The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(48)

Biting down on my lower lip, I continue to caress his skin. Chest, sternum, stomach. It’s so smooth—he has almost no hair, nothing but the sexiest of happy trails. It’s light brown and looks soft, starting at his belly button and disappearing into that mysterious place I can’t help fixating on.

Happy trail. Pleasure track. Garden path.

Guh!

We don’t even flirt. I should not be eyeing the goods.

Well, we do flirt occasionally, but not in the traditional sense. The routine we’ve fallen into goes way beyond comfortable. It’s sweet the way he takes care of me when we’re only roommates, buying my favorite foods and leaving the lights on so I don’t have to come home to a dark house. Leaving me notes instead of just texting me.

Cute little notes with smiley faces on the bathroom mirror.

Twice, he’s walked me to class.

Twice, I’ve walked him to his.

Last week, when I knew he had a late study group, I made him a sandwich to take along so he wouldn’t starve. Yesterday, when I was running behind, he stood by the door holding my backpack, watching as I rushed around the living room, desperately trying to slide my shoes on. Ended up driving me so I wouldn’t get locked out of class for being late.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

His heart thumps and I’m not sure if I want to stop touching him, even though we’ve officially crossed an invisible line we can’t walk back over.

Elliot’s hand continues rubbing my back, sliding up and down my ribcage, his palm that big. Massive hands meant to touch my skin, fingers that play with the hemline of my tank top. Glide beneath the material, hiking it up, etching hot, burning lines on my spine.

His hand stops on my ribcage. Thumb strokes back and forth, grazing the underside of my breast.

It’s then that our eyes finally meet.

I wish I could read his mind or see into his soul, because I can’t for the life of me read his expression. Tired, half-hooded eyes, his mouth—those lips I’ve been secretly wanting to kiss—is impassive.

We don’t speak. We don’t have to.

I have nothing to say that wouldn’t be awkward anyway, so I keep my lips sealed shut and concentrate on the way Elliot feels pulled up beside me. How it feels being wrapped in his strong arms.

How it feels having his hand almost touching my boob.

Glancing down again at his boner, I feel somewhat guilty that he has a hard-on and we’re not yet at the point where I can do anything about it. So, I just watch it spasm every now and again, every time I touch him somewhere new above the waist.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

A heart is racing but I’m not sure if it’s his or mine.

I’m not sure whose heart is beating fastest.





Elliot



A shift happened this morning.

I can feel it in the air as we get ready for our pick-up soccer game, shyly smiling at each other and joking all the way to my car.

I sneak a few covert glances at her over the hood of my car when she climbs in, her long hair pulled into a ponytail, her goofy grin confusing the shit out of me.

We listen to music on our way to the park, windows down all the way, cool breeze blowing Anabelle’s ponytail into long wisps around her face. Every now and again she looks over and smiles, biting down on her bottom lip before turning back toward the window.

What was that look? Is she flirting? Just being nice?

Jesus, I can’t tell.

I need a fucking manual.

On the field, we choose teams. There are twenty-five of us today, so it’s a near even split to make two teams. I end up on one, Anabelle on the other, and we take our warm-up laps together once she ties her cleats.

She’s so fucking cute.

So pretty.

Her black soccer shorts are thin, the socks she has pulled up her calves a bright neon pink and peppered with black dots. Her gray t-shirt says Sweating like a Sinner in Church and she has a yellow apron over it, her sports bra straps playing peekaboo with the collar.

Sue me for noticing.

Side by side, we jog around the field, Anabelle’s ponytail swaying the entire way. It’s jaunty and cute, and I’m excited to play against her today.

It’s her first game with our group, and I can tell she’s nervous because she hasn’t stopped chattering the entire three laps we’ve made.

“What if I accidentally take you out while I’m using my sweet, sweet moves on you?”

“What kind of moves? This is regulation, you know, not gorilla-style.”

She turns, jogging backward. “I don’t know. First I’d come at you like this”—she swerves—“then I’d fake you out like this.”

Anabelle does a few toe taps, mimicking some of the fast footwork we use during games, breasts bouncing beneath her shirt.

I avert my eyes. “You shouldn’t be giving me all your best plays.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“Put your money where your mouth is Donnelly. The game hasn’t even started yet—isn’t it too early for trash talk?”

Her laugh rings out. “It’s never too early for a little trash talk, St. Charles.”

We run the lines of the field once more before the ref—who’s just another player volunteering to sit one out—blows a whistle. Anabelle is at midfield where she feels most comfortable, while I play sweeper near the opposite goal.