The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  I guesstimate it takes eight minutes to reach Coach’s office. Twelve more for him to flag me inside. Another to close the door, settle into a seat, and wait for him to speak.

  “So.” He begins, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of him. “Tell me how it’s going.”

  He drops his hands to the desktop, plucking a sticky note off the surface, pinning it between his fingers, bright yellow with something scrawled on it that I can’t read. Coach flicks it with his middle finger, tapping the yellow square back and forth, back and forth.

  I stare at that small sheet of paper, trying to read the words written there in marker, the bold, black letters across the middle. It’s a name and a phone number, I discern that much.

  “It’s going great,” I lie.

  “Is that so?” He leans back, adopting a contemplative expression. “Want to tell me why we would have gotten a call from your father if everything is so goddamn great, Rabideaux?”

  He leans forward and the wooden chair beneath him protests with a loud, creaking squeak.

  “I don’t know what my dad would have said to y’all, but I can promise you I’m handlin’ it, sir.”

  We sit in uncomfortable silence while he contemplates his next words.

  “You know, son, we as a coaching staff, along with the university, have a strict zero tolerance policy against hazing, so I’m going to need a few names.”

  My lips purse. “You know I’m not gonna do that sir, with all due respect.”

  “I figured as much.” He eyes me with a frown. “You kids and your misplaced sense of loyalty never cease to fucking amaze me.” Pause. “Tell you what I’m going to do: I’ll be talking to your team captains about our little problem before it escalates.”

  “It’s not a problem, sir.”

  He chuckles sardonically. “How much was the bill you had to pay?”

  My lips press together. Fuck.

  I don’t know why he’s asking the question; I’m sure my dad already gave him the answer. “Four hundred and change.”

  “And that’s not a problem for you? You running a charity for hungry, malnourished wrestlers we didn’t know about?”

  “No sir.”

  “Your father is not pleased, Rabideaux. He’s fucking pissed, and I personally do not enjoy getting my ass chewed out by angry parents. I have a duty to your families to prevent this sort of bullshit.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir.”

  “You’re also aware that you, along with your teammates, signed an honor code?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Can’t do much without specific names.” He pauses again. “Course, I could just suspend everyone.”

  Fuck.

  “Sir…”

  “Let me give this problem some thought.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll be watching, Rabideaux.”

  I nod.

  “Now get the fuck out of my office, and close the door behind you.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

  Laurel

  We don’t go to a wine bar.

  Not even close.

  I’m out with Alexandra and her two best friends, Gretchen and Kari, and we most certainly aren’t anywhere classy; in fact, the place is a dive.

  It also happens to be the home of a fraternity fundraiser—a bar and a frat party all in one place, imagine that.

  For the third time tonight, I give Alex a nudge, tugging on her sleeve and leaning in, peering into her plastic beer cup. It must be bottomless since it never seems to be empty.

  “Come on, Alex, it’s getting late. You said we weren’t going to stay long.”

  “I know, but Johnathan’s been behind the bar for an hour, and he’s almost done with his shift. I want to see him before we go.”

  John is the president of the Sigs, one of the university’s largest fraternities. The biggest partiers. The deepest pockets.

  The worst reputations.

  My cousin has been fucking him behind her boyfriend’s back for weeks. “Alex, I’m sure John won’t know if you leave a bit early. He will live—you both will.”

  “I’m his ride home.” She flips that long black hair over a bare shoulder. “Sober driver.”

  “What! You promised him a ride home?”

  “That’s not all I promised him.” Her laugh is flirty and borderline obnoxious.

  “Are you shitting me right now? What does Dylan think of that?”

  Her bottom lip juts out. “Who cares? And why do you care? I’m sorry Laurel, I’m not leaving. If you want to go, go.”

  “It’s freezing outside!”

  The temperature is glacial and I’m already freezing my ass off in tight black capri leggings and a mid-drift top, no jacket, half-boot heels.

