The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

I’m not tired; I’m turned on. Huge fucking difference.

“Sure, let’s watch a movie. I’m done with all my studying and you’re done with that ridiculous book you’re reading.”

Anabelle rolls to her side, taking my comforter along with her, covering her breasts. “It wouldn’t be ridiculous if it actually contained useful information.”

I’m on my side now, too. “Face facts, Donnelly, you don’t have the heart for revenge. You’re too kindhearted for that life.”

“That’s true enough.” Her hand reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair off my forehead, and I almost rear back in surprise.

I’ve noticed her doing that a lot lately—touching me. Taps, poking, teasing. Not wanting to read anything into it, I chalk it up to comfort in our growing friendship, evidence of her trust in me.

Christ, it sucks being the good guy all the fucking time.

“My dad texted me today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He wants me to come to a wrestling meet soon. They have a big one at home coming up.”

“Who are they wrestling?”

“I’m not sure, he didn’t say. I think either Penn State or UConn? Someone blue.” She laughs. “And I’d really rather not go alone.”

I swear she’s batting her fucking eyelashes at me. “What are you getting at, Donnelly?”

I haven’t been to a wrestling meet since Oz and Zeke graduated. Neither of them had their parents in the stands on Senior Night, so I went to represent, with bouquets of flowers for both miserable bastards, even though their girlfriends were in the audience.

“Want to come with me?”

“Yeah. I could probably do that.”

Anabelle’s blue eyes bore holes into my bare chest, pink lips parting. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

I’m still not wearing a shirt.

She’s still not wearing a shirt.

We’re on my bed, in the middle of the evening, flirting like we have an interest in each other. A sexual attraction. Crazy chemistry.

“Would you be so kind as to turn your back so I can put my shirt back on?”

I swallow, too chicken-shit to make a move and kiss her.

“Sure. While you do that, want me to grab us ice waters?”

“Thanks, Elliot.” Her eyes sparkle. “You’re the best.”

Anabelle

Thanks, Elliot, you’re the best?

Ugh.

As I mentally face-palm myself for sounding like his little buddy, I grapple for my shirt, yanking it back down over my head, flushing. Remember his big, rough hands running over my skin. Over my naked flesh, not once touching me inappropriately. Not once skimming down to accidentally caress my side-boob or lower back. Not once trailing his fingers anywhere indecent.

Damn him.

I sigh, giving the rubber band in my hair a tug, loosening my top knot and letting the hair fall around my shoulders. Free, uninhibited, like I’ve resolved to be around him.

But he’s not getting the hints.

So, either I suck at flirting or he’s clueless, or we’re both just really scared to make the first move.

I’ve been touching him all week—little touches on the arm, bicep, chest. Teasing pokes, nudges. Laughing at all his dumb jokes. Following him around the soccer field, secretly admiring his masculine force. His speed, his skill. His calves and the back of his neck, wanting to lay my lips on the baby fine hairs there.

Last week at our soccer game when his friend Dev jogged up next to me and began peppering me with a million Elliot-related questions, I was taken aback by his direct approach. Was I attracted to Elliot? Did I want to be more than friends? Was it hard living in the same house with him and not having sex?

Yes, yes, and yes.

At an alarmingly increased pace.

I am attracted to Elliot.

I do want to be more than friends.

It’s hard living in the same house with him and not thinking about sex all day, every day. It’s impossible not to; Elliot is big and sexy and strong and sweet.

Polite.

Funny.

As a male specimen, Elliot is highly underrated by the female population of Iowa, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

God, moving in with him was the worst thing I could have done—the guy is too polite to put the moves on his roommate. Too polite to put his hands on me, even when I whip my shirt off during a massage.

I know it.

He knows it.

Devin freaking knows it, and he doesn’t know me at all!

Guh!

I climb under the covers of Elliot’s incredible queen-sized bed, the flannel sheets fresh from the laundry, a familiar warmth. Welcoming and cozy, we’re well acquainted, his bed and I.

His bed. The ultimate tease.

If having me tucked under his covers doesn’t make his mind wander, there really is no hope for him.

On the side closest to the wall, I give my shirt a tug, straightening it on my body, wishing I had the courage to remove it and bury myself in Elliot’s sheet with nothing on but my underwear.

God, I’m a hormonal teenage boy.

Worse, actually.

And now that my hormones are screaming at the rest of my body and brain, there is no stopping them now. They’re doing the thinking for me.

Skin against skin is what I crave.

Soft, gentle stroking is what I want.

Sucking is what makes me squirm.

Oblivious to my woolgathering, Elliot returns, still not wearing a shirt. His broad chest fills the doorway, wide shoulders and tan flesh making my girly parts tingle—his pecs are perfect. Nipples dark. Collarbone smooth enough to lick.

Maybe instead of staring, I should read a book. Climb out of this bed and back into mine and move on with my life. Find a guy who likes me back enough to pursue me, to put the moves on me.

“I was texting with Daniels yesterday and he was telling me about this show he and his girlfriend started watching, about four couples that get married at first sight, kind of like a blind date. The new season just started.”

I sit up, intrigued. “People get married without even seeing each other first?”

He shrugs, setting the water glasses down on his desk. I totally check out his ass before he turns around to face me. Climbs on top of the bed, back against the headboard, legs atop the covers.

They’re long, toned, soccer player’s legs. Fit from running every morning and playing games regularly. We both played in high school but weren’t good enough to play at the university level. Both like to run, but not long distances.

He crosses those legs at the ankles, resting his arms behind his head, and my eyes travel the length of him. Tall. Solid. Hard in all the best places.

I want to purr, but I also don’t want to creep him the hell out.

“Would you get married to someone you’ve never laid eyes on before?” Elliot gives me a quick cursory glance, flipping through the channels.

“Yes, one hundred percent.” I’m nodding vigorously because I totally would.

He looks surprised. “Really?”

“Yes. If I reached a certain age and wasn’t in a relationship, you bet I would. What do these people have to lose? It seems like a fun experiment.”

“You think you’d reach an age where you’d resort to marrying a complete stranger?”

“I don’t think any of these people are settling. The way I see it, there is someone for everyone if you’re open to it.”

“But marrying a stranger, on TV? You think you’d be so single you’d have to?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s a definite possibility. I mean, think about it this way. I’m in my twenties, in my prime, and there still isn’t anyone on the horizon who wants to date me, douche canoes notwithstanding.”

I leave the bait for him to disagree, and he takes it.

“That’s not true.” He says it slow and quiet, deliberate.

“Well, in any case, I think the idea is kind of romantic.”

Elliot makes a low scoffing sound in his throat. “It must be if Zeke Daniels—the biggest cynic on campus—sits and watches it with his girlfriend.”

I consider this information. “So basically we should prepare to become addicted to yet another TV show?”