The Coaching Hours(26)

“Elliot, I’m not caught up either!” Her arms cross over her breasts, the thin, sexy tank top does nothing to conceal her breasts. “I feel betrayed. What kind of a friend does that?”

“I just started it!”

“That doesn’t make it right! How am I going to forgive you?”

“Want me to rewind it?”

From the doorway, Anabelle rolls her eyes. “Duh, yes rewind it! You want anything from the kitchen?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

My roommate isn’t gone for long, the pitter-patter of her bare feet in the hallway returning within a few minutes.

Setting a glass of water on the bedside table, my roommate climbs into my bed—and it’s not that I feel it’s an invasion of my privacy, it’s just different.

And let’s face it, I was never in danger of being ridiculously sexually attracted to my last roommates like I am with this one.

“Do you mind if I crawl under the covers?”

“No, of course not.”

Please do, I silently add, so I don’t have to sit and stare at your long, smooth legs.

On all fours, ass in the air, Anabelle pulls back the bedspread to join me. The tank she’s wearing dips, giving me a clear shot of her cleavage. I try to glance away when her boobs sway beneath the fabric.

“Oh my gosh, it’s so warm in here.” She makes a show of plumping the pillows behind her head, propping them against my headboard so she gets a better view of the TV, arms crossed over her chest. “This bed is so much more comfortable than mine. There’s so much of it, I could get lost in here.”

“Right.” ‘Cause really, what else is there to say? I can barely concentrate on the remote control in my hand, fumbling around for the pause button. Hit play, doing my best to settle on my side of the bed.

My side of the bed.

It sounds so…permanent.

My side. Her side.

Knock that shit off, Elliot.

Christ, if the guys saw me right now, they would be laughing their asses off at how awkward I’m acting. Amateur.

I shoot Anabelle a sidelong glance then focus on the show we’ve started binge-watching together at night, usually two episodes in a row—sometimes three—until one of us is too tired to keep watching.

We’re on season four of a show showcasing a hyper-dysfunctional family living in the city, enduring one fucked-up scenario after the next.

It’s riveting. We can’t stop watching.

“Was that your foot?” Anabelle laughs. “Stop that, it’s cold!”

“Sorry.”

“Want me to warm you up?” she jokes, her toes wiggling under the covers, dangerously close to mine. She hunkers down deeper into my blankets, not unlike the night I carried her into my house, passed out in my arms.

Flopping on her side, she rests her cheek on her hand, watching me. “Did I tell you I got my cleats in the mail today? And my mom managed to find my shin guards and some socks. They’re hot pink with black polka dots.” Her laugh is low.

Cute.

I look down at her, startled by how relaxed she is compared to the inner turmoil I’m feeling. Seriously, she doesn’t seem at all fazed by lying here so close to me.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me. We’ve only been watching this show for ten minutes and you’ll make me watch it all over again from the beginning.”

Her lips curl into a catlike smile. “That’s probably true.”

She’s not fussy or high maintenance, but she does like to know what’s happening on her favorite shows. Hates when I watch without her. Makes me rewind if I’m talking during important parts. Makes me rewind if she’s talking during important parts.

“Why is she going out with him? Tell me why,” my roommate says to the TV. “I swear, if she screws things up with Steve, I will be so pissed.”

I glance over. “I thought you hated Steve.”

“I do, but of all the guys she keeps banging, I like him the best.”

“But he’s a criminal, and last week you said he was too skinny.”

“He is.”

“That makes no sense.”

Anabelle sighs. “I just can’t do skinny jeans on a guy, okay? It’s weird.”

“I wear skinny jeans.”

“No you don’t. Yours are tapered—there’s a huge difference.”

I’m not going to argue with her when I have no fucking clue what she’s talking about.

“Do you want me to rewind what we just missed?”

“Yes please,” she simpers, nose buried in my sheets, and I actually hear her inhale. “These smell so good.”

