The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(66)

Freaking front row. On the floor.

“We get these to give our families but I want you to have them,” Oz had said as he slid them into the pocket of my backpack, landing a sloppy kiss to the center of my surprised mouth; I still cannot get past his unencumbered displays of PDA.

“You still plan on coming, right?”

I gave a shaky nod, fingertips touching the spot on my mouth where his lips had just been. “Yes. Allison’s coming with me.”

“Good. I don’t want you to be alone on our second date.” His pencil had tapped the edge of the hard, wooden table.

“How is this considered a date if you’re not even going to be there?”

“What do you mean, not going to be there? You’re going to be watching me in action. And then afterward…” He’d hesitated. “Maybe we could celebrate the big W with dinner.”

I’d scrunched up my forehead, confused. “Big W?”

My mind had gone immediately into the gutter: Big O.

Orgasm.

Big D.

Dick.

Oh god, it was official: I had sex on the brain twenty-four-seven, and there was only one person to blame.

“Big W stands for win.” He’d laughed. “What were you thinking it stood for?”

“Definitely not that?”

“What then?”

“Big big things.”

“Oh my god,” Oz howled. “I can’t believe what a pervert you are.”

“I’m not a pervert just because it made me think of sex!”

“Busted!” He’d laughed again, harder, head thrown back against the leather desk chair in the study room. “I never said that’s what you were thinking about.”

“James. James, are you paying attention? You’re in that guy’s seat.”

Huh?

“You have to scooch over a seat James. Earth to James. James?”

“Oh crap, sorry!” I hustle to move over, shooting an apologetic smile at the man waiting patiently for his stadium seat. Grabbing my jacket and the giant Iowa foam finger Allison bought me, I scooch.

“I cannot believe these seats!” Allison squeals beside me, chatting me out of a daydream. “They are amaze-balls, James.” She digs for her phone, taps open SnapChat, and takes a selfie with the wrestling mats in the background. Her finger flies through the filters. “Sweet, there’s an Iowa wrestling geofilter!”

I smile at her enthusiasm and try on the foam finger, giving it a few waves before setting it back on the ground in front of me.

The butterflies in my stomach multiply by the hundreds when the lights in the stadium suddenly flicker and go black. Our Iowa mascot appears on the jumbotron and a single spotlight appears in the center of the huge, hardwood court that’s been converted into a wrestling stadium.

The light shines on the center mat as the broadcaster’s baritone voice booms. The marching band begins the fight song and the cheers from the packed house are so deafeningly loud I resist the urge to cover my ears.

“This is crazy!” I shout to Allison, truly astonished. The number of people filling the seats is incredible; the stands are lost in a sea of black and yellow. Banners, signs, and flags fly. Across the gleaming hardwood, a hand-painted poster announces, ZEKE DANIELS! I WANT TO MAKE BABIES WITH YOUUU, one boldly sparkles, OZZY 4 THE PIN in gold glitter, and another next to it begs, OZ OZBORN, PIN US WITH YOUR BIG D***! WE DO 3SUMS!

I cringe at that one.

One by one, the wrestlers from the visiting team are announced and their stats pronounced as they run from the locker room and take the floor. Jog around the perimeter. Drop to the ground and do pushups.

Strip off their warm-up suits.

And holy sweet Jesus…

“Dear. God. You can see—everything,” Allison shouts over the band when they begin a bleat of chants to fire up the crowd while our cheerleaders twirl their metallic yellow pompons and—wait.

“Since when does wrestling have cheerleaders? Is that a thing?” I yell to my roommate.

“Oh, it’s a thing all right.” She laughs loudly. “You really don’t get into sports much, do you?”

I shake my head.

The overzealous crowd around us goes wild when strobe lights flash, the faces of our team appearing on the giant screens of the scoreboards and jumbotron high above our heads. First some kid named Rex Gunderson jogs out. Another named Jonathan Powell. Monaghan. Lewis. Fairchild. Pittwell. Bower. Rodriguez. Ebert. Schultz.

That giant douchebag Zeke Daniels.

Sebastian Osborne strolls out last—every masculine, muscular inch of him. Reaching the edge of the mat, he bounces in place on the balls of his feet, covered from head to toe in a black tracksuit with his last name screen-printed in bold yellow across the back.

I stare, transfixed as he unzips the jacket and slides it down past his shoulders. The straps of his tight singlet are not yet pulled over his defined pecs; rather, they hang down at his sides. He’s naked from the waist up, tattoo sleeve expanding as he warms up with the team. Skin already damp with perspiration, he’s the epitome of rock hard, unyielding, sexy—

“Sweet. Baby. Jesus!” Allison shouts with an elbow to my ribcage so hard it hurts. Her arms go out, widespread, beseeching. “Why have I never paid more attention to the wrestling team? Why, god, why! This is…this is…”