How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  Hints of delectable tongue.

  Bodies flush.

  Sounds I didn’t know people made while kissing.

  We kiss and kiss until a light goes on inside the living room, the soft glow from the flimsy curtains catching my eye and giving me pause. Allison pulls back the curtain to glance outside, visibly startled to see us making out on the porch.

  Quickly closes the curtains, but rips them back open seconds later to get another look. Begins fist pumping in the air, leaping and jumping around the room in a silent victory dance until my making out with Oz turns to giggle fits and he pulls away, confused.

  Allison’s eyes get guiltily wide and she lunges toward the curtains, whipping them closed, but we can hear her hysterical laughter.

  “She’s a goddam delight.” Oz laughs, planting another firm kiss on my lips.

  I perk up. “You think so?”

  “No. She’s a boner killer.”

  Oh god.

  One date down.

  Four to go.

  Jameson

  If you would have told me a few weeks ago I’d be watching a wrestling match on a Wednesday night in a packed campus stadium, I would never have believed you.

  Not in a million years.

  But I’m here, Allison beside me for support, because no way was I coming alone. Not when the two tickets handed to me last night were front row floor seats.

  Freaking front row. On the floor.

  “We get these to give our families but I want you to have them,” Oz had said as he slid them into the pocket of my backpack, landing a sloppy kiss to the center of my surprised mouth; I still cannot get past his unencumbered displays of PDA.

  “You still plan on coming, right?”

  I gave a shaky nod, fingertips touching the spot on my mouth where his lips had just been. “Yes. Allison’s coming with me.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to be alone on our second date.” His pencil had tapped the edge of the hard, wooden table.

  “How is this considered a date if you’re not even going to be there?”

  “What do you mean, not going to be there? You’re going to be watching me in action. And then afterward…” He’d hesitated. “Maybe we could celebrate the big W with dinner.”

  I’d scrunched up my forehead, confused. “Big W?”

  My mind had gone immediately into the gutter: Big O.

  Orgasm.

  Big D.

  Dick.

  Oh god, it was official: I had sex on the brain twenty-four-seven, and there was only one person to blame.

  “Big W stands for win.” He’d laughed. “What were you thinking it stood for?”

  “Definitely not that?”

  “What then?”

  “Big big things.”

  “Oh my god,” Oz howled. “I can’t believe what a pervert you are.”

  “I’m not a pervert just because it made me think of sex!”

  “Busted!” He’d laughed again, harder, head thrown back against the leather desk chair in the study room. “I never said that’s what you were thinking about.”

  “James. James, are you paying attention? You’re in that guy’s seat.”

  Huh?

  “You have to scooch over a seat James. Earth to James. James?”

  “Oh crap, sorry!” I hustle to move over, shooting an apologetic smile at the man waiting patiently for his stadium seat. Grabbing my jacket and the giant Iowa foam finger Allison bought me, I scooch.

  “I cannot believe these seats!” Allison squeals beside me, chatting me out of a daydream. “They are amaze-balls, James.” She digs for her phone, taps open SnapChat, and takes a selfie with the wrestling mats in the background. Her finger flies through the filters. “Sweet, there’s an Iowa wrestling geofilter!”

  I smile at her enthusiasm and try on the foam finger, giving it a few waves before setting it back on the ground in front of me.

  The butterflies in my stomach multiply by the hundreds when the lights in the stadium suddenly flicker and go black. Our Iowa mascot appears on the jumbotron and a single spotlight appears in the center of the huge, hardwood court that’s been converted into a wrestling stadium.

  The light shines on the center mat as the broadcaster’s baritone voice booms. The marching band begins the fight song and the cheers from the packed house are so deafeningly loud I resist the urge to cover my ears.

  “This is crazy!” I shout to Allison, truly astonished. The number of people filling the seats is incredible; the stands are lost in a sea of black and yellow. Banners, signs, and flags fly. Across the gleaming hardwood, a hand-painted poster announces, ZEKE DANIELS! I WANT TO MAKE BABIES WITH YOUUU, one boldly sparkles, OZZY 4 THE PIN in gold glitter, and another next to it begs, OZ OZBORN, PIN US WITH YOUR BIG D***! WE DO 3SUMS!