  What the hell was I thinking coming out dressed like this?

  Oh, that’s right—I was hoping Rhett would change his mind and come out once the team rolled back into town.

  My cousin rakes her stony eyes up and down my outfit. The tight black top might be long-sleeved, but it’s paper thin and flimsy.

  “Laurel,” she scoffs, irritated. “It’s not my fault you didn’t bring a jacket.” When she crosses her arms, I know we’re done with the discussion, so I can do one of three things: stay, walk home, or call someone to come get me.

  I rack my brain—Donovan is on a date with some new guy he met last weekend at a student senate retreat, and Lana picked up an extra shift at the banquet hall she waitresses at. There’s a wedding tonight and she didn’t want to pass up the tips.

  “Well?”

  I wave her off. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out.”

  This isn’t the first time she’s chosen a guy over her friends, and it won’t be the last; Alex makes a habit of putting beaus before bows.

  Despite the date rape talk we always have before stepping out for a party—or any night where there’s alcohol being served—no one leaves alone. We come together, we leave together.

  That is, unless she wants to hook up.

  Then? All bets are off.

  I narrow my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll figure it out.”

  Her smile is satisfied, the spoiled brat. “Text me when you get home so I know you got there safe.”

  “Because if I’m not, you’re going to come riding to my rescue?”

  She scrunches her face up, insulted. “Of course I would!”

  “Then why are you letting me leave here? Alone?”

  “God Laurel, then stay. Don’t be such a bitch about it.”

  I throw my hands up. “I’m done. I’m going.” Giving my head an exasperated shake, I walk away dreaming up a thousand snarky tidbits I’m going to tell my mother in the morning when I call home.

  “Okay. Be safe!” she calls out. “And text me when you get home!”

  Right. Like that’s going to happen.

  Outside, I find a corner, brace myself against the brick wall. Unlock my phone and scroll through the contacts, trying not to fool myself.

  There is only one person I want picking me up, and he’s at home, probably in bed, unwilling to come out and spend some time getting to know me.

  I nibble on the inside of my cheek, uncertain. What if he doesn’t answer?

  But what if he does?

  “Screw it.” The words rise on a puff of breath, the weather so cold my bravado turns to steam.

  Rhett’s name lights up my screen, the counter ticking at the top.

  One second.

  Three.

  Eight.

  “Hello?”

  “Rhett?” I hear rustling, like he’s in bed and unwrapping himself from a mess of sheets. For a brief second, I imagine he must be shirtless, barefoot, and only wearing boxer briefs, his hard body tangled in nothing but blankets—

  “Hello?”

  Does he recognize my voice? “Hey. It’s Laurel.”

  “Hey, what’s up?” He yawns.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” I
roll my eyes; how stupid do I sound? It’s obvious he’s in bed or something.

  Shit. What if he’s not alone?

  Pfft.

  Duh, this is Rhett we’re talking about—of course he’s alone.

  “No, you’re not interrupting anything.” He pauses. “I thought you were going out tonight?”

  “I was. I am—out, I mean.” I continue babbling. “We’re out—my cousin and I, and her friends.”

  I clamp my lips shut.

  “Are you drunk dialing me?” he asks slowly, cautiously.

  I laugh uneasily, shaking slightly from a combination of cold and nerves. I wrap myself in a hug, wishing I had coat, or even a sweatshirt—anything to ward off the chill.

  “No, I’m sober. One hundred percent sober.” Okay, more like ninety-six percent, but who’s counting? “It’s freezing out, and I’m standing against a brick building. It’s so loud inside.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a teensy bit stranded.”

  Silence. “Uh…”

  “Is there any way you can you come get me?”

  More silence.

  I can hear him squinting, narrowing his brown eyes. “You sure you’re sober?”

  “Positive.”

  More rustling. It definitely sounds like he’s in motion. “Where are you?”

  I press myself against the stone and smile. “Duffy’s.”

