The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  “Packed up in my parents’ basement.”

  He must not have wanted to haul them all the way to Iowa from Louisiana.

  “Do you have a lot of them?”

  Rhett shuffles to the closet, barefoot, and slides the door closed. I watch the muscles in his back flex when he shrugs, facing away from me. “I guess.”

  “So you’re just okay? They recruited you out of the goodness of their hearts?”

  This makes him chuckle. “I’m tryin’ not to sound like a conceited asshole.”

  From the living room, we hear the sound of the front door open, close. Two loud voices bantering back and forth in the kitchen, cabinet doors opening and closing like the place is being ransacked.

  Whoever his roommates are, they’re loud.

  Ignoring the sound of them rifling through the cupboards for food, I stray to Rhett’s desk, fiddling with his pens, poke one around the surface with my green fingernail.

  Unlike my laptop, Rhett’s is void of decals and stickers. Unlike my notebooks, his are plain and have no doodles scribbled on the cardboard covers.

  I glance at him over my shoulder.

  He goes to stuff his hands in his pockets; discovering his navy pants have none, he runs both hands through his hair, blowing out a puff of air.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing.”

  All right, Rhett, I get it—you don’t know how to tell me you think it’s weird that I’m in your room. That it’s making you uncomfortable and you don’t know how to act. What to do with yourself, or your hands.

  I get it.

  It’s cute.

  Different, without a doubt.

  I stroll to the bed, slide down the front of it to the floor. Lean my head against the mattress and shoot him a friendly smile as I run my palms down the length of my legs, down my black leggings, plucking at the fabric.

  He bites back a smile, sauntering the few feet it takes to reach me, squatting on his haunches then joining me on the floor.

  We both stare at the closet.

  “Do you ever get nervous going into a match? Or meet? I still don’t remember what you call them.” I laugh.

  “The whole thing is a meet. The part where I wrestle an opponent is a match. And no, I don’t get nervous. Not usually.”

  “Because you’re so good?”

  “Maybe, or because I’ve been doin’ it so long it’s second nature. My body is on autopilot, you know?”

  I do know. “That’s how it was with volleyball. My parents started me when I was eight, and I never had a break.” I pause. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I admire you for sticking with it, though. I know it’s hard.”

  “It can be.”

  He can’t fool me; I know what the life of a D1 athlete is like, and his sport is far more intense and backbreaking than volleyball ever was.

  “Does your family visit?”

  “They used to come to every single home meet.”

  “But they haven’t since you’ve been in Iowa?”

  “Nope. Too far.”

  “Have you gone home?”

  “Nah. It’s a long drive—I’d rather not make it alone.”

  He steeples his fingers on his knees, and I study his hands, learning the lines of his veins and the bend of his fingers, his large, masculine hands.

  I bet they’re rough.

  I bet they’re capable.

  I bet…

  I sigh.

  His room smells good and he smells great, and he’s sitting less than an inch away. His thigh is touching my thigh, his hips touching my hips. It’s not on purpose, obviously—this is Rhett we’re talking about here.

  But he’s close enough that the nerves in my body are sending electric jolts to places I’d rather they didn’t, especially since it’s apparent this guy isn’t interested. I’m a fool for pushing the issue simply because I’m curious.

  Calling him. Texting him. Bringing him freaking cookies—Jesus, what the hell have I been thinking?

  This little playground crush I seem to be developing on him is going to end up with me getting hurt—or worse, looking like a complete fool. I can picture it now: poor, clueless Rhett, avoiding me like the plague because I scared the crap out of him with my assertive nature.

  Maybe this is why I date guys who aren’t emotionally available. Getting him comfortable with me is proving to be a challenge when most guys have been easy—the breaks are always clean and easy, too. No one gets hurt because no one actually cares, nothing invested but physical gratification.

  He turns his head when I exhale; up close, I can see the different hues of his irises. How long his lashes are. The scar in his left eyebrow. The small, discolored skin along the bridge of his nose where a bruise is healing.

