The Studying Hours

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.”

Hoes?

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.