  “Duffy’s, Duffy’s…” He’s trying to place the coordinates of the bar. “Okay. Give me ten.”

  “All right.”

  “Go back inside to stay warm. I’ll text you when I’m a block away.”

  “Okay, I will.” I bite back a grin. “And thank you.”

  Rhett grunts. I imagine he’s stepping into athletic pants, sliding them up his lean hips. “Be right there.”

  And he is—right here I mean. I spot him within eight minutes, his familiar black Jeep pulling up to the curb in front of the rundown bar.

  I push through the door, take the steps and eleven paces to the curb, purse hanging from a chain over my right shoulder.

  Rhett has already hopped out of the car, jogging around to my side, beating me to the passenger door, his eyes giving my body a quick, barely perceivable scan.

  I shiver again, but not from the cold.

  “Hey.” He smiles down at me, giving me wide berth so I can hop in.

  I pause before climbing in, giving him a breathy, “Hey,” and my own perusal of his figure: gray athletic pants hang low on his hips. Dark gray Iowa t-shirt pulls tight over his broad shoulders. Brown leather flip-flops despite the cold temperatures.

  His toes stick out over the ends. Cute.

  I brush against him, grabbing the door to steady myself, leaning in unnecessarily close; Rhett smells freshly showered.

  Clean.

  Masculine.

  Like cologne and soap and fresh air.

  Or maybe it’s just the fresh air…

  I can’t tell if his eyes are glued to my ass as I climb in, but just in case they are, I give my hips a slow swivel. Inch my way unhurriedly onto the seat. Buckle up. Watch as he makes the jog back to the driver side.

  Bite back a smile when he checks for traffic before pulling open his door.

  Run a palm down the stray strands of my long, wavy hair. It falls over one shoulder, smooth and silky, down over the curve of my breasts.

  “Thank you for picking me up.”

  “No problem.”

  “I can’t thank you enough.” Shit, did that sound sleazy? Suggestive? Like I was offering to pay him for my ride in blow jobs?

  Why would my mind go there? Jesus, Laurel, why are you thinking about what’s inside his pants?

  Guh!

  The radio begins a slow love song that after tonight, I won’t hear without thinking of Rhett. He reaches forward, twisting the volume button to the left. Turns it down so all we have for company is the sound of his purring engine.

  Under the streetlights, I study his profile, butterflies wakening in the pit of my stomach. They rise, stretching, wings beginning to flutter at the silhouette of his bottom lip and curve of his Grecian nose.

  Rhett clears his throat. “So.”

  He’s so awkward and cute. I want to climb into his lap, but I’m pretty sure he’d freak out, slam on the brakes, and crash into a pole, injuring us both.

  Can’t have that, can we?

  The smell of him makes me squirm in my seat in the best possible way.

  I swallow, trying to focus on the road.

  “What did you end up doing tonight?” I croak out, fiddling with the buckle on my purse.

  He shifts in his seat. “Not much. Showered when I got back. Graded some papers.”

  Graded papers—ugh, he’s so smart.

  God I love that.

  He gives me a sidelong glance, eyes darting to my legs in the cloak of darkness. My boobs. My hair. “What about you?”

  “I thought my cousin and I were going to have a quiet night with a few friends, right? At a wine bar or something, but we ended up at Duffy’s instead. She has the hots for one of the Sigs, and they were doing a mixer there tonight.”

  “Don’t your friends have that pact about not letting each other leave alone? Who’s driving the rest of them?”

  I stare at him in disbelief; was he listening the night Alex and I were arguing on the front porch of that party about never letting each other leave alone?

  I think he was. He was actually listening.

  “I think Alex is planning on bringing this guy John back to her place, to, uh, you know.” To have dirty, meaningless sex. “So she couldn’t care less about me, especially when she’s been drinking.”

  “Not cool.”

  “Trust me, we had words about her letting me leave.”

  “Words?”

  “A talk. She was pissed I wanted to go while she’s trying to cheat on her boyfriend—who was there too, by the way.”

