning red.

  “How was it? Was it crowded?”

  “Nah, not too bad. I think I beat the rush.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I was surprised to find the house almost dark when I walked in.”

  “I was, uh…trying to save on electricity.”

  “Trying to save on electricity,” he repeats, crossing his arms, clearly entertained. “Is that so?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t hide and try to scare the crap out of you.”

  Elliot smiles then, biting down on his bottom lip the way I do when I’m being coy. On him, it’s even more endearing.

  “I thought we’d eat together when I got home. Aren’t you starving? It’s almost six o’clock.”

  My stomach turns, but not from hunger. It’s from nerves, thousands of them crackling to life in my lower abs. I place a hand there to quell them.

  “I wouldn’t get mad if you fed me.”

  “I threw that lasagna Linda dropped off Tuesday in the oven while you were at class.” Elliot enters my bedroom, sitting on my bed, legs spread. Hands clasped in his lap. “Sorry I haven’t texted you all day—I left my phone in my gym bag and it fell to the bottom. Was too lazy to dig it out.”

  “You don’t have to tell me where you’re at—I’m not your gatekeeper.”

  I’m also not his girlfriend.

  “Maybe not, but still.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound coming from the earbuds I removed earlier, the tiny speakers blasting a song so old and outdated I should be ashamed of myself.

  I have terrible taste in music; all my friends tell me so.

  My bed is a twin, so Elliot reclining back takes half the space, his hands patting down the area around him, patting down my white comforter, feeling it up.

  He shoots me a look. “We’ll never be able to sleep in here, this bed is way too small—you realize that, right?”

  I lean forward so our noses touch. “Are you scoping out my bedroom, St. Charles?”

  “I’m just stating facts in case you’re entertaining the notion of me crashing in here with you.”

  Entertaining the notion. I love it when he uses big words.

  “Last night wasn’t about just sex—do you understand that?”

  “Last night and this morning.” I laugh nervously. “But who’s keeping track?”

  “Answer the question, Anabelle.”

  My shoulders rise and fall. “Maybe. Just a little?”

  “You’ve been sleeping in my bed for at least a week—not that anyone is keeping track,” he jokes back. “Do you think I’d make you stop because we had sex last night?”

  “I have not been sleeping with you for a week!” Have I? “I like my little bed—why would I want to leave?”

  “Bullshit, you do not! We’ve done nothing but eat pizza and binge on Netflix for the past seven nights.”

  “Well that’s because you have the only bedroom with a TV—duh.”

  His arms go around my waist, dragging me onto his lap, knocking half my crap off the bed in the process. I’m kissed soundly on the lips as highlighters, pens, and notebooks go crashing to the ground.

  “You like my big TV,” he murmurs into my mouth. “Don’t lie, Donnelly.”

  “I do.” I shiver. “It gets me all excited just thinking about it.”

  “I’ll be honest. I thought about TV all goddamn day.” His hand is making slow circles along my spine and he pats my rear.

  “Really…did you now? TV with anyone in particular?”

  “Wait, we are still talking about actually watching television, aren’t we?” Elliot laughs, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek, scooting me off his lap so he can stand. Stretch. “I’m going to take a shower—I stink.”

  “Wow, sexy. If you’re lucky, I’ll even be here when you get back.”

  “You’re cute.”

  “So are you.”

  “Check the oven for me?”

  “Are you cooking for me now, St. Charles?” I can already smell the pasta and Italian aromas wafting from the kitchen, my mouth watering, stomach growling.

  “Sure am.”

  We eat standing at the counter when he’s out of the shower, forgoing the table, lasagna on paper plates. We already dug into the pan the night Linda kindly dropped it off, so it’s half gone.

  I poke at one of the noodles, folding it with my fork and shove it in my mouth, feeling self-conscious when some of it slips out and I have to grab it with my fingers to prevent it from falling on the floor. Sauce drips from my chin, fingers, and the collar of my shirt.

  Shit.

  Elliot catches me, a secretive smile playing at his lips; he’s a gentleman and hides it, turning his head and burying it in his shoulder.

  Ugh.

  Cleanup is easy; we just toss our plates, quickly draw some suds in the sink to wash the utensils, both of us dipping our hands beneath the water at the same time, grasping for the silverware to scrub them clean.

  I bump his hip playfully, flirting, and he removes his hands from the sudsy water, drying them on a nearby towel, moves to stand behind me. Skims those glorious hands down to my waist, nose buried in the crook of my neck.

  “I wasn’t just thinking about TV all day, I was thinking about this.” His lips find the pulse in my neck, kissing it. “About you.”

  In reply, my lids slide closed, hands still submerged in the water. “You were thinking about me?”

  “Of course. Going to the gym killed me—I knew you were home and I wanted to be home, too.”

  I swallow. “That’s nice to hear.”

  When he chuckles in my ear, it sends a delightful shot of electricity down my spine, warming my entire body with pleasure.

  He has the best laugh.

  The best hands.