  Rhett’s eyes stray to my lips.

  Mine stray to the hardwood floors beneath us, taking in the square footage. “You know something? I think there’s plenty of room in here to give me those self-defense pointers.”

  “Now?” He looks dubious.

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  Like making out, just to see what it feels like? Rolling around naked on the bed, perhaps?

  Rhett bites the inside of his cheek. “Let me think of an easy one for you to do. Most of them wouldn’t work as self-defense.”

  The room is quiet while he deliberates, and I watch his facial expressions change, the wheels of his brain turning. “Okay,” he says at last. “I think I have one. We’re both goin’ to have to stand up.”

  He rises to a full stand in one fluid motion.

  Rhett leans down, offering both hands to help me off the ground. When he holds them out, palms up, I slowly slide my skin across his. Flesh to flesh.

  My pulse quickens at the contact.

  Our eyes connect; I know he feels it too.

  He must, or I’ll go crazy trying to convince myself there’s something building between us even if he’s convinced himself there isn’t.

  “Thank you,” I murmur, my body still humming from his touch.

  “You ready?”

  My blue eyes glide over the smooth skin of his exposed collarbone, the hard valley between his pecs.

  Am I ready? Oh yeah—so ready. “Yes.”

  “All right, so, uh.” He wipes his palms on his pants. “I guess we’ll go with the double takedown. So you’re going to have to widen your legs and squat, like this.”

  Rhett spreads his legs, squatting, hands up with his palms facing me, waiting for me to mimic his stance.

  “Like this?” I purposely prop one foot out, uneven, hip jutted out.

  “No, like this.” He stands, breaking position. “Here, let me show you.”

  He moves into my personal space, large hands gripping my hips, shifting my body to the right. Palms skim my thigh, tapping the inside of my sensitive flesh until my legs are spread—it’s like he’s tapping a lifeless slap of meat. Clinically. Mechanically.

  Rhett is clearly in his element when it comes to wrestling.

  “Now bend them a little bit more, and put your hands out, like this.” He manhandles me until I’m positioned the way he wants me. “Good. Now when you come at me, you’re going to put your hands around my hips and move them around to my backside, head down toward my stomach.” His mammoth hand pats the area below his sternum. “Try to aim here.”

  “What?” My head gives a shake. “No way! I’m not doing that!”

  He frowns, sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it to you, then you can try it on me afterward.”

  I smile innocently, the thought of his hands sliding down my ass a thrilling prospect. Bonus points if he squeezes it.

  “All right. I’m totally okay with that.”

  “Raise your hands a little higher, like this,” he instructs, demonstrating.

  Rhett is all business. His eyes don’t so much as flicker down my body—not once, not even when I stick my boobs out to test his resolve.

  “When my head hits your stomach, my hands are gonna get up
underneath and pull you down, and you’re going to hit the floor.” He pauses. “Just FYI.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll try to lower you gently.”

  Oh jeez. My girly parts tingle.

  “Normally this is done from more of a run and the—”

  “Just do it!” I laugh. “The anticipation is killing me.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never done this on a girl before.”

  “Rhett, just—oh my God!” I gasp when his head hits my tummy and I’m lifted off my feet, on my back within seconds, air whooshing out of my lungs with an excited breath, breath catching when his face appears in my line of vision.

  Hovers over me, shaggy hair in his eyes. “You okay?”

  My lips part, exhilarated. “Yes.” I’m more than okay, especially when his face moves in, eyes roaming my face. “Are you checking me for a concussion? Because I’m fine—my head didn’t even hit the ground.”

  He had a hold on me the entire time he was leveraging me to the floor, quick, agile, and completely in control of his movements. Stealthy. Steady. Strong.

  Gentle.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” I murmur, relishing how near he is, the hands now circled around my biceps.

  “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Oh.” He tosses his head, jerking the hair out of his brown eyes. “What did you mean?”

