The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(33)

“So, Oz man, how’s your season goin’?” asks some kid in a red Burton sweatshirt. Stocking cap pulled low over his forehead, his goggles still rest on his head.

“It’s a bitch. I’m lucky I was able to get away for the weekend.” It’s partly true; the truth is, I had to lie like a mother to get the weekend off from my trainer. I concocted some bullshit about my left hamstring being too tight and not wanting to pull it before our next meet.

Which is in exactly six days. Against the powerhouse Penn State.

Contractually, D1 athletes like myself aren’t technically allowed to participate in other sports, especially “dangerous” ones like snowboarding.

Fine. There’s nothing technical about it. We’re not supposed to be doing anything that could get us injured, and that includes playing beach volleyball with my annoying cousin Brielle, or oh, I don’t know—snowboarding down a freaking mountain.

If I were to break, sprain, or pull something, there’d be a huge possibility I’d cost my team their season.

Which means, I’m royally screwed if I get injured on the ski hill.

“How much can you bench press?” a boarder in an Iowa hoodie asks. His hat is backward and like James, he’s only wearing wool leggings, and his aren’t nearly as nice as hers. Even from my spot on the couch, I can see the bulge of his junk—I mean Jesus, is it hard to put pants on in the company of ladies?

“About four hundred.”

“Holy shit,” he mutters, suitably impressed.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“I’m Scott—my friends call me Striker.” Scott lifts himself from his spot on the fireplace hearth to extend his hand toward me for a fist bump. “I play soccer.”

I muster up a limp tap. “I might have heard of you,” I admit begrudgingly, narrowing my eyes. “Does your coach know you’re on this trip?”

Scott studies me back, the red hair under his cap sticking out in spikes. The little shit has the balls to volley back with, “Does yours?”

A pointy little elbow stabs me in the ribcage, and I look down into Jameson’s angry blue eyes. Wordlessly, she sends me a silent message: Stop it right now.

I lift my chin a notch. Simmer down.

“So what’s the deal with you two?” one of the girls asks. Her light blonde hair is piled in a messy bun atop her head, and despite the fact that we just spent the entire day outside, she has a face full of expertly applied makeup. “Are you dating?”

“They’re cousins,” Chad explains with authority.

“No we’re not.” Jameson furrows her forehead, her pert little nose wrinkling.

“You’re not cousins?” Chad eyeballs me. “Dude, that’s what you told me on the phone.”

Oh shit, that’s right. “Right…” I drawl out the word, adding, “Cousins that kiss,” with a laugh. “Sometimes.”

No one thinks it’s funny.

Especially not Jameson.

She gasps—a surprised, horrified gasp that sounds so surprisingly orgasmic it plays on a loop through my mind.

“Oh my god, he’s totally kidding!” She jams her pointy-as-f*ck elbow deeper into my ribcage. “Oz, tell them you’re kidding,” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Fine. I’m kidding about the cousin part,” I deadpan. “But we’ve definitely kissed and we’re definitely not cousins.” I take a casual gulp of hot chocolate to occupy my mouth and feel the whipped cream coat my upper lip. I lick it. “I lied. I’m trying to get into her pants, but if you want the truth, it’s proving rather difficult.”

Beside me, Jameson groans, head falling back against the leather sofa. “Oh god, my life.”

Chad sits back against the stone fireplace chimney, studying me: my flip flops, the athletic pants, the thinning wrestling tee shirt. His eyes take in my black tattoos, the hard set line of my mouth, the scars above my brows and across the bridge of my nose.

Finally, “Why would you lie, dude?”

I shoot a sidelong glance at Jameson that only he and Scott can see, then raise my heavy eyebrows, sending the silent message, Isn’t it obvious? Slowly, they both nod in understanding as my arm goes up on the back of the couch, resting behind Jameson’s reclined head.

I give my forefinger a soft tap on the leather, toying with the silky ends of her hair, wrapping the loose strands around my finger.

She lets me.

“Hey, what are we all doing later?” a dark-haired girl asks. I think her name is Sam or whatever, but regardless, her shocking black hair is piled high on her head in an untidy knot, the ends messily sticking out everywhere. It’s kind of cute, actually. I wonder if she’s single; my body is desperately seeking vagina. “My boyfriend wants to FaceTime. I just want to know what time to tell him.”

Never mind.

Chad, obviously the leader of this crew, rubs the scruff on his chin. “Tell him whenever. I think tonight after dinner we’ll just chill.”

“Speaking of dinner, I could eat the ass out of a dead skunk,” Scott announces, to the mortification of all the girls. Sam, Jameson, and two blonde girls make faces, calling him a disgusting slob. “It’s almost six. Let’s go eat.”

“Cab it downtown?”