The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(53)

“Love?” I scoff a little too loudly. “No. Hell no.” But I find myself hesitating on my next words just the same. “She’s just my friend.”

My friend.

Just my friend? The words make me ill and suddenly I want to vomit.

“Dude. You should see yourself right now; I can’t freaking believe this.”

“What?”

“You do like her. Like her, like her.”

“Shut up Elliot, this isn’t fifth grade.”

“Don’t let your lobster get away, man.”

My lobster? What the hell is he talking about? “Please don’t ever say shit like that in my presence again or I will have to punch you.”

“Wow, I can’t believe this; Oz Osborne, Iowa’s prodigal wrestling legend, actually has a heart.”

“I said shut up, *.”

But he doesn’t shut his hole. Not even close. “You have actual feelings for someone. You don’t just want to bang her.”

“Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?”

“Look man, I really don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry. Shit. If I’d known, I never would have…”

He never would have slept with her; I know that now.

How do I know?

One, because he’s loyal and isn’t ruled by his dick—unlike the rest of us. Elliot is ruled more by emotion. So if he slept with Jameson, it’s because he genuinely likes her. Two, because he knows if he f*cks me over, I’ll beat the f*cking shit out of him.

So the simple fact remains…it sucks more knowing she chose to sleep with him.

I just don’t get it; I’m awesome—how can she not see that? Where the hell did I go wrong with her? Was I too pushy? Did I scare her off? Don’t hate me, I hear her pleading. See her tears. Jameson is weeping, wet drops dampening her beautiful face. My eyes water, too, and I reach for her, grasping as tears stream down my cheeks, but there’s nothing there to hold. I didn’t know it would hurt you, she sobs. I didn’t know... Please Sebastian, I’m falling for you.

“Then how could you f*cking do this to me!” I cry. “I’m falling in love with you and you ruined it. You ruined everything.”

Sebastian, I love you. Sebastian, I love you.

Sebastian. Oz, can you hear me?

Oz.

Oz.

“Oz, dude wake up.”

I gasp out in a sob, jerking myself awake. “Holy shit!”

A large, meaty palm is clamped down on my shoulder, squeezing hard and, startled, I jolt, the back of my head hitting the cold window of the bus, my temple cracking against the hard glass. Sonofabitch that hurt!

“Oz, is everything okay man?’

I become aware of the sensation of damp, streaking tears staining my cheeks, and I briskly wipe them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Freaked the f*ck out—but fine.

I rub the spot where I just clocked myself, fingers grazing through my sweaty hair, and glance around at my oblivious teammates, most of them still asleep, save Cory Phillips playing on his phone and Tanner Frank reading on his Kindle under the overhead light.

I exhale, leaning back in the seat, and swipe at another stray tear.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jonathan Powell’s head reappears over the seat behind me. Lights from the campus parking lot come into view, illuminating the interior of the bus. “Sorry to wake you up and freak you out, but we’re pulling in.”

“Yeah.” I massage my scalp. “I’m good. Thanks for waking me.”

It was just a dream.

The whole thing was just a dream. A shitty, messed up dream.

In a trancelike state, I stumble off the bus. Go through the motions of dressing, storing my gear, and checking in with the coaching staff. Get my schedule for the upcoming week.

Barely remember the car ride home.

By the time I’m falling into the house, I’m exhausted. Zeke’s continued badgering the five hours it took to get us home has taken its toll, coupled with my emotionally taxing dream. Zeke criticized. He fumed. He bitched until my head lolled to the side and I popped on my Beats to drown him out with music.

I lumber into the kitchen, glancing around cautiously.

I’m tired.

I’m starving.

I’m ready for warm food and a soft bed, but being here, in this house after that wacked out dream feels way too f*cking weird.

This all feels way too real.

Just like in my dream, it’s quiet when I drop my bags in the laundry room, still the first one back at the house. Just like in my dream, I hang my duffle and remove my jacket, make quick work of taking my shoes off and setting them aside so no one trips on them.

Flipping on the kitchen lights, I walk to the fridge, yank it open, and bend at the waist to peer inside. Three-day-old spaghetti sauce and no noodles. A half-eaten hamburger from Malone’s. One yogurt. Ketchup. Beer.

A half-gallon of chocolate milk (perfect to help prevent a hangover). There’s also a gallon of orange juice left, some filtered water, and an open bottle of Dr. Pepper.

Having no appealing choices, I settle for the leftover Malone’s hamburger, the yogurt, and the gallon of milk, slapping everything onto the counter.

Where the hell is everyone? I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to my roommates.