  Elliot St. Charles is one of the sexiest, smartest, and most irresistible men I’ve ever met—and he’s got me by the hips, in our kitchen, mouth exploring the long column of my throat.

  “You smell good,” he croons, spooning me from behind. “I could eat you up.”

  “Okay,” I say as I exhale, completely out of breath.

  His hands slide up the back of my shirt, unclasping my bra, palms gliding over my ribcage, cupping my bare breasts.

  Kneading them gently, thumbs stroking the undersides while his teeth nip at my neck.

  It’s bliss.

  Pure nirvana.

  I raise my hands out of the water, wrapping them behind Elliot’s bowed neck. Bubbly fingers plowing through his thick hair while his hands rub down my boobs.

  I turn my head and our lips meet. Tongues connect.

  Then, I’m facing him and Elliot is hefting me up by the ass, setting me on the Formica countertop, fingers tugging at the waistband of my pants. I work the button on his jeans, frantically unsuccessful until he relieves me and finishes the task.

  Anxious, I eagerly watch as he tugs down his zipper. Shoves those dark denim jeans down his lean hips, boxers shed along with them.

  I lift my hips, pulling my leggings as far down as they’ll go, bare ass on the cold counter. Elliot hauls me toward the end of it. Lines up his stiff cock. Together we watch as he slips his dick into my pussy, both our heads tipping back when he’s buried to the hilt.

  “Oh God.”

  For a few seconds he doesn’t move, just stands there inside me, staring down at our joined bodies.

  “I swear to God, Elliot, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m going to lose my mind.”

  He pulls out.

  Pushes in.

  We groan in tandem.

  “Say that again.”

  “I swear to God, Elliot, if you don’t fuck me right now…” My breath h
itches when he pumps faster, over and over, my lower half quivering. He’s the perfect height to screw me on the counter. We’re effortlessly lined up, pelvises grinding.

  He grabs my hips, tugging me forward into him, thrusting in and out, my legs wrapped around his waist.

  “Not so fast—slow down,” I moan. “Make it last.”

  “Take your top off,” he says between pants. “I wanna see your tits.”

  “You take my top off.”

  We’re getting rough, and I like it.

  Hard and gentle.

  Fast and slow.

  I’ve been on the verge of coming twice now, a third time when he lifts my shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, my nipples sensitive to the cold. Even more sensitive to his tongue sucking on them.

  I plunge my fingers into his hair when our mouths finally connect, tongues twirling. We’re louder than we were in bed, the moans long and drawn out, panting, grunts guttural.

  “Anabelle,” Elliot chants, kissing me. “Anabelle.”

  Anabelle.

  I’ll never forget the way he says my name in that moment.

  Never.

  “It’s probably a terrible idea for us to continue living together—we need a chaperone.”

  “Should we get another roommate?”

  “Fuck no.”

  We’re in bed now—his bed—having cleaned up the kitchen, put away my homework, and shut off all the lights. His hand reaches for mine beneath the covers, lacing his fingers through mine.

  “Elliot?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t you think at some point we should talk about this?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “You know, the fact that we’ve…that we’re physical.”

  He shifts to face me. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I’m not trying to make this weird, but it’s been on my mind the past few days. I’m not one of those girls who can do things casually. I just can’t. So, before we get carried away, I want to talk about where this is headed.”

  “What do you mean?” He pushes a stray lock of hair out of my eyes, tucking it behind my ear.

  “What are we doing? Does this change our relationship?”

  “I hope not. I like you and I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”

  “That’s not really what I meant. I need to know if your feelings for me have changed now that we’re having sex, because I like you.”

  A lot.

  And I don’t want to be fuck buddies.

  I don’t want us to be just roommates.

  I don’t want to be just friends, either.

  “I like you, too, Anabelle. I just…”

  Oh God, he’s hesitating.

  He hesitates so long it becomes awkward, and I’m afraid to pull back to get a better look at his face.

  “What, Elliot. Just say it.”

  “This isn’t a good time for me to be starting an actual relationship.”

  My bare shoulders tense against his cozy cotton bedding. “So are you saying you don’t want one?”

  “I do, Anabelle, but it’s complicated.” He says it kindly, almost consoling. “I’m applying to grad schools all across the country, but none here. Chances are, I won’t be back after the end of the semester.”

  I did not know that.

  I mean, I knew he was applying to graduate programs, but we’ve never discussed where. Not once did he tell me he was leaving at the end of this semester.

  Which is in a matter of weeks.

  “Right. I get that, I was just asking.” I fake a laugh. “Relax.”

  I release his hand, rolling away from him, toward the wall, distancing myself so we’re no longer touching. Stare at the beige paint and blank space, fighting back tears.

  Elliot runs his hand up my bare spine; I want to shrug it off and tell him not to touch me, but I don’t want him to see me pout. Or worse…cry.

  “Anabelle…” The rawness in his voice is so thick, I ache for him, too, even though he’s the one hurting me. “Anabelle, I’m trying to make something of my life. I didn’t have it easy growing up—my parents weren’t financially successful until I was older and wanted to make sure I had a strong work ethic. I’m not here on a scholarship, and they’re only paying for a portion of my schooling.”