  I cringe at that one.

  One by one, the wrestlers from the visiting team are announced and their stats pronounced as they run from the locker room and take the floor. Jog around the perimeter. Drop to the ground and do pushups.

  Strip off their warm-up suits.

  And holy sweet Jesus…

  “Dear. God. You can see—everything,” Allison shouts over the band when they begin a bleat of chants to fire up the crowd while our cheerleaders twirl their metallic yellow pompons and—wait.

  “Since when does wrestling have cheerleaders? Is that a thing?” I yell to my roommate.

  “Oh, it’s a thing all right.” She laughs loudly. “You really don’t get into sports much, do you?”

  I shake my head.

  The overzealous crowd around us goes wild when strobe lights flash, the faces of our team appearing on the giant screens of the scoreboards and jumbotron high above our heads. First some kid named Rex Gunderson jogs out. Another named Jonathan Powell. Monaghan. Lewis. Fairchild. Pittwell. Bower. Rodriguez. Ebert. Schultz.

  That giant douchebag Zeke Daniels.

  Sebastian Osborne strolls out last—every masculine, muscular inch of him. Reaching the edge of the mat, he bounces in place on the balls of his feet, covered from head to toe in a black tracksuit with his last name screen-printed in bold yellow across the back.

  I stare, transfixed as he unzips the jacket and slides it down past his shoulders. The straps of his tight singlet are not yet pulled over his defined pecs; rather, they hang down at his sides. He’s naked from the waist up, tattoo sleeve expanding as he warms up with the team. Skin already damp with perspiration, he’s the epitome of rock hard, unyielding, sexy—

  “Sweet. Baby. Jesus!” Allison shouts with an elbow to my ribcage so hard it hurts. Her arms go out, widespread, beseeching. “Why have I never paid more attention to the wrestling team? Why, god, why! This is…this is…”

  “Amaze-balls?” I tease.

  “No. It’s better. It’s majestic. It’s the eighth wonder of the freaking world is what this shit is.” She shoots me a look. “Would it be weird if I took pictures for my spank bank?”

  “Girls have those?” I refuse to say the words ‘spank’ and ‘bank’ together in a sentence.

  “This girl does. I mean, Jesus, James. Look at all the poly-covered c-o-c-k in this room.” She covers her mouth. “Shit, sorry. I just... It’s just that you can literally see everything. I mean, that guy from Wisconsin looks like he stuffed an entire eggplant emoji down his—”

  “I’m well aware.” But thanks for mentioning it.

  Allison stares pointedly across the room at the female fans in the student section. With their lewd signs and skimpy outfits, their objectives are evident to anyone with a set of functioning optical senses.

  My roomie states the obvious with a hair flip. “You don’t honestly think they’re here to actually watch wrestling, do you? Bitches, please.”

  “Remind me again why I brought you?”

  “Because after this meet is over, you’re gonna have to elbow your way through that crowd of hoes to properly congratulate bae on his v-i-c-t-o-r-y and I’m going to help you do it.”

  Hoe
s?

  I sputter on the pink water bottle poised at my lips. “There were so many things wrong with that run-on sentence.”

  “Shhh, shhh, they’re starting.” Allison hops up and down on the balls of her feet. “Oh em gee, I’m going to have a million pictures on my Snap story. Everyone is going to be so jelly.”

  I roll my eyes, but my face lights up with a smile. “Whatever you do, do not tag me in those. I’m not kidding this time Allison—those pictures you posted on Instagram last week weren’t funny.”

  She snaps a selfie and shoots me a sidelong glance. “But you were wearing a puffy coat.”

  “So?”

  “It was forty-five degrees!”

  “Some people get cold, Allison.”

  “Stop being so huffy, hardly anyone saw it.”

  Deep breath, James.

  “Allison,” I reason with her calmly. “Two hundred and sixty-seven people double-tapped to heart it.”

  She disregards my annoyance with a flippant, “Are you going to watch your wrestler or start an argument?”

