The Learning Hours Page 38

I don’t want him to go. I want to skip class and spend the day with him, doing nothing together. Get to know him better. Find out what makes him laugh. What pisses him off. How he’s settling in with the rest of his team now that the dust on the dine and dash has settled.

“See ya.” I don’t even try to hide my idiotic grin.

Neither does he. “Bye.”

Then I’m rising up on the toes of my black boots, stretching to reach his strong jaw. I kiss the underside of it, stubble pricking my lips in the most delectable way.

His breath stops, lips part.

“Message me later?”

He nods. “I will.”

“Bye.”

God, this is as bad as when I was in high school, flirting on the phone with my teenage boyfriend: You hang up. No, you hang up! I’ll hang up when you hang up…

I peel away from him, stepping backward toward the building before I turn and finally commit to going to class.

Sigh.

“So what’s going on with you and that guy?”

I’m having lunch with Alex—the first time since that day she brought the Get Rett Laid poster—and she’s just switched gears on me after giving me the entire rundown on her boyfriend/sidepiece saga.

Juggling two guys is going to catch up with her, but who am I to judge? Alexandra is going to do what she wants to do, whether it’s wrong or right.

“What’s going on with what guy?” I play dumb.

“You know, the ugly guy from the flyer—the dude from the party.”

My nostrils flare. “Okay, first of all, he’s not ugly. Secondly, his name is Rhett, and he’s a really nice guy.”

My cousin rolls her eyes. “Right.” She clearly doesn’t care. “He’s nice because he has to be.”

“You think it’s fair that people judge me without getting to know me first because I’m attractive?”

“So you agree? You think you’re really pretty?”

“Stop quoting Mean Girls, I’m being serious.” I pick up one of the French fries on my tray and pop it in my mouth. Chew. Swallow. “I’m not going to do that to Rhett—he’s such a good guy.”

“So?”

“So what I’m saying is, he and I have gotten close in the past few weeks.”

“How close?”

“I don’t know…like, I’m waiting for him to ask me on a date, close.”

Alexandra leans back in her chair, stunned. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“Wow. You really do like him.”

“Yeah. He’s great.” I lean forward. “He speaks French and it’s so freaking hot.”

“Shut up.”

“Ugh. Every once in a while he says something I can’t understand and I pretend he’s telling me to take my clothes off and strip down naked.”

“That escalated quickly.”

“I can’t help it. He grew on me really quickly. We haven’t had any deep, meaningful conversations, but I feel this weird connection that’s more than physical—although I totally want to have sex with him too. His body is crazy hot.”

Alex stares. “You should hear yourself.”

My shoulders move up and down. “No apologies.”

“Is this a guy you want to bring home to Aunt Karen and Uncle David?”

“My parents? Yeah, I think they’d love him.”

“Well shit. I don’t know what to do with this information.”

“That’s because your situation is fucked up. Pick a guy and date him. Stop fucking your boyfriend’s roommate. There, I said it.”

“You wouldn’t understand what it’s like being average.”

“Why? Because I have bright red hair and big boobs and guys think I’m nice to look at? How does that make my life easier? All guys do is use me. That’s no fun either.” I pick up another fry, but my stomach is in knots and I can’t bring myself to put it in my mouth. “All I’m saying is, Dylan likes you. Either break up with him or stop seeing Johnathan. The shit is going to hit the fan and you’re going to be standing under it without an umbrella when it does.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Do you care?”

She picks at the food on her tray. “Honestly? Not really.”

“Well then, I’ll worry about my guy problems, and you can worry about yours.” The water I chug goes down smooth, but it feels shitty that my cousin can be such an asshole.

Laurel

“Those outfits are like the speedos of the athletic world, but better.” Donovan pokes me in the ribs with his forefinger to get my attention. “Do you see that guy from Ohio? I wonder if he’s single.”

“Or straight?” Lana teases, stealing the licorice from his hands and sticking it in her mouth.

“Would you two knock it off,” I plead. “I’m nervous enough as it is.”

“I would be, too,” Lana says, ripping off another bite of red vine. “The groupie game is strong in here tonight.”

We’re seated in the third row from the floor with the tickets Rhett had dropped at will call—three rows from the mats, sweat, and strapping male wrestlers.

So far, my roommates and I are enjoying the view.

“There are so many balls here I don’t know where to look first,” Donovan mutters excitedly. “And here I thought baseball pants were where it’s at. Compared to these singlets, they might as well be wearing diapers out there. I’ve slipped into my fantasy.”

“Would you please stop?” I laugh. “Stop staring at everyone’s balls.”

“I can’t help it.” He holds his hand out as if he’s presenting someone with a platter. “They’re literally right there. See? Balls.”

“And those groupies are on that shit hard,” Lana points out. Again.

She’s right though; the arena seems to be full of girls holding signs meant to draw attention to themselves, to attract attention from the players—wrestlers? Some of them wear next to nothing.

Fortunately, we’re not seated in the student section, not part of the throng. Unfortunately, we have to stare at that section from across the arena. When my eyes scan the crowd, they hit a sea of signs along the way.

WE WANT 2 HAVE YOUR BAE-BIES, OZ

OPEN FOR PITWELL, 24 HOURS!

RETT WE WANNA LAY YOU! CALL ME

Glitter, rhinestones, and markers. Sorority letters and tight t-shirts. Awkward and uncomfortable, I have to sit here and stare at the signs begging to lay Rhett Rabideaux.

WILLING WITH A PULSE #GETRETTLAID. CALL ME!!

Over my dead body.

If anyone is having sex with him, it’s going to be me.

Our boys earn themselves victory after victory, and the moment Rhett steps out onto the mats, I know I’m about to get educated on just how damn good a wrestler he is.

Why Iowa courted him so hard to bring him across the country, to our team.

He’s amazing.

Tall and lean, he is nothing but muscle. Firm contours of sweaty, sinewy brawn. His thighs online and in photographs are nothing compared to his thighs in person, live and in color.

Jesus.

“Are you imagining yourself fucking him?” Donovan asks, nudging me.

“Yes,” I whisper, staring.

“So am I.” My roommate laughs.

“Shut up, Donovan!” I shove him, eyes never leaving the center ring, the blue mat under the spotlight where Rhett takes a guardian stance, eyeing the Ohio wrestler he’s about to combat for the win.

For the pin.

Every cell in my body is aware of him, knees bent, arms out for centered gravity. Head goes down as he grapples with his opponent from Ohio, grabbing hold by the back of his neck. Pulling him down.

Rhett’s head hits the guy’s stomach, hands snake beneath his crotch, lifting. Ohio, as I’ve come to call him, flounders as his feet are suspended above the mats, Rhett flipping him onto his back.

Oh my God—that’s the double takedown!

He’s doing the move he did on me.

Seeing it done on someone else—with more force but just as much control—has me clasping my hands, lifting them to my mouth. Squealing when Rhett and Ohio are flat on the mats, twisting and flipping and rolling around on the floor.