The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

“Look, Anabelle, I have to live with the idea a little while first. Plus, without sounding callous, I don’t think they’re going to melt down about it, not like your dad. I’m pretty sure they’ll be understanding.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m not, but I have older sisters and one of them—Jill—had a baby in high school. I don’t remember my mom ever yelling or crying about it. I remember her being super chill, considering.” My mom is the most caring and quiet woman I’ve ever met, the calming force in my father’s stressful life, and in mine and my sisters’.

Growing up, my mother would be standing at the kitchen counter when I walked through the door after school, always with a snack prepared and dinner in the oven.

Always.

Nauseatingly idyllic, my childhood was a goddamn Norman Rockwell painting of home-cooked dinners, perfect grades, and playing outside on our manicured lawn.

Anabelle hums in her throat. “What’s it like having parents who are relaxed and sympathetic? Mine are both so intense and intimidating. I was petrified to tell them.”

“Tell me about it—what happened?”

“Well, when I told my dad, the season hadn’t started and I picked a time I assumed he’d be less stressed out. I hadn’t been sleeping a lot, so I looked like complete shit when I went over there.”

Pfft. “I find that hard to believe.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.” Her hand finds mine in the dark, giving it a gentle pat. “In any case, Dad noticed the differences in me right away, right? It’s his job to be observant, and he started asking me all these questions. I’m convinced he thought I was on drugs.”

“Why?”

“All the sudden changes. I was slightly depressed at the beginning and wanted to be alone. Lost some weight from not eating. I got no sleep—it was tearing me up inside. And now…I know what I have to do to graduate and I’m not a fool. I know it’s going to be hard, but how am I supposed to do an internship with an infant? Who’s going to hire me? It’s depressing just thinking about it.”

“You’ll get an internship, Anabelle—who wouldn’t want to hire you?”

“If you’re trying to flatter me, it’s working. Not to sound like a drag, but I needed someone to make me feel better.” In the dim light of her bedroom, I see her white teeth peeking through a grin.

“Is it too soon for me to put my hand on your stomach again?” I ask softly, determined to take advantage of the lightened mood.

“Sure, that’s fine. She’s not kicking or anything.”

“She?”

“AnaBean.” She laughs. “I don’t know that it’s a girl—we can’t find out until twenty weeks—but it’s the nickname Rex gave the baby.”

I stiffen, trying to ignore the fact that she used Gunderson’s name in reference to my baby, and smile because the name is so damn cute.

“AnaBean,” I repeat, somewhat amazed—amazed that being with her here like this isn’t freaking me out. Me, lying in the dark with my pregnant old roommate. Me, lying in the dark with a girl I left behind in pursuit of better things.

I’m almost twenty-three years old.

I thought I had my life mapped out.

Instead, I lay my hand on Anabelle’s stomach, letting her guide me over her skin, flesh different but the same. In the short amount of time I lived with her, I learned a few things I knew I’d never forget, like the fact that she smells good all the time, even without showering.

Her skin is always smooth.

She doesn’t hold a grudge and forgives easily—almost too easily. Case in point: Rex Gunderson, who, oddly enough, she let into her life.

I consider these factoids as my big palm caresses her stomach, basking in the memories we’ve shared in this bed. The late nights watching television, arguing over which show to watch…whether or not to eat in bed…who was going to turn the light off…whether there were too many blankets.

And the sex.

Sweaty and sweet and fucking fantastic.

Anabelle isn’t shy or self-conscious, which made it good—so goddamn good. I’m getting excited remembering all the times we screwed. Against the wall by the front door. She came home from an afternoon class wearing a yellow sundress and Converse, and I met her at the door, hands sliding down her waist, up the back of her flower-covered skirt.

She dropped her bag to the floor, wrapping her arms around me, tiptoeing to meet my lips, and we made out like two desperate teenagers with only three minutes of unsupervised gum swapping. Sucking face. Frenching.

Whatever you want to call it, it gave me a raging hard-on she wanted to play with. My fingers groped her ass and cupped her tits over the fabric of her pretty dress as she toyed with the zipper of my jeans. Then we fucked, hard and fast, standing up against the wall by the door, lips locked together.

God, it was good.

I’ve never behaved like that with a girl before. Never in my four years at Iowa have I ever brought a girl home. I lived like a monk, sticking to myself and minding my own business, never meddling in others’ affairs. Didn’t date, certainly didn’t sleep around.

Never had a girlfriend.

What does it say about me as a person that when I finally lived with a female, I couldn’t keep my fucking dick to myself? Am I just a horny bastard, or do I genuinely love Anabelle like a man should? Not just as a friend.

Will I ever know the difference?

As my hand grazes her stomach, sliding over that swollen slope of her body, I wonder if our last time together was the exact moment her birth control decided to stop being effective.

“When are you due?”

“Second week of March.”

Five more months.

I do the math in my head, going back in time, counting back the weeks. December, November, October…July…

June.

It had to have been one of the last times we had sex.

“How are you feeling?” I don’t know why I haven’t asked her before now.

“Tired. Nervous.” She pauses, chuckling. “Horny.”

One word and she has my full attention, dick twitching. “Yeah?”

Anabelle’s hips shift against the mattress, under my hand.

“Yeah.”

Shit. What would she do if I moved my hand lower? Or higher? If I put it between her legs?

It stays firmly planted on her abdomen.

“That’s a thing, you know—the increased sex drive from all the raging hormones,” she says it with authority. Confidently.

“I, uh, didn’t know that.”

“It’s an entire chapter in the baby book I’m reading, and at first I didn’t think it would apply to me…” her voice trails off suggestively.

“But it does?”

Her hips shift again and when her thighs rub together, our eyes meet in the shadows, the tension becoming palpable. Expectant.

Unbearable.

Would it be weird to screw her while she’s pregnant? Is it weird that I want to get her naked and touch her entire body, view it in the soft glimmer of moonlight? Instead of fantasizing about Anabelle, my dirty mind should crawl out of the gutter and be supportive, not mentally strip her clothes off, not mentally be feeling up her tits.

Tits I’ve daydreamed about.

Jesus, why am I thinking about this right now! Because you haven’t fucked her in months, moron, and you miss her like fucking crazy. You think about her every goddamn day, picturing her in your mind every time you whack off.

“Yes, it applies to me.”

Am I losing my mind right now, or has her voice gone a little breathless?

“How?”

“I can’t believe we’re even talking about this.”

“We’ve passed the point where we have to be self-conscious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely.”

“Then tell me, how does it apply to you?” I’m entering dangerous territory here and don’t give one fuck.

“According to the books, I have rising levels of estrogen and progesterone and extra blood flow in my vagina.” She laughs quietly. “Sorry, that sounded terrible.”