  “Oh. Right.” I swear I can hear him blushing.

  “And since it’s so cold—”

  “No way should you be walking home alone.” He bobs, affirming my thought. Grips the wheel tighter. “Horrible idea.”

  “I’m glad you were home.”

  “Yup, that’s me—old reliable,” he quips. “Always home.”

  “You were the first person I thought to call.”

  Because if there is one thing I’m learning about Rhett Rabideaux, it’s that I can count on him. He’s steady and strong and dependable; I know it from the bottom of my soul. He has qualities I’m coming to realize are more valuable than blatant sexual appeal.

  It doesn’t take us long to reach our block, hanging a right then a left until I can see both our houses.

  “You can just park at your house if you want. I can walk the rest of the way.”

  “No way. It’s colder than a witch’s ti—”

  “Sorry? A witch’s what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tit? Was he going to say tit? There’s no way. Not Rhett.

  Heat finds my cheeks. “Anyway, thanks for the rescue.”

  “No problem.”

  I touch his forearm. “Seriously. Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “You’re welcome. You weren’t interruptin’ anything important.”

  Interruptin’.

  “Still, I appreciate it.”

  “I would do it for any one of my friends.”

  “Friends.” Right.

  I clear my throat, adjusting the purse on my lap, my little house at the end of the street in full view. Rhett slows down, pulling up along the curb.

  We sit in the dark before he cuts the engine and opens his door. Makes that walk to the passenger side door. Opens it like a gentleman so I can step down, his gaze finding the pale sliver of bare midriff before pulling away longingly.

  It was brief, but I caught it.

  I step down onto the street, one long leg after the next. Let him walk me to the front door, keys jingling
in one hand, purse clutched in the other.

  I skim his torso with my hungry eyes; I cannot help it. I haven’t seen him in over twenty-four hours, and now that I’ve seen pictures of Rhett online in a wrestling singlet, well…

  There’s no stopping my body now.

  It gives a little shake, back hitting the front door. I regard him under the dim light of the single bulb lamp on my porch, through the cool fall air.

  “Thanks again.”

  “No problem.”

  “Would you like to come in?”

  He shuffles on the balls of his feet, both hands stuffed into the pockets of his gray pants, unintentionally pulling the fabric taut over the front of his crotch. I try not to gawp at the telltale sign of his bulge, but it’s—

  “I better not.”

  My shoulders sag. Better not? What on earth does that mean?

  “All right then. I guess this is good night?”

  God, I can’t help thinking that’s totally something I would say if this were a first date.

  “Bonne soirée, Laurel.” It’s hard to read his expression in the dark, with his hooded eyes shadowed by the overhang on the porch, but I can read enough of his mouth to glean a hint of doubt.

  The hesitation. The insecurity.

  “Does bonne soirée mean good night?” I whisper, eyes trained on his mouth.

  “Oui.” His eyes smile against the backdrop of the dark chocolate brown, warm and endearing. Unassuming and sweet.

  I have to know what his lips feel like, the little voice inside my heart whispers.

  I have to know what they feel like pressed against mine. Have to know what the freshly shaven skin of his neck feels like against my cheek. How it smells.

  If I don’t find out soon, it might be the end of me.

  So I let my purse fall to the ground beside my shoes. Step closer, lean in, closing the distance between us with my mouth, with my body.

  When my breasts brush his chest and I close in the space to inhale his aftershave, the breath whooshes out of my lungs. Cologne, deodorant—whatever he’s wearing, it’s divine.

  Eyelids flutter closed when the tip of my nose brushes the smooth side of his neck, inhaling his skin.

  “Laurel,” he croaks cautiously, spine ramrod straight. “Are you drunk?”

  His breath smells like minty toothpaste.

  I’m fairly confident I want to lick him.

  I press closer still, the heat radiating from his hard, male physique more dangerously intoxicating than any sensation I’ve felt in ages.