The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  “Looks like it.” His eyes rake up and down my body, my cool weather outfit. The apple green sweater that sets off my fiery red hair to perfection. The knit cap pulled down over it. The skinny jeans tucked into tall boots.

  Together, we head toward campus, walking side by side. Squirrels dash out of our way and I squint at one in the middle of the sidewalk up ahead.

  “I swear these squirrels are out to get us. I don’t trust the way that one is staring at us.”

  Beside me, Rhett laughs. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  I pause. “You haven’t noticed all the squirrels? They’re everywhere! I’m convinced they’re trying to take over the world—in fact, I’d bet my life on it.”

  We near the gray fox squirrel, his shaggy tail pointed in the air, balancing him as he rises on his haunches, nose sniffing the air.

  “He’s checking for bad nuts,” Rhett quips.

  “Well if he’s sniffing at you, I doubt he’ll find them.” I can’t help the words when they slip out of my mouth. Rhett is a good guy, and I find myself wanting him to know that’s how I feel, what I think about him.

  He’s one of the good ones.

  “Did you just imply that I’m a good nut?”

  “Yes, is that corny?”

  We laugh again, the crisp morning air filling my lungs with satisfying contentment. It feels good to be walking next to Rhett, his large body taking up the entire right side of the sidewalk.

  “This whole morning has been…good.” Off to a great start and getting better by the second.

  I shiver inside my fuzzy sweater, but not from the cold. When the light changes to walk at the corner, we hustle across the street, step up onto the curb. Enter the edge of campus, heading for the commons.

  “What class you headed to?” My curiosity gets the best of me.

  “Nonverbal Communication. What about you?”

  “English. Nothing groundbreaking or cool, like French class.”

  “Cois-moi, ce n’est pas si intéressant.” He chuckles. “Trust me, it’s not that exciting.”

  It’s way too early in the morning to be getting turned on by his mastery of the French language. Way too early.

  Nonetheless, my girl parts give a quiver.

  “Do you do that on purpose?”

  “Do what?”

  Since I’ve decided to start being honest with him, I might as well confess. “Do you speak French knowing it drives me mad?”

  His face scrunches up. “It makes you mad?”

  “No. It drives me mad.” I shoot him a coy, sidelong glance. “There’s a huge difference.”

  “Oh.” He falters on the sidewalk, perplexed. “There is?”

  I laugh, despite myself. “Yeah Rhett, there is.” That shit is sexy as all hell. But I’m not about to fill in the blanks or point out what they are. He’s a big boy; he can figure those out for himself.

  We pass the union and the art building. Pass the large fountain in the middle of the square. It’s time for me to head left and Rhett to head right, but for whatever reason, we both delay parting.

  “Well, I guess this is where we go our separate ways.” This is also more awkward than the uncertainty of standing on my front porch in the dark; part of me wants to reach a hand out and touch him, the sleeve of his hoodie, or the lock of hair sticking out from under his ball cap. “Will I see you around at any parties?”

  “No, we’re leavin’ for another match. They’re usually every week during the season.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I should, because I’ve dated athletes before, but something about this guy is making me a little nutty.

  “How soon do you leave?”

  “Early.”

  “Does that mean an early night, too?”

  “Usually, yeah.”

  “Well good luck this weekend.”

  “Thanks.” He shuffles his feet uncomfortably, stuffing those large hands inside the pocket of his hoodie, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he wants to do something for dinner—I mean, everyone has to eat, right, so what would be the harm in grabbing food?—but I’m unable to do so. A commotion in the quad distracts me, voices growing louder behind us.

  Rhett’s eyes get wide, head tips back. My gaze strays to the column of his throat as he moans. His muttered curse is followed by new voices.

  “New Dude!”

  I crane my neck and gawk as two huge guys approach, tall and big and crazy good-looking. Kind of pretty, ripped from head to toe, the two of them couldn’t be more dissimilar: one jovial and friendly, the other sullen and broody. I recognize them both from the billboards gracing the entire façade of the track and field house.

  Wrestlers.

