The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

The room is silent as I think of what to say next.

“Same.”

Anabelle

I don’t know what time it was when we both fell asleep, but at some point in the middle of the night, we gravitated together, something I’ve never done before when in bed with another human. I’m wrapped up like a pretzel.

I don’t know when I rolled up beside him, or when my cheek found the space above his armpit, resting there…or when I threw my leg over his thigh, tucking it between his legs.

Palm flattened out over his ribcage.

His arm around me, pulling me in.

When did we curl into each other?

Does it even matter?

His body is so warm, and I’m in no rush to unfurl myself, content to listen to the rhythmic sound of his heart. It’s beating relatively slowly, so without having to look, I know he’s still sleeping.

Bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump.

Steady.

Constant.

Just like Elliot.

Over the course of a few short weeks, he’s become more than just my roommate; he’s become my friend. Big. Strong.

Solid.

Every muscle on him is firm and toned. Tan from playing soccer with no shirt on, his upper body is carved to perfection, not too hard, not too soft.

Perfect.

Eyes still closed against the morning sun, the tips of my fingers do the exploring for me. Softly drift from their spot on his sternum, trailing across his ribcage, pressing into his hot flesh in slow, lazy circles.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

His heartbeat quickens.

My hand runs over his skin, up along his collarbone. The space between his neck and shoulder, languid and carnal, back to his chest.

He smells good.

I always notice, but more so when we’re piled on his bed watching television, every time he shifts on the bed. Fresh like a shower, like soap—no heavy cologne or body spray. Just water and soap and him.

I crack an eyelid when my fingers skim along the underside of his pecs, chancing a glance at his face.

He’s awake. Watchful. Massive palm beginning a leisurely stroke up and down my back, his touch leaving a hot trail in its wake.

As my thumb caresses his nipple, my eyes travel down the length of his long, lean torso, settling on the front of his athletic pants, on the stiffening dick there.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

Biting down on my lower lip, I continue to caress his skin. Chest, sternum, stomach. It’s so smooth—he has almost no hair, nothing but the sexiest of happy trails. It’s light brown and looks soft, starting at his belly button and disappearing into that mysterious place I can’t help fixating on.

Happy trail. Pleasure track. Garden path.

Guh!

We don’t even flirt. I should not be eyeing the goods.

Well, we do flirt occasionally, but not in the traditional sense. The routine we’ve fallen into goes way beyond comfortable. It’s sweet the way he takes care of me when we’re only roommates, buying my favorite foods and leaving the lights on so I don’t have to come home to a dark house. Leaving me notes instead of just texting me.

Cute little notes with smiley faces on the bathroom mirror.

Twice, he’s walked me to class.

Twice, I’ve walked him to his.

Last week, when I knew he had a late study group, I made him a sandwich to take along so he wouldn’t starve. Yesterday, when I was running behind, he stood by the door holding my backpack, watching as I rushed around the living room, desperately trying to slide my shoes on. Ended up driving me so I wouldn’t get locked out of class for being late.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

His heart thumps and I’m not sure if I want to stop touching him, even though we’ve officially crossed an invisible line we can’t walk back over.

Elliot’s hand continues rubbing my back, sliding up and down my ribcage, his palm that big. Massive hands meant to touch my skin, fingers that play with the hemline of my tank top. Glide beneath the material, hiking it up, etching hot, burning lines on my spine.

His hand stops on my ribcage. Thumb strokes back and forth, grazing the underside of my breast.

It’s then that our eyes finally meet.

I wish I could read his mind or see into his soul, because I can’t for the life of me read his expression. Tired, half-hooded eyes, his mouth—those lips I’ve been secretly wanting to kiss—is impassive.

We don’t speak. We don’t have to.

I have nothing to say that wouldn’t be awkward anyway, so I keep my lips sealed shut and concentrate on the way Elliot feels pulled up beside me. How it feels being wrapped in his strong arms.

How it feels having his hand almost touching my boob.

Glancing down again at his boner, I feel somewhat guilty that he has a hard-on and we’re not yet at the point where I can do anything about it. So, I just watch it spasm every now and again, every time I touch him somewhere new above the waist.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

A heart is racing but I’m not sure if it’s his or mine.

I’m not sure whose heart is beating fastest.

Elliot

A shift happened this morning.

I can feel it in the air as we get ready for our pick-up soccer game, shyly smiling at each other and joking all the way to my car.

I sneak a few covert glances at her over the hood of my car when she climbs in, her long hair pulled into a ponytail, her goofy grin confusing the shit out of me.

We listen to music on our way to the park, windows down all the way, cool breeze blowing Anabelle’s ponytail into long wisps around her face. Every now and again she looks over and smiles, biting down on her bottom lip before turning back toward the window.

What was that look? Is she flirting? Just being nice?

Jesus, I can’t tell.

I need a fucking manual.

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.