  Dammit, she has a point. Resentfully, I direct my attention back to the action, to the collegiate athletes in front of us. Two young men grapple on the center mat while their coaches hover near the ground, getting low and shouting out directions. Referees lie flat on the mats, arms spread wide to catch every move, whistles at the ready for any point or penalty.

  It’s loud. Chaotic.

  Exhilarating.

  My heart pounds as one Iowa wrestler after another fights for victory in the center ring. The lightweights Gunderson and Pitwell. Bower. Middleweights. Some insanely good-looking Hispanic named Diego Rodriguez.

  Zeke Daniels.

  The crowd goes bat-shit crazy when Oz begins the warm-up set for his match, the cheers deafeningly loud while he goes about the simple stretching of his hamstrings. Arms. Bending at the waist and touching his toes.

  My hungry eyes fly to his fantastic…round…squatter’s…ass. That ass. Those thick, powerful thighs.

  Without even thinking, I lick my lips, the blush creeping up my chest, neck, and cheeks as Oz goes through the groom check. I press my hands to my face to cool it and resist fanning myself with the program we were handed on the way in.

  “You should see yourself right now.” Allison laughs. “Seriously. You look like you want to rip your sweater off.”

  I want to point out that my cardigan is cotton, not a sweater, but the words get caught in my throat because I do—I do want to rip it off. I’m burning up, and it’s not from the temperature of the auditorium.

  Anxiously, I watch the match begin, hear the ref’s whistle blow from a false start. They begin again. Hand fight. Grapple. A few hips are thrown before Oz gets his opponent in a headlock—then in seconds they’re both on the ground.

  It looks like they’re fish flopping around, and—

  “Does it bother you that everyone can see his balls through that singlet?” Allison asks.

  “Oh my god, Allison, you can’t just say shit like that!”

  “What! Why? I’m just saying what you’re thinking. Be honest. I mean…that junk is right. There.”

  “Right, but I don’t need to hear about it.” Because now all I’m going to be doing is looking at it.

  “Face it, James: every girl in here is checking out his cock-a-doodle-do.”

  A nervous, inappropriate laugh bubbles up within my throat and I’m helpless to stop it. “Stop it Allison!”

  My roommate bumps me with her hip. “You’re so cute when you get all hot and bothered. That’s it, isn’t it? You want him to make sex with you and this gets you all turned on.”

  Make sex with me?

  I give one jerky nod because if I’m being honest, yes—I totally want him to make sex with me.

  “Shit. I should totally text Parker and see where he’s at. I’m getting horny.”

  “Um…”

  “Calm down.” She shoots me a look, typing furiously on her cell. “Not from staring at your boyfriend, from the room full of peen.” A shrug, as if that explains everything. “I’m a hormonal teenager stuck inside a twenty-one-year-old body, James.”

  Evidently, so am I.

  Sebastian

  I’m drenched with sweat.

  Hot.

  Keyed up, I walk, arms braced behind my head, circling the mat at a slow pace to cool off. Slow my heart rate.

  Every match is a high akin to riding a shockwave of adrenaline and testosterone, my body conditioned, primed to perfection, and powered on high, slow to decompress.

  So I walk.

  Out of the locker room, hair still damp from a quick shower, I pace the long corridor of the athletics building. Return to the gym and avoid the custodians rolling up the equipment, despite the crowd.

  I walk, measuring every step. Sidestep school spirit and concession debris—poster board signs, foam fingers, streamers, popcorn.

  Measure every cleansing breath, until—

  James.

  She’s being led through the throng of fans by blonde-haired Fuck Buddy—sorry, Allison—who’s strong-arming my…who’s strong-arming James by the forearm. ‘Led’ is too loose a term; she’s being hauled toward me, and grudgingly.

  I slow my gait and grin. Chug from the water bottle clenched in my grip.

  Watch as Allison gives her one final nudge. Jameson stumbles forward, head hanging low, pulling at the yellow cardigan layered over her black Iowa tee shirt. Snug boot-cut jeans. A low, sleek ponytail draped over her left shoulder secured by a thin yellow ribbon. A ribbon tied with a prim little bow.