  Wrestlers I don’t remember seeing at the dine and dash, though I’d bet money they were probably there.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “New Dude, hold up. Don’t try to hide from us, we’ve already seen you.” The guy’s smile is cheeky—he’s clearly entertained—as he runs a thorough body scan of me from head to toe, checking me out despite the fact that I’m with Rhett. “Your friend here is hard to miss.”

  He’s flirting with me and I don’t like it.

  True, I’m not with Rhett, but they don’t know that. For all they know, I’m his girlfriend.

  The chatty one skids to a stop in front of us, gives me another body scan, not missing a single detail of my person.

  Rhett

  “Dude, aren’t you going to introduce us?” Oz Osborne’s smile resembles the Big Bad Wolf, arrogant and bold and confident.

  I knew Oz was obnoxious, but I didn’t think he was this big of an ass. I watch as he visibly gives Laurel a onceover, eyes trolling along her body, up and down then up again, not three feet in front of my face.

  When we’d originally met and he warned me away from Gunderson and Eric, I assumed he was a decent guy that was looking out for his new teammate, assumed he wanted to be friends and not dick me around like everyone. Not only that, Oz has a girlfriend. I’ve seen her at a few home matches, a pretty, conservative girl that likes to hang out at the library where Zeke’s girlfriend works.

  I know, because I’ve seen them all there studying together.

  So why is he standing here eye-fucking Laurel?

  Not that she and I are a thing, cause we’re not. Obviously we’re not—anyone with a set of eyes can see that—but still.

  Fucking rude.

  Dickhead.

  Laurel sticks her hand in Oz’s direction, shaking it. “Hi, I’m Laurel.” She holds her hand out for Zeke, who stares down at it with a scowl until she pulls it back.

  Douchebag.

  “Laurel, nice to meet you.” Oz turns his blue gaze on me, something like respect shining behind his eyes. “New Guy, you headed to the gym or what?”

  “Class.”

  “Damn. I was hoping you’d show me how you slipped Gehring into that hold last week.” He rubs his chin. “When you gonna be around?”

  I rock on the balls of my feet. “Why don’t I just show you tomorrow?”

  “Where? On the damn bus?”

  Good point.

  Zeke Daniels scoffs, arms crossing over his massive chest. “I can show you how he did it.”

  Oz rolls his eyes, turning to level our teammate with a stare. “I haven’t seen you use that move once this entire year.”

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t fucking do it.”

  “Whatever dude, I’m going straight to the source.” Oz clamps his hand on my shoulder, speaks to Laurel. “This guy is one of the best fucking wrestlers we’ve ever had. Have him show you his Penetration Step.” He winks at her. “He can take that move straight into the Spiral Ride.”

  Seriously, what the fuck is he doing?

  Is he trying to make me look good in front of Laurel? Matchmaking? Does he honestly think a girl that looks like her is going to date a guy who looks like me?

  For her part, Laurel g
ives me a glance, her gaze trailing down my body, shining and alive with interest, cheeks flushed from the brisk fall weather. “I’ll take that into consideration.” She flirts back coyly, touching my sleeve as she says, “I’ve been trying to convince him to show me some self-defense moves.”

  She has?

  I stare down at her fingers resting on my forearm. Her nails are a bright green, same as her sweater, which looks soft and snuggly and touchable.

  Just like her.

  Zeke Daniels uncrosses his arms with a grunt. “Self defense—that’s what I’ve been doing with my girlfriend, Violet.” He curtly nods his approval. “She’s so tiny.”

  “Does she work at the library?” Laurel asks.

  “Yeah. She’s a tutor.”

  “I’ve seen her. Blonde? So cute.”

  Zeke grunts, nods. “That’s her.”

  Laurel’s eyes catch sight of someone in the distance, fingers giving my arm another little tap. “Oh! There’s my cousin. I’m going to run and catch up to her.” Her hand leaves my sleeve, glossy pink lips curved into a pretty smile. “I have to give her a message from her mom.”

  “Sure.”

  “Bye Rhett. Talk to you later?”

