The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 1)

What other reason indeed.

Jerk.

Sebastian

“Heard you were in the practice gym the other day with that librarian chick.”

One of my teammates approaches, dripping wet from the shower, one towel dragged over his shoulders and another wrapped around his waist.

“Yeah.” I turn my back to rifle through my borrowed storage space in the visiting team locker room. “How’d you hear that?”

“Gunderson.”

Gunderson? He’s a freshman and team PITA (AKA Pain In The Ass), and apparently a kiss-ass snitch with his nose jammed high up Cannon’s asshole.

“What else did fucking Gunderson tell you?” The little fuck.

“Nothing.” My teammate laughs, tossing his towel on the bench. “Just that you had the janitor unlock the practice gym and pull out a few mats. What were you doing with her in there anyway, breaking in the new floors?”

With the funding from a generous alumna donor, the wrestling gym recently had a complete overhaul of flooring, murals, and some of the bigger equipment.

“No. I wasn’t breaking in the new floor.”

“So what were you doing—playing fucking Twister?”

“You know what Cannon? It’s none of your business.”

The short sophomore stabs a finger into his chest. “You’re right—it’s not my business, it’s all of our fucking business. That’s our gym, too, bro; you don’t see me bringing chicks in there. Get your damn head in the game.”

“He’s right, Ozzy. You know girlfriends aren’t allowed in the practice gym. Fucks with everyone’s heads.”

Shit, they’re right.

I haven’t been focused.

I haven’t been training as hard because I’ve been preoccupied. This thing with Jameson has a guilty knot forming a pit in the bottom of my stomach.

The look on her face when she walked away has haunted me all week.

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Then I don’t understand why you went on that snowboarding trip when you could have gone to Daytona with the team. Man, there was so much pussy it’s a miracle I’m able to walk straight,” a bronze Zeke calls out from a shower stall. His booming declaration echoes off the tiles and bounces off the ceiling. “My dick is still numb.”

“I told you, I wanted to relax.”

A snort. “Oh. Snowboarding is relaxing now, huh?”

“Well, no. But the scenery was pretty.” Jameson was pretty.

Jameson is pretty.

“Pretty.” Zeke’s voice is flat, unimpressed. I hear him pause. “The fuck, dude.”

“Wait,” Aaron Bower cuts in. “At least tell us you got laid on that trip. I mean, there had to have been snow bunnies somewhere, right? MILFs? Bored housewives with Hoover-like suction?”

He makes a sucking sound with his mouth, pumping his fist against his cheek, mimicking a blowjob.

“Right?” Zeke agrees, still inside the shower. “Last time my mom went on a trip during spring break, she fucked some douchie Ivy Leaguer hanging out by the hotel pool.”

“Daniels, your mom sounds like a lady slut,” comes a taunting shout.

“Up yours, Santiago.”

The water in the shower cuts off and Zeke steps out, dripping wet, toweling off. Undeterred, he wraps the towel around his neck, letting his balls air dry as he turns to me.

“So. Did you at least get laid?”

I roll my eyes and make a show of digging through my cubby. “What do you think,” I posture, neither confirming nor denying the claim.

A hand claps me on the back. “That’s my boy. Who was it?”

“Please tell us it was the slutty librarian chick I keep hearing about,” John begs. “That is who you went with, right?”

Someone lets out a loud, sardonic laugh.

Zeke.

“Yeah right. That bitch? She’s wound up tighter than Betty the actual librarian.”

I ease myself down onto a nearby wooden bench and sit ramrod straight while they hassle me, mock Jameson, and shoot the shit.

“Have you tapped that yet?” another teammate asks, referring to Jameson again.

“I don’t know, Santiago—do people still say tapped?”

“Tapped. Fucked. Screwed. Banged. Shagged. You like any of those better, pansy? You’re starting to sound like your virgin girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Not even close—I saw to that on Monday.

The guilty pit in my stomach churns.

“Oh yeah? You seem to be spending a lot of fucking time at the library these days studying with someone you claim not to give a shit about.” Zeke uses air quotes around the word studying.

What a douche.

I pull my socks on, the impulse to defend Jameson strong. Defend myself. Us. “I never said I gave a shit about her.”

“So then why are you always at the library, dude?”

“Just tryin’ to maintain my average.”

Zeke, always confrontational, stares me down hard. “Your average.”

“My GPA,” I clarify. “Grade point average.”

“I know what a fucking grade point average is, dickhole.”

My dark eyes bore into him. “You seem really pissed off for some reason. Did someone take a dump in your oatmeal this morning? Didn’t you blow off any steam locking Rogers in that half nelson an hour ago?”

“Maybe I am pissed. Maybe I don’t want you dating a prig. It gives the rest of the bores false hope.”