The Coaching Hours

That’s even worse—Anabelle would sit on the couch with me out of some twisted obligation? Because I sound pathetic? No thank you. Hard pass.

“No. Whatever, it’s fine—I’ve got to catch up on this.” I hold up the exercise science textbook I’m reading. “This class is kicking my ass.”

She raises her arms, hands smacking her thighs on their way back down, exasperated. “Seriously Elliot? Science on a Friday night?”

“I’m trying to graduate with my GPA intact, Donnelly, so I can get into a stellar grad school. This shit is hard.”

“You can take one night off to have some fun.”

She has a point. “I suppose. Maybe I’ll see what the guys are up to.”

“That’s the spirit. Anyway, I just wanted to know what you think of this outfit for tonight. Is it too casual?”

Too casual? Ugh. Yeah, no.

Tight jeans, high black boots. Black fitted shirt. Dark, long hair down, messy. Glossy lips.

Anabelle looks both conservative and smoking hot at the same time.

“I thought you said this date was fake.” This sure as shit looks like a real date outfit to me, the way she’s fussing about her clothes and touching her hair.

“It is.”

“Then why…” my voice trails off.

She props her hands on her waist, jutting out her hip. “Why what?”

“What’s with the outfit?”

She looks down the front of her shirt. “What’s wrong with it? It’s just jeans and a shirt.”

Maybe, but her tits look fantastic.

“Nothing is wrong with it. You look nice.”

Anabelle laughs, poking a big hoop earring through the hole in her ear and tightening the back. “I thought the whole point of going on a date was to look nice for the other person.”

“That’s the point when the date is real.”

She pulls a face. “Why are you being weird? Rex is a complete douche, but I have a feeling he’s harmless, and I want to find out.”

Harmless?

Is she for real? “You’re fucking with me, right? I thought we established the guy is only trying to get into your pants to win a bet, and now you’re getting all dressed up for him. That’s all I’m saying.”

“He is a douchebag, but I mean, it might be worth it to go out with him, just to see? I feel like his whole problem is Eric Johnson, and that’s the guy I have to watch out for. He was super pushy that day in the gym.”

“What do you mean, super pushy?” The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

She fiddles with the silver hoop in her right ear. “Elliot, if we get into the whole story right now, I’m going to be late.”

Late for her fake date.

I let out a puff of pent-up, frustrated air.

“You think Johnson will be there tonight?”

“I don’t know…I hope not. Rex thinks this is a date, so I’m assuming he won’t want his friends around. I’ll cut him some slack, there’s no harm in that.”

Is she fucking serious? The more she talks about it, the more pissed off I get thinking about the whole damn situation.

“Are you so lonely and desperate you’re willing to give this guy a chance? He’s an asshole, Ana. Everyone on campus fucking knows it.”

“Desperate? Wow, Elliot, that was low.” She stands in the doorway of my room, hands on her hips. “I’m not giving him a chance, so screw. You.”

Shit. That was a really dick thing to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How about you worry about your own crappy relationship problems and let me worry about mine, okay?”

“I have a crappy relationship? I don’t have a girlfriend—what are you talking about?”

“Precisely.” Anabelle scoffs, nose tipping into the air with a sniff. “These walls are thin, you know. I might be across the hall, but I hear everything.”

They are? She can?

I sit up straighter, adjusting the reading glasses on my face. Set down the book I’ve been holding. “Like what?”

Her shoulders shrug.

“Why are you shrugging?” What does that mean?

She inspects her nails. “I just know you have a lot of time to yourself, if you know what I mean. Maybe if you put yourself out there, Elliot—if you were in a relationship, you wouldn’t have to…you know.”

When she lifts her head, her brows are raised, both of our gazes sliding down my torso to the flaccid dick lying against my thigh—the dick she obviously hears me jerking in the middle of the night from across the hall.

Jesus.

Christ.

My face flushes but I manage not to flinch. “I do put myself out there. You’re not making any sense.”

“Do you though?” She crosses her arms, plumping her breasts above the collar of her shirt. Anabelle has obviously taken great pains with her appearance, spray-tanning herself to a golden perfection.

I return my gaze back to her eyes.

“You’re so passive aggressive, Elliot. I don’t think even you know what you want.”

“I am not. Just because I’m not out there hitting on every goddamn girl stepping in my path does not make me passive aggressive.”

The thing is, I know she’s right. I have been chicken-shit lately. If I wasn’t, I’d have already told her I’m starting to have feelings for her.

That it kills me not being able to wrap my hands around her waist when she’s standing at the sink, wearing that gray robe, hair pulled up atop her head. That I find her long, delicate fingers fascinating. That the sound of her voice instantly lifts my mood.

“Okay, you’re not.” Another shrug. “Cool.”

“Cool? What does that mean?”

“Oh my God, I’m not going to stand here all night and list the things you could be doing if you wanted a relationship! I don’t have the time. I just meant you could put yourself out there more. That’s it. Or maybe you don’t want a relationship and I’m wasting my breath, I don’t know. It’s none of my business.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Only because you’re giving me shit about my outfit.”

“Otherwise you never would have said anything?”

Her shoulders rise and fall, breathing hard because she’s gotten herself all worked up. “Maybe I would have mentioned it eventually.” She rakes both hands down her stomach, smoothing out the hem of her top. “Do you like this top on me or not?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“Just fine? Ugh.”

It’s better than fine, actually. She looks gorgeous, and if circumstances were different, I’d tell her so. But, she’s my roommate, she hasn’t indicated she wants to change things anytime soon, and the last thing I want is Anabelle getting the wrong idea by me hitting on her.

Not when she’s living across the hall.

Not when I have to see her in that damn silk robe every morning.

“You look good.”

Really fucking good.

Hot.

“You’re sure I shouldn’t go change?”

“Nah. You look hot.”

“Why the hell didn’t you say that to begin with?”

“Because, you’re not sticking to the plan!”

Now I have her laughing, thank God. “I am the only one following the plan! I’m letting him take me out for free food! And to start, I’m going to order a bunch of appetizers and drinks, not eat or drink a single one of them, and make him pay.”

“Are you going out after your dinner?”

“Yes.” She picks at her navy blue nail polish. “For dancing, remember?”

“Seriously Anabelle? You’re going to let him wine and dine you?”

“I repeat: free. Food. Fake.”

She’s exhausting. “Is he coming here to pick you up?”

“No, I’m meeting him downtown. I thought it would be best—you know, no awkward goodnight walks to the front door, no fending off a goodnight kiss.”

I don’t even want to try imagining that scenario playing out on my fucking front porch.