  I didn’t know that either. “Where have you applied?”

  “Michigan. Texas,” he continues in a low, soothing voice. “LSU, and a few other smaller places.”

  Wow.

  Just…wow.

  My eyes sting, blinking hard, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. The last thing I want is for him to feel guilty. He’s not my boyfriend.

  He’s my roommate and he’s moving and I’d be wise to remember it. Just because Elliot is the sweetest, most thoughtful guy I know doesn’t mean we were meant to be.

  “When will you know where you’re accepted?” I try not to sniffle.

  “Soon.”

  “Oh.” I dip my head into his soft pillow, letting the cotton soak up the tears that have begun to fall, doing my best to keep them out of my voice. “Where do you want to end up?”

  “I don’t know. I’m from Iowa, but I’d rather not stay in the area. There’s nothing for me here.”

  A hard lump forms in my throat. “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  The room is silent, and I stopped breathing minutes ago.

  “Anabelle,” he whispers gently. I wish he’d stop saying my name. “We’ve only had one semester together and we’ve never been on a single date—you know it makes no sense for me to stay.”

  We never went on any dates because he never asked.

  “Do you care for me at all?” It’s desperate and needy but I don’t care. I only care how I feel in this moment, and the words I crave to hear, memories and words I can latch on to, to replay in my mind when he’s gone.

  He scoots closer, wrapping his arms around my middle, chin resting on my shoulder, burying his nose.

  “If I were to stay behind for anyone, it would be you, but I can’t give up my education or career for what-ifs.”

  I go quiet for a moment, thinking. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m not gone yet.” He’s quiet, too, and I hear him swallow a lump in his throat. “Do you still want me to come with you to your dad’s wrestling match tomorrow?”

  “Of course I do,” I barely manage. “If you’re not busy.”

  “Are you still bringing that sign for Gunderson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then of course I’m coming—I wouldn’t miss something like that. I want a front row seat.”

  “Good, because I don’t want to go alone.”

  “You won’t be alone. I’ll be right there with you.”

  For now.

  He doesn’t say it, but we both know that’s what he means.

  Because he didn’t apply to any grad schools in Iowa.

  Elliot

  “You’re sure that’s what you want the sign to say?”

  “I’m sure. Best to leave things vague, don’t you think?”

  “Not really, but this is your thing, not mine.”

  “You put the idea into my head in the first place, remember? ‘Get revenge,’ he said. ‘It’ll make you feel better,’ he said. Well, I’m not catty, and the book on revenge said acting on it will make me look psycho. Therefore, this sign is as good as it gets.”

  Anabelle is carrying a piece of neon pink poster board, on which she painstakingly stenciled the words: HEY REX! WILL YOU STILL WANT TO “DATE” ME AFTER MY DAD FINDS OUT ABOUT YOUR BET?

  “I have no objection to walking in with a sign, but you don’t think it’s a little…wordy? And sparkly?”

  “The words all fit, so I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “It’s wordy and it’s sparkly.”

  “That’s the point.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  She huffs a sigh. “My dad is going to see it, get mad, storm over, a
nd then confront Rex about it. It’s genius.”

  “Because you want to tell your dad and teach Rex a lesson about publically embarrassing someone?”

  “Exactly. This is payback for last year—what he did to that guy was mean.”

  It was. However, “And you honestly feel doing the same sort of thing is going to make him change?”

  “It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”

  “If you say so.” I glance down at her trotting along beside me down the block. “You want me to carry it?”

  “No, I got it. I’m going to fold it up and hold onto it until the moment is right.”

  “When will the moment be right?”

  “I don’t know, probably when my dad knows I’m there and makes eye contact with me in the seats.” She holds two fingers out on her right hand and points them back at her eyes. “He’s always watchin’. Trust me, he’ll see this—everyone will.”

  “What do you think he’s going to do?”

  “Get pissed. Fly off the handle. Kick Gunderson off the team.” I’ve never seen her so resolute about anything.

  “I mean, technically he’s not on the team…”

  “You’re just saying that because you don’t like him. A team manager is a big deal, Elliot. Make no mistake, Rex Gunderson’s position is important.” We walk along, both wearing Iowa wrestling T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers, making our way to the stadium. “Sucks that they’re not going to have a manager after this weekend. Training someone new will be such a bitch.”

  “What about Eric Johnson?”

  Anabelle waves off my question. “Rex Gunderson will make sure he goes down with his sinking ship, don’t you think? Like a rat. Guys like him always take down their friends—he’ll be clinging to him like a life preserver. Besides, they’re roommates. It’s inevitable.”

  I agree. “For sure.”

  We enter the building through the athlete entrance, flashing the badges Coach Donnelly gave Anabelle to give us special privileges while we’re here. No lines, no crowd, no noise.

  Not until we get to the arena.

  It’s a packed house, but our seats are down by the floor, and there is no way her father is going to miss this neon sign. In fact, there is no way anyone will miss it—not Donnelly, not Gunderson, not Johnson.