  “Uh yeah, sure.”

  “Good.” She turns and takes a few steps, glancing over her shoulder once, probably at Oz and Zeke, her fingers giving a little wave. “Bye Rhett.”

  She said that already.

  “Thanks for walking me to class.”

  I blink in her direction.

  The three of us watch her walk off, hips swaying, red hair sweeping back and forth across her back, sashaying all the way over to her cousin.

  None of us speak.

  Until, “Dude. Who. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Oz asks in fragments. He socks me in the arm, right in the fucking deltoid.

  “That was Laurel,” I stupidly reply, rubbing the sting out of my upper arm. Motherfucker hits hard.

  “Are you screwing her?” Oz asks. Beside him, Zeke grimaces at his crude question. “Please say yes.”

  I laugh bitterly. “Sorry to disappoint y’all.”

  “Why the hell not? Fire Crotch is fucking hot.”

  Fire Crotch? Jesus, what is wrong with this guy? He’s worse than Gunderson and Eric combined.

  “Did you seriously just ask if I’m having sex with her? Look at her.” Then look at me.

  We crane our heads to look again. Laurel strides down the sidewalk in the center of campus, bright hair a beacon in the distance, color set off by the hue of her sweater. Links her arm with Alex. Guides her toward the philosophy building, where her English class is held.

  “Oh I’m looking at her alright.” If I didn’t know the guy had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t know the guy had a girlfriend. “You sure you’re not dating her?”

  Now Zeke is rolling his eyes. “Of course they’re not dating, he just said it twice. Why don’t you ever fucking listen?”

  “We hardly know the guy,” Oz argues. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to tell us.”

  “Know how we know?” Zeke smacks him in the stomach. “Because Rabideaux doesn’t have the balls to date a chick like that. He wouldn’t have a clue what to do with her.”

  They study me for a few awkward beats, both of them nodding slowly like they have the goddamn answers to everything. Much as I hate to admit it, they’re right; I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a girl like Laurel.

  Osborne narrows his eyes in my direction. “Please tell me he’s wrong. Please tell me you’re at least hooking up.”

  I sigh, hefting my backpack. “I’m not dating her.”

  “Hooking up?”

  “No.”

  Oz throws his hands up, frustrated. “Dude, why not? Did you see the way she was checking you out?”

  “She wasn’t checkin’ me out; she was looking at you idiots.”

  Whack. “Are you fucking blind? That chick is into you, trust me.”

  But he’s wrong, so wrong.

  He must be.

  Laurel

  My knuckles rise to knock, rap on the wooden front door twice before releasing the screen and drawing back.

  I take a step back, smoothing back long red hair with the palm of my free hand, smile plastered on my face, butterflies multiplying one by one in the pit of my stomach.

  It takes three long minutes for the door to swing open and Rhett’s face to appear, shrouded in the darkness of the house.

  Shoot, why is it dark inside the house? Was he already sleeping?

  It’s only eight thirty.

  “Laurel?” Rhett presses his hand to the screen, pushing it open a few feet. “Is everything okay?”

  He’s wearing a cutoff t-shirt.

  I stare, dumbfounded, brain processing the visuals hitting me hard, one at a time: Rhett wearing a cutoff shirt…the bulge of his sunless arms. My eyes do a quick scan along his smooth clavicle, visible from the scoop neckline of the shirt, a smattering of light hair in the center of his chest.

  I stare some more, the plate of cookies in my hands forgotten. My gaze drops to his biceps, rakes along his deltoids and triceps, solid and lean. I want to skim my palms over it all.

  “Is everything okay?” he repeats, pushing the door open farther. “Laurel?”

  “Everything is fine,” I murmur, reluctantly dragging my gaze off his upper torso.

  “Then why…” Are you here?

  The unfinished question hangs between us.

  “Why am I here?” The weight of the plate in my hands is a gentle reminder. “Oh jeez! Duh! Here.” I thrust the cookies in his direction. “I hope you like chocolate chip.”