“Uh, thanks.” I pause. “Thanks for washing them this weekend.”

“Thanks for hauling the garbage cans down to the curb yesterday when it was my turn.”

“No problem.” It was her turn—I know this because she made a chart when she moved in so we could share responsibilities. There are only like, five chores, but if a chart makes her feel like she’s contributing, I’d be an idiot to complain.

I rewind, go a little too far, and hit play. We watch again in silence until I wonder out loud, “Are women really attracted to guys who look like that?”

“Pfft, I’m not.”

“Every guy she goes out with looks like a creep. I don’t get it.”

“It’s fake, Elliot.”

“I know that, Anabelle. I’m merely making an observation.” I roll my eyes. “Out of all her boyfriends, who would you date?”

“Gross. You’re going to make me choose from those guys? I can’t. I’d rather throw up in my mouth.”

“Just pick one.”

“Fine. I’d pick Gus—not because I want to, but because you’re forcing my hand.” She rolls to her back, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re going to be up all night if we keep talking.”

I click rewind. “Should we just turn it off?”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m tired. My heart’s not in it.”

We laugh, and she sits up to take a drink of water. Falls back onto my pillows, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, lobbing from side to side when she moves.

“I guess I’ll go back to my room.”

I hesitate, not wanting her to go, already missing her but not knowing if it’s appropriate for me to ask her to spend the night.

Casually, “Nah, you’re already comfortable. If you promise to keep your hands to yourself, you can stay put.”

“Yes, please. I’m too lazy to walk all the way across the hall.”

“The whole ten feet?”

“It’s so far.” She chuckles in the dark when I hit the power button and my television goes off, making the room pitch black.

“Wow. This is dark.” Her voice cuts through the night.

“Isn’t your room dark?”

“Not this dark. I have a streetlight outside my window that keeps me up sometimes. One of these days I’ll order some curtains, or maybe I’ll buy myself a sleep mask.”

“I can help you hang curtains.”

Her hand finds me in the dark, patting its way up my forearm. Bicep. Giving me a squeeze.

“Good night Elliot.”

I yawn, lying flat, rolling to my side, facing the door. “Night roomie.”

Another soft chuckle and she yawns, too. “I love it when you call me that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why—it’s not much fun as far as nicknames go, but…I’m glad I’m here.”

The room is silent as I think of what to say next.

“Same.”





Anabelle





I don’t know what time it was when we both fell asleep, but at some point in the middle of the night, we gravitated together, something I’ve never done before when in bed with another human. I’m wrapped up like a pretzel.

I don’t know when I rolled up beside him, or when my cheek found the space above his armpit, resting there…or when I threw my leg over his thigh, tucking it between his legs.

Palm flattened out over his ribcage.

His arm around me, pulling me in.

When did we curl into each other?

Does it even matter?

His body is so warm, and I’m in no rush to unfurl myself, content to listen to the rhythmic sound of his heart. It’s beating relatively slowly, so without having to look, I know he’s still sleeping.

Bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump.

Steady.

Constant.

Just like Elliot.

Over the course of a few short weeks, he’s become more than just my roommate; he’s become my friend. Big. Strong.

Solid.

Every muscle on him is firm and toned. Tan from playing soccer with no shirt on, his upper body is carved to perfection, not too hard, not too soft.

Perfect.

Eyes still closed against the morning sun, the tips of my fingers do the exploring for me. Softly drift from their spot on his sternum, trailing across his ribcage, pressing into his hot flesh in slow, lazy circles.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

His heartbeat quickens.

My hand runs over his skin, up along his collarbone. The space between his neck and shoulder, languid and carnal, back to his chest.

He smells good.

I always notice, but more so when we’re piled on his bed watching television, every time he shifts on the bed. Fresh like a shower, like soap—no heavy cologne or body spray. Just water and soap and him.

I crack an eyelid when my fingers skim along the underside of his pecs, chancing a glance at his face.