The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(41)

Jameson: NO!

Oz: Since you’re up, want to join me for a run? I know where you live…

Jameson: Don’t even think about it. I will murder you if you show up at my door. Murder.

Oz: Or I could climb into bed with you. I’ve gotten used to sharing a bed with you and your tower of cockblocking pillows.

Jameson: Those pillows did their job. Wait. Why am I awake? Why are YOU awake?

Oz: I’m standing on the jogging path near campus, texting you.

Jameson: The sun hasn’t even come up yet…

Oz: It’s just coming over the rise. I should keep moving. I have to get to the gym in 5

Jameson: When’s your next wrestling meet? Match? Rumble? Throw down…? WHY DID YOU WAKE ME UP

Oz: Lol it’s called a match, and it’s Thursday, so we leave late Wednesday night.

Jameson: Sigh. Where is it?

Oz: Pennsylvania—Penn State

Jameson: WOW! I mean, I’m really tired so all I can say is WOW but… WOW

Oz: LOL. Will you be at the library today?

Jameson: Yawn. Who wants to know?

Oz: Me

Jameson: Well in that case

Oz: Yes? I’ll text you after class tonight, yeah?

Jameson: Sure, but only because you caught me at my weakest. I’d say yes to anything right now to be left alone.

Oz: ANYTHING?

Jameson: Dream on pal. Anything but THAT

Oz: One of these days you’re going to change your mind Jameson Clark.

Jameson: I’m going back to sleep.





Sebastian




“So you leave tomorrow night, huh?” James asks while tapping on her keyboard, her lithe fingers flying over the small black letters at a rapid pace.

I look up from the ethics textbook flipped open in front of me. “Yeah. We have to be on the bus at nine. Which is going to suck. We lose an hour with the time change.”

The room is quiet as we both go back to our homework. But then…

“Do you ever get nervous?”

My eyes stop running along the rows and rows of text, and I pause to consider her question. Do I ever get nervous? Hell yes. All the time in fact—the adrenaline rush before a match combined with everything I have riding on my wins has had me nauseous on more than one occasion.

But no one has ever asked me, so I consider how I want to respond. I go with a simple, “Yes.”

“When?”

I pause again. “When my opponents are the same weight class but bigger. Bulkier. Or smaller. Or come at me with a chip on their shoulder I can see when they come onto the floor.” And now that I’m on a roll, I stare absentmindedly at the painting hanging on the far side of the room. “Some guys are so desperate to win you can see it in their eyes. The hungry ones with everything to lose with each loss.”

Like me.

The unspoken words hang between us.

“What’s your record?”

“This season? We just started, but I’m eight and oh.”

Undefeated, badass mother.

Impressed, Jameson’s pretty blue eyes get wide as f*cking saucers and a small gasp escapes her lips. “Sebastian, that’s amazing.”

Sebastian.

My name sounds like praises from her lips.

I sit up straighter in my chair, a little more cocksure than I was ten seconds ago. I mean, it’s not like people aren’t telling me on a regular basis how f*cking amazing I am, but a compliment coming from Jameson Clark somehow feels like winning at life.

She doesn’t dole out compliments on the regular.

She doesn’t suffer fools, and she’s not easily impressed.

“It really is amazing.” I puff out my chest and posture. “You should see me in action sometime.”

“I have.”

This is news to me. “You have? When?”

“I mean, there’s a chance I googled you—after you demanded that I google you, of course.”

“You actually stalked me online? I’m in shock.” Why am I having such a hard time imagining her at her computer searching for shit about me? Possibly in the dark, hopefully touching herself inappropriately, preferably wearing something lace. And see-through.

The thought has my dick twitching.

“Would you stop it? It was not stalking. You told me to google you.

I don’t stop.

“Yeah, but when was this alleged stalking? Be specific.” I tease, using air quotes.

She looks horrified. “Please stop calling it that.” Hesitates. “And it was right before we left for Utah. I wanted to know what level of egomaniac I was dealing with.”

I push the textbook across the table and out of my way, reclining back in the chair my ass has been planted in for the past hour. “So what, pray tell, did you discover during this research?” Again with the air quotes.

A grin widens my face when her face turns scarlet, the skin beneath her sweater a bright, furious pink.

“Well,” she begins deliberately, clearing her throat, each syllable measured. “I know you’re from Illinois—same as me. I know you have a sister, and that in high school, you were a star.”

James hesitates, blowing out a puff of air. The long, wavy hair hanging in a cascade lifts off her face. “You’re here on a full ride. I know you’re a heavyweight wrestler at six foot one, but you’re two twenty-eight pounds of solid muscle with a body fat percentage of seven.”