The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(57)

Me: Jesus Christ, you’re such an asshole.

Oz: I believe the correct term is douchebag.

Me: Can we stick to the point?

Oz: If I knew what your point was, yeah.

Me: I’m freaking out—that’s what my point is.

Oz: So you screwed your roommate. How many times was it?

Me: What difference does that make?

Oz: Trust me, it matters. How many times did you fuck her?

Me: Twice.

Oz: So what’s the problem?

Me: I had sex with her TWICE.

Oz: When?

Me: Jesus, dude. Why do you want me to get specific?

Oz: Why can’t you just answer the fucking questions? If you had sex with her once it can be brushed off as a “mistake”, but twice? You’re either really fucking horny or you like her, and the fact that she let you dick her multiple times in a 24-hour period is either really good news or really bad news.

Me: Explain.

Oz: It depends on whether you like her or not.

Me: I do.

Oz: Then why are we even having this conversation?

Me: I don’t know if SHE likes me.

Oz: DUDE. SHE LET YOU FUCK HER TWICE.

Me: Good point.

Oz: Morning sex?

Me: Uh…

Oz: So I’ll take that as a yes. Nice work. Morning sex is the fucking best! I always come so hard when I’m half out of it. It’s like some serious out-of-body experience bullshit. If you’re lucky, you’ll wake up one night while she’s giving you a blow job—you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven. For real.

Me: How is it that every time I text you for advice, you never have any?

Oz: This was sex-related. What kind of advice could you possibly need?

Me: I had sex with my roommate. WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NOW?

Oz: You do it again. Duh.





Anabelle



Elliot and I had sex.

Twice.

Three times if you count him going down on me, which I don’t because there was no penile penetration.

But still.

Elliot and I had sex!

I’ve been sleepwalking through my day, light as air, my thoughts on one thing: last night. Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm. Then again this morning.

His face between my legs.

His dick inside me.

My face flushes, and if I had a notebook handy, I’d be burying my face behind it, cheeks flaming hot. Obviously no one knows what’s going on inside my mind right now, but I feel like it’s stamped on my forehead, tattooed in neon ink: I HAD SEX WITH MY ROOMMATE LAST NIGHT!

Hang a big red sign around my neck while you’re at it.

I tug at the collar of my shirt, giving myself room to breathe. Is it hot in here? No? Just me?

“What’s wrong with you today? You high or something?”

Rex Gunderson pokes me with a pencil I doubt he’ll actually use this entire semester.

“No I’m not high. I just have some stuff on my mind.”

“Ahh.” He leans forward, balancing the desk chair on two legs. “Someone’s been running through your mind all day. Was it me?” He flashes a devilish grin. “Let me take you out again, put you out of your misery.”

If he knows about Eric Johnson showing up at my father’s house, he’s displaying no indication of it, but Rex knows I’m Coach Donnelly’s daughter, I’m sure of it.

This guy is playing the long game, and he’s playing it well. I’ll give him credit for that.

“Thanks for the offer, Gunderson, but I don’t think so.”

“Shit. My friends call me Gunderson—are you friend-zoning me, Anabelle?”

“I wouldn’t call it that, no.” More like keeping him at a distance. Despite his odd charm and weirdly charismatic personality, I still don’t trust this guy.

A few weeks ago I might have, even knowing what I know about him—that he’s a douchey little asshole who makes harmful bets. I’ve concluded that Rex Gunderson is bored: bored with being the manager of the wrestling team, bored with Iowa, and bored with school.

He’s creating drama. Generating fun.

The problem is people are getting hurt along the way. Not physically, obviously—no one has gotten sick or died—but what would have happened if Eric Johnson had shown up at my house and my parents weren’t there?

What if he was so determined to win that bet he had forced himself inside? Or forced himself on me? I don’t know anything about him, but he’s aggressive, and the big bedroom in their house seems to be worth a world of trouble to obtain.

My mind wanders, drifting to Elliot as Gunderson babbles on and on about himself. Did he have sex with me because we were both half-asleep? Because he wanted to get laid? Does he care about me, or was it purely physical?

Feelings or physical.

Feelings… Physical…

Shit, I’m so confused.

We haven’t spoken to each other in the past twenty-four hours, despite all the screwing, shyly going about our business this morning, both of us late for class after one last orgasmic quickie before the hustle.

I’m a mess today. Yoga pants, baggy sweatshirt, hair tossed up in a ponytail—I had zero time to get ready before sprinting out the door.

“So no second date?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I was asking if you wanted a second date.”