  “That was amazing.” My breath hitches, gaze skimming his bare shoulders. “It took no effort.”

  “Lots of practice,” his lips say.

  “Practice makes perfect,” mine reply, mind wandering to what else would be perfect with a little bit of practice, mentally ticking off a list: wrestling…kisses…sex.

  I’m willing to bet he could give me an orgasm or two with a swivel of those muscular hips. My body aches to arch, pelvis wriggling under the length of him, inches from what I know is inside his navy pants.

  “You know…” I begin. “You can’t seriously expect anyone to actually use that for self-defense, especially not a girl.”

  “I panicked,” Rhett admits with a cute, crooked grin, teeth raking along his bottom lip. His low laugh is deep inside his chest. “You came over unannounced, askin’ about self-defense.”

  My fingers find their way to his wavy hair, brushing aside the stray locks so they’re out of his eyes. “No, I came over to bring you cookies.”

  Rhett seems to bask in my touch, briefly tilting his cheek into my palm, resting it there. My thumb traces the skin along his jaw, across his lower lip.

  “Laurel?”

  His face inches closer.

  I suck in a breath.

  This is it—he’s going to kiss me. “Yes?”

  “Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I say in a breathy whisper.

  “What are you hopin’ it means?” Our mouths are a sigh apart, the air between us tickling my lips. His powerful chest brushes my breasts and this time, he doesn’t move away.

  “Say it again.”

  “Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser?” His mouth is hot, near my ear, warm breath sending a spark up my middle, dampening my underwear. “Dis oui, s’il te plait.”

  Est-ce que je peux t’embrasser; dear Lord, I hope it means he wants to kiss me. I hope it means—

  Rhett’s bedroom door busts open, hitting the wall behind it, just as Rhett’s soft lips lightly sweep mine, tentative.

  “Holy fuck.” There’s a skinny guy with blond hair filling the doorway, legs spread, folded sweatshirt in his hands. “Did I just interrupt something? Please say yes.”

  Rhett is off me lightning fast, quicker than he flipped me on my back, and the loss of his heat leaves me cold. He turns to help me from the floor, my hands gripping his.

  “What the hell, Gunderson. Learn to knock.”

  “We just got home—I wasn’t expecting you to have anyone in here, dude. It’s not my fault.”

  “It’s still my room.”

  Gunderson shakes his index finger in the air like he’s making a point. “Technically this month it’s partly mine since I had to pay some of your rent.”

  Rhett’s sigh of exasperation is loud. “Gunderson, get the fuck out.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s not be so hasty.” He throws his hand out toward me, tucking the sweatshirt under his armpit so he can greet me properly. “I’m Rex, team manager. And you are…”

  “Gunderson, this is Laurel.”

  I peek out from around Rhett’s imposing form and give his roommate a little wave, despite the fact that he’s five feet away. “Hi.”

  “Laurel.” Gunderson’s face is nothing but an idiot grin, all teeth and stupidity. “Dude, you’re Laurel? You’re so fucking…wow. I’m almost tempted to tell him to forget everything I said about you.”

  When the rude bastard narrows his beady eyes at me, I narrow my blue eyes back. Then the jerk has the balls to ask, “What are your intentions with our buddy Rabideaux here?”

  “Jesus, Gunderson.” Rhett groans. “Get out of my room.”

  “It’s a legit question, dude! I’m doing you a favor.”

  Rhett gives his roommate a delicate shove through the threshold of his bedroom, his mammoth-sized hand reaching around. It goes to the small of my back, just above my ass, that one spot heating my entire body.

  His thumb inadvertently settles near my ass crack.

  I’m tempted to wiggle my butt.

  “This is why you can’t get laid, you know that, right,” the jerk mutters when he’s ushered into the hallway. “You can’t even joke about sex.”

  Rhett’s hand lingers on my rear, slides up my spine when his roommate disappears from sight. Reaches for a sweatshirt off the hook by his door, tank top rising when he lifts his arm, smooth expanse of midsection exposed from the motion.

