The Studying Hours

“You want to go to the library, we’ll go to the library,” Oz says pragmatically, the need to please me evident in his harried persistence. “I can wait here while you grab your backpack, then we’ll swing by my place and I’ll get—”

“That’s not what I meant.” I chuckle. “This dating thing—does it feel weird to you?” Oh god, what am I saying? Stop talking Jameson, you’re going to sabotage everything! “I’m sorry, don’t listen to my babble. I’m just super nervous.”

Oz pauses a few seconds, watching me under the hazy porch light with one burnt-out bulb. Steps closer then reaches between us to grasp my other hand. Drags it to his powerful chest. Flattens my palm and places it over his heart.

His wildly racing heart.

So wild I can feel it beneath my fingers, its rhythm like a thin string drawing me toward him with every beat. Connecting us, heart to heart.

“Do you feel that, Jameson?” he implores breathlessly. “Can you feel it beating?”

I can.

“That’s for you. No one else makes me feel this way; no one has ever made me feel this way. No woman. No coach. No opponent makes my heart race the way—”

“Stop talking.”

Suddenly I’m up on my tiptoes, silencing him with the crush of my mouth. Crush—what a cliché, and yet I’m shoving him against the house, kissing the dickens out of him with my hand twisted unexpectedly in the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, kissing the words off his lips, downing them like a thirst-quenching drink to my soul. Kissing him like he’s a deployed soldier I won’t see for months. Years.

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.