  A fucking bow.

  I hone in on that bow, dissect it in the most erotic way possible.

  Something about it suddenly makes me fucking stupid. Gets me hot in a way no tight, low-cut top or skimpy panties could. I imagine untying that bow and watching it drift to the floor; I imagine dragging it across her bare breasts.

  A startling surge of adrenaline comes back full force and before either of us know it, I’m pushing through the crowd, closing the distance between us. My arms wrap around her narrow waist. I effortlessly sweep her off the ground. Twirl her around. Press my mouth over her startled lips. They’re warm and pouty and juicy—exactly how I like them.

  I suck on her lower lip and tug with a growl.

  My hands crave her, itching to roam her body. Run under her conservative sweater. Untie that carefully tied ribbon.

  Instead, I lower Jameson until her feet are planted firmly on the ground.

  “Woo, oh boy!” Jameson fans herself with the program in her hand. “Rule number twelve: no manhandling in public. You have no self-control.” She breathes.

  “Good luck with that one,” I quip, going in for another kiss, because there’s just something about Jameson Clark I can’t keep off my damn mind. I cannot stop thinking about her. Cannot keep my hands from touching her.

  Literally.

  And Christ—I don’t want to.

  “Ready for dinner?”

  She attempts a nod and I grin.

  I’m riding this roller coaster all the way to the fucking end.

  Jameson: I don’t know if I told you, but thank you for the tickets to the match. And thank you for dinner.

  Oz: You’re welcome. Knowing you were in the crowd tonight gave my adrenaline the biggest rush; I can’t believe how fast I pinned McPherson.

  Jameson: Who’s McPherson?

  Oz: The kid from Wisconsin. I was on fire tonight, and it’s because you were there watching me.

  Jameson: You really were incredible.

  Oz: You know what else is incredible? Your lips. I could have stood on your porch tonight and made out with you forever.

  Jameson: That was really sweet…and hormonal.

  Oz: Hormonal? Nah, that’s not it at all. It’s you. If you said ‘Oz, get in your car and come climb through my bedroom window’, I would do it without hesitating.

  Jameson: My bedroom is on the second story…

  Oz:
Exactly.

  Jameson: LOL what else would you do?

  Oz: The better question is, what wouldn’t I do?

  Sebastian

  Oz: Hey sexy.

  Jameson: Sexy? You talking to me?! *points to self*

  Oz: Who else would I be talking to?

  Jameson: Hmmm, good question…

  Oz: What are you up to?

  Jameson: Just getting ready for girls night. My roommates want to Netflix and chill.

  Oz: You’re definitely staying home tonight?

  Jameson: Yeah. Hayley wants to watch Ten Things I Hate About You. She’s hating on men right now—some guy won’t text her back. Why, you asking for a reason? ;)

  Damn. I was hoping maybe…

  I palm the phone in my hand and stare down at it, oddly disappointed that she’s staying home with her friends. It’s been days since I’ve seen her; work and school and wrestling have driven a wedge into my social calendar, not to mention whatever obligations she’s had, and—

  I miss her.

  I miss her like fucking crazy.

  Jameson: Now that we know I’m having girls night, what does Oz Osborne have planned for tonight after his big WIN against Princeton?

  Oz: Looks like I’m staying in, too. Roommates are gone and I have the place to myself tonight. Maybe I’ll watch the MMA fight on HBO. Maybe I’ll study. idk

  Jameson: Must be nice having the house to yourself. What does that feel like?! The only time I’m ever alone is during the day when my roomies are at class.

  Oz: Freakishly quiet. Zeke is usually pre-gaming on a Friday night before getting completely plowed; he went home to see his cousin. Or maybe it’s his…who knows. I’m not sure where he’s been lately, but he’ll be back tomorrow for a party.

  Jameson: lol. I’m not so sure about him. Yeesh.

  Oz: Yeah, he’s kind of a dick.

  Jameson: Kind of? ;)

  Oz: Hey James?

  Oz: Are you sure you can’t

  Jameson: Am I sure I can’t…what? Did your phone die again?