  Because they were all I could afford to make after running to the grocery store for the ingredients I didn’t have, which was most of them: flour, butter, and chocolate chips. Fortunately, it was a simple recipe—easy to make in a short amount of time.

  They’re still warm, fresh from the oven.

  Rhett stares down at the paper plate. “You brought us cookies?”

  Us? Like him and his roommates?

  “No, I brought you cookies.” I nibble my bottom lip, worried he’s going to think I’m clingy, but his crooked smile is warm. It gets me warm, too. “Are you allowed to eat these?”

  His smile gets wider. “Yeah, I can eat your cookies.”

  I can eat your cookies.

  I search his face for traces of sexual innuendo, find none.

  Bummer.

  “They’re for the bus ride tomorrow.”

  “You brought me cookies for the bus ride.” He stares hard at the plate. At the cookies. Up at my face, confused.

  Please don’t ask me why, I silently beg, because I don’t even know the answer to that myself. If I said I had just wanted to do something nice for him, I’d be lying. Cookies are the last thing on my mind as I stand on this stoop.

  We stand awkwardly at the threshold of his house, me on the tiny front porch, him in the entryway holding the screen door ajar. The wind picks up, sending a cold breeze across the steps.

  It lifts the hair off my shoulders and sends a tingle down my spine.

  “Wanna come inside for a minute?”

  Uh, do basic white girls drink pumpkin spice lattes? Yes I want to go inside! I school my expression so I don’t come off as over-enthused or desperate. That might freak him out.

  “Sure.”

  Still holding my plate of baked goods, I step up into the house when Rhett pushes the door all the way open, offering entry. I purposely brush against his hard, athletic body like a cat—it can’t be helped! He barely left me any room to enter; obviously I had to touch him.

  Giving him my most innocent smile, I enter the living room, eyes scanning the perimeter. Brown couch. Brown love seat. Tan coffee table. Giant TV. Cords everywhere.

  Typical bachelor pad.

  It’s too quiet and too dark.

  “Are your roommates home?”

  Rhett closes the door behind us. “No. They’re both at the field house. Rex is the
team manager, so he has to make sure everything gets put on the bus. He’s probably counting equipment. Eric is with the trainer getting his ankle checked out.”

  “Want me to set these on the counter?”

  “Sure. Wait, no. Maybe I should put them in a baggie and shove them in my duffle so the guys don’t eat them all.”

  I preen, standing a little taller—he doesn’t want to share my cookies.

  “Good idea.”

  Rhett finds a plastic baggie after opening four drawers in the kitchen and we put the cookies inside, two at a time, him stealing one before I slide the baggie closed. He pops it in his mouth, biting down, his straight, white teeth pulling it apart.

  Chewing.

  The tendons in his neck work and I watch him swallow, eyes drawn to his throat.

  “Now I want milk.” His lips tease.

  “Want me to get you a glass?”

  “Nah, I got this water.” He picks up the glass from the counter, washing down his chocolate chip cookie with a few gulps. “That was awesome. Thank you.”

  His hip hits the counter, eyes casting a wary glint over my shoulder, out the window behind me. “Dammit.”

  “What?”

  “My roommates are already back.” He pauses, the silence almost deafening. A set of headlights shines into the dimly lit kitchen, casting shadows against the walls. “Uh, want to go to my room?”

  Not really—I kind of want to meet these assholes in person, but knowing he doesn’t want me to, I nod my head. “Sure. We can do that.”

  He grabs the cookies off the counter and we set off down the dark hallway to the bedrooms. Behind the second door on the right is his room; painted beige, it’s much tidier than I was expecting—and clean, especially considering this was a drop-by. His bed isn’t made, but the covers aren’t thrown everywhere, either. It’s kind of sparse—at least, compared to what I’m used to.

  Desk in the corner. Dresser against the far wall. Queen-sized bed. Navy bedding.

  Green plaid pillows.

  Interesting.

  “Where are all your trophies?” I mean, don’t guys hang stuff like that up for bragging rights? My ex-boyfriends always did. “I’m assuming you have a bunch of those, right?”