The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

I’m babbling but too tired to care.

“No! No, go ahead. I’ll just…I’ll…” God, she’s cute, stumbling over her words, bottom lip trembling. “I’ll just…”

I close the front door, locking it behind us, and reach for her. Wrap her in another hug, resting my chin on top of her head. She’s visibly shaken; whatever reaction I thought she’d have when she saw me again, this isn’t it. By now, I thought we’d be laughing in the kitchen, possibly ripping off our clothes and going at it hard on the table.

“I really didn’t think I’d see you again until Christmas.”

“I didn’t either,” I respond honestly because I had no plans to come to Iowa until the holiday calendar demanded I did. “Are you sure you’re okay with me being here? I can go stay with Zeke and Violet, or check into a hotel.”

“It’s okay, I’m just freaking out a little. Well, a lot.” Her laugh is coupled with nerves. “Sorry, I’m being awkward.”

Anabelle squirms to be released, so I give her space, picking up my two bags and following her to the bedroom I once called my own. Set my bags on the floor, next to the dresser, peeling off my socks.

“Mind if I jump in the shower? I’d love to wash the travel off.”

“Yeah, sure—just let me grab you a towel. Madison gets weird about sharing things like that.”

When she’s gone, I take a few seconds to survey the room, to see what she’s done with it now that I’m not living here anymore.

Same bed, different bedspread. Hers is white, with ruffles, fluffy and inviting. Same TV and TV stand. Same dresser.

She’s added a nightstand and a lamp, and I run my fingers along the books piled on top. The top one is a parenting book, which is weird since she’s a law student, but I move on to the dresser, thinking it must be for a friend. Remove my watch and set it down, cuffing my wrist with my fingers and massaging it.

“All set.” Her voice rings out from across the hall.

The shower is running when I hit the bathroom, and I shuck my clothes, ducking into the warm spray. God, it feels good; this whole trip was such a great fucking idea.

I stand for a solid five minutes, then spend another five washing my hair, lathering my pits, cock, and ass. Rinse. Shut off the water and dry off. I wrap the towel around my waist, grabbing up my dirty clothes by the armful.

Anabelle is on the bed, already lying down when I return, arms behind her head, watching me.

Close the door.

Toss my dirty clothes into a pile I’ll deal with later.

Bending, I dig in my bag for clean boxers and pajama pants before I drop the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. I glance over my shoulder to see if she’s watching, and note her eyes fastened on my ass with satisfaction.

Sliding into bed with her is oddly exhilarating, and I roll toward her, propping my chin in my hand. She does the same.

Smiles.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept, so I reach out to stroke my thumb over the smooth skin beneath her eyes. “You look exhausted.”

Her smile is wobbly. “I am.”

“How are you? Really.”

I know she misses me and took my leaving hard, probably harder than she let on, always presenting me with a brave face in our messages and emails. At first, I was thankful for it—her fake smile made it easier to drive away from the house that day. Her shoving me off the porch toward my car allowed me to freely walk toward it, climb inside, and actually start the engine.

But the truth is, I secretly prayed it would break down before I was out of town that day. It didn’t. Everything went according to plan, and I was in Michigan before bed the next night.

“How am I.” It’s a statement, not a question, and she seems to consider it. “I’m…” Lets out a loud puff of air, tears welling up.

Anabelle rolls to her back, eyes trained on the ceiling. Reaches for my hand and places it on her pelvis, just below the waistband of her shorts, lifting the hem of her loose T-shirt.

Naturally, my hand begins a slow glide north, gliding over the warm skin I’ve dreamed about for days. Weeks.

Months, even.

I pause when my palm slopes upward.

My eyes meet her watering eyes.

“Anabelle?” I whisper, unsure.

She bites her trembling bottom lip, chin quivering when I pull my hand away, shocked.

Hesitate.

Set my hand back on her stomach.

Her belly.

Her fucking baby bump.

“Are you…” I can’t even say the words.

Instead of answering, she swallows, wet tears streaking down her beautiful face.

“Anabelle, is this…i-is it…”

Mine?

She nods.

I lean back, silent, not having a single clue what to do with myself. My hands, my body, my thoughts.

Mine.

Holy fuck.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

I’m not going to panic, I’m not going to panic, I’m not going to panic.

“How far along?” My voice is barely recognizable.

“Sixteen weeks.”

I damn near jump off the bed. “Sixteen weeks!”

Then I do jump off the bed, climbing off, burying my fingers into the hair that could probably use a trim while Anabelle sobs on the bed—and now I’m on the verge of sobbing myself.

“I’m s-sor…s-sorry,” she cries.

Oh my God.

She’s pregnant.

My apartment. My friends. My mom, my dad, my family. Everything important in my life flashes before me in a time lapse. The grades. The degree. The master’s.

The parenting book on the bedside table.

I reach for it, raise it from the table, study the cover. What to Expect When You’re—I set it down like it’s on fire, and it falls to the floor with a thud.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with my back to Anabelle, the sound of her sobs, muffled by the sound of the blood rushing to my brain, has the analytical part of me piecing together our entire relationship, one fast, orgasmic fuck at a time.

We didn’t use a condom because she’s on birth control.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Despite all this, the unhappy noises coming from Anabelle draw me to her. Crawling under the covers, I scoot up next to her, pulling her into my front side. “Shh, don’t cry.”

She nods feebly but doesn’t stop—can’t stop.

“Anabelle,” I ask cautiously, “how long have you known?”

“A few weeks.”

A few weeks? Jesus Christ! She’s been dealing with this information by herself for weeks?

Guilt settles in the pit of my stomach.

“How many is a few?”

“I don’t know, I was afraid to keep track,” she croaks out her confession, throat raw. “Four? Three? Five?”

Gathering my courage, I run my hand down her hip, gently nudging her to her back. Gently lift the hem of her shirt, folding it back so it’s out of my way.

Study her stomach.

Her skin is still satin smooth, but now it’s beginning to stretch taut. It couldn’t be more obvious that she’s pregnant.

“Can I feel it?”

“Yes.”

My palm touches just below her belly button as she watches breathlessly. I run my hand over the bump, back and forth, fingers skimming over the baby growing inside.

“Say something,” she whispers. “Please.”

“I don’t know what to say. I’m…”

Freaking out.

Stunned. Shocked. Dismayed.

Fascinated.

“Speechless.”

“I know. Me too.” She nods. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” I’m not sure how to bring this up. “But I thought you were on birth control.”

“I am. I was.” She’s on the verge of tears again. “It obviously wasn’t effective.”

Obviously.

“What the fuck are we going to do?” I feel like such a dumbass asking, but Jesus, I’m twenty-one years old—what the hell do I know about raising a kid? My mom still makes my doctor’s appointments. I’m still on my parents’ fucking health insurance, for God’s sake.