The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(60)

“You sure? You didn’t eat before we left.”

Is she keeping tabs on me now? “I would choke and die.”

Hannah rolls her eyes. “I haven’t been to any sporting events in forever. I feel like a failure. Look.” She points. “Just look at all those skanks over there, hoping to get laid by one of these guys later.”

“I think they’re called jock chasers.”

“Jersey chasers,” she adds knowingly. “Yup. Wantin’ that M-R-S degree.”

“I don’t think these guys can go pro. It’s not like football—I mean, what is there after this?”

“The Olympics,” Hannah says with authority, and I wonder how the hell she knows all this.

Music plays. Lights flash. Little by little, the house lights come back on, a spotlight on the center mat, signaling the first match of the day.

It’s not Abe. It’s not JB. It’s some kid named Bryan Vanderwahl and I can barely watch as he flips and flops like a fish out water, gasping for breath and losing the good fight. Poor guy, and in front of all these people, too.

“No girl is going to want to bang that one later,” Hannah announces, loud enough for anyone to hear.

“Would you shut up? What if that lady over there is his mother?”

She clamps a hand over her loose lips. “Shit, sorry.”

One more guy.

Then another, and another, and another until…

Abe.

Tall, strong, beautiful Abe.

I can’t watch. What if he loses? I’ll die. What if he’s the kind of athlete who’s inconsolable after a loss? What if he’s angry and wants to be left alone? Do guys cry when they don’t win?

What will I say?

“Uncover your eyes, you chicken. You’re missing it.” Hannah removes the arm I’m using as a shield to block out the match now in progress down on the mats and forces my hand back into my lap. “You’re the worst girlfriend ever.”

But Abe isn’t losing.

He’s…got the Penn State kid hoisted in his arms, about to lay him out on his back, and the crowd is going wild—so loud I wish they’d all just shut the fuck up so I can concentrate harder, because whoa.

“He could totally lift me up if he wanted to,” I say breathlessly, spellbound.

An affirmative nod from my roommate. “Damn right he could.”

“Like, he could lift me over his head. As if I weighed nothing.”

“You’re not in the circus—calm down with the acrobatics, Greatest Showman.”

Irritated, I give her a poke. “Whatever. I’m going to ask him to lift me above his head. I have to know what it’s like.”

“Blah blah blah, I’m Skylar and my boyfriend is stronger than Hercules.”





Abe


I win my match, thank Christ, because Skylar is watching and I’d feel like a pussy if I lost. Overall, our team won, though just barely and by the skin of our thin, nylon singlets.

It felt good.

I feel great.

I loiter on the mats once the meet is officially over, shooting the shit with a few dudes from Penn, one eye on the stands and Skylar’s black t-shirt clad body. I want to catch her before she leaves, but it doesn’t look like she’s going to hang back, as much as it appears Hannah is trying to make it happen.

The pair stand, waiting patiently as parents and fans file out, making their way toward the stairs leading to the lobby of the stadium.

Casually, I glance over my shoulder, counting members of my team who’re also straggling and give a shout-out to the big man upstairs that JB has gone to the locker room.

I war with myself; wait until I can text Skylar or walk over and say hello in person?

“Don’t be such a pussy,” a voice calls out from behind me.

I will not turn around and acknowledge Zeke Daniels.

“The coast is clear. Get over there before my nut sac shrivels up, which it does every time I watch you romance a woman.”

I will not turn around and acknowledge Zeke Daniels.

“If you don’t go over there, I will.”

This time I do turn, because he’s loud and projecting, and, “Would you shut the fuck up already? I’m going!”

“You didn’t say please.”

I fucking hate this guy.

Still.

My feet propel me forward, hands jammed into the lining of my black and yellow warm-up jacket, pasting a smile on my face when all I want to do is vomit on my black shoes.

Fifty feet from Skylar—too far for her to hear me when I call out her name.

Thirty feet and I try again.

Twenty.

Ten.

It’s Hannah who hears me, giving her best friend a shove and tripping her up in the process. Skylar whips around, agitation etched on her face until Hannah points down.

Skylar follows her finger.

To me.

I raise a hand in greeting. Hey.

“Hold on one second,” she mouths while she waits on the swarm of people in front of her, waiting so she can use the stairs to go against the tide—toward me.

I meet her against the cold metal railing, resting my hands on the bar, leaning in to kiss her mouth.

“You taste salty.”

“It’s sweat, sorry.”