  I ogle his body.

  Washboard abs. Flat stomach. The telltale sign of a happy trail leading from his belly button, disappearing into the waistband of athletic pants so thin, I can see the outline of his dick.

  He slides the sweatshirt over his head. When he comes up for air, tugging the hem down over his pants, he says, “I should get you home.”

  Instinctively, I want to pout. Stomp my foot. Demand he lay me down on the floor and put his hands back on my body where they belong.

  “Okay.”

  We walk in peaceful silence past the nine houses that separate us. I wordlessly count them as we go, trying to enjoy Rhett’s company, to shift the focus so I’m not fixating on that almost kiss in his bedroom.

  He was going to kiss me, I know it.

  It’s a short jaunt to my house and a shorter walk up the sidewalk.

  “I have to be up early, so…” Rhett lingers, kicking at an invisible pebble on the concrete slab that is my entryway. “Thanks for the cookies.”

  “Good luck tomorrow.” I want to go up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around him, kiss his cheek.

  Something.

  Anything.

  “Thanks.”

  “Let me know how it goes?”

  “I will.” Rhett runs a hand through his shaggy locks, stepping back down onto the path in front of my house. “Night.”

  “Good night.”

  Rhett: Hey.

  Me: Hey yourself! How did it go today?

  Rhett: Great. Won both my matches.

  Me: Are you on your way home?

  Rhett: Not yet. We’re staying the night then head out in the morning.

  Rhett: It’s fucking loud in the hallway—the groupies for this school are everywhere.

  Me: Groupies?

  Rhett: Yeah, you know…

  Me: They seriously hang out at the hotel?

  Rhett: Yeah. The guys usually tell them where we’re staying and they follow the bus back to the hotel, for hotel sex I guess.

  Me: Can I ask you a personal question that’s none of my business? You don’t have to answer.
/>   Rhett: Sure.

  Me: Are there any groupies in your room right now?

  Rhett: LOL, no.

  Me: Why is that funny?

  Rhett: You really think I’m the type groupies latch on to? They usually hang on the other guys, thank God.

  Me: Okay. Good.

  Rhett: It was a good day. I’m freaking tired—I can’t believe these guys are going to be up all night.

  Me: I really wish I could have seen you in action.

  Rhett: Well, I mean, you can—if they’re not being aired live, they’re usually on one of the sports networks or YouTube. Just Google it.

  Me: Really???

  Rhett: Yeah. The matches are all televised.

  Me: Well then excuse me while I go find vids of you wrestling…

  Laurel

  I totally Googled him.

  I couldn’t stop myself—didn’t want to.

  An image gallery of Rhett fills the screen of my computer, almost every small thumbnail a photograph of him in a wrestling singlet. Pictures of a younger, high school-aged Rhett. Three state championships wins, I note with pride. Arm raised after each sweaty victory, sometimes held up by a coach or ref.

  Him in a purple and yellow singlet from Louisiana. A few team composites. Surrounded by teammates in a practice gym.

  Bent over in what the caption calls a “guardian stance”.

  There are so many photos and articles of him, I could sit clicking on them for hours.

  My face burns hot from the images of Rhett in his wrestling singlet, from the sight of his sinewy, sweaty muscles, growing more defined with each year that passed.

  The mouth and ear guards.

  His thighs.

  Oh my God, his thighs.

  His dick beneath the spandex material.

  I stare at that spot between his legs, pulling my monitor in close, studying the screen like a pervert, like a horny teenage boy.

  I assumed he had a great body, but the actual sight of it half naked?

  Jesus, it’s making my panties damp.

  I zoom in on an image of Rhett with his hands behind his head, catching his breath, perspiration on his chest gleaming under the bright stadium lights. His brawny biceps inflated, flexed. The veins pronounced from the increased adrenaline.

  The tight black spandex that leaves so little to the imagination.