The Learning Hours(22)

He’s flirting with me and I don’t like it.

True, I’m not with Rhett, but they don’t know that. For all they know, I’m his girlfriend.

The chatty one skids to a stop in front of us, gives me another body scan, not missing a single detail of my person.





Rhett





“Dude, aren’t you going to introduce us?” Oz Osborne’s smile resembles the Big Bad Wolf, arrogant and bold and confident.

I knew Oz was obnoxious, but I didn’t think he was this big of an ass. I watch as he visibly gives Laurel a onceover, eyes trolling along her body, up and down then up again, not three feet in front of my face.

When we’d originally met and he warned me away from Gunderson and Eric, I assumed he was a decent guy that was looking out for his new teammate, assumed he wanted to be friends and not dick me around like everyone. Not only that, Oz has a girlfriend. I’ve seen her at a few home matches, a pretty, conservative girl that likes to hang out at the library where Zeke’s girlfriend works.

I know, because I’ve seen them all there studying together.

So why is he standing here eye-fucking Laurel?

Not that she and I are a thing, cause we’re not. Obviously we’re not—anyone with a set of eyes can see that—but still.

Fucking rude.

Dickhead.

Laurel sticks her hand in Oz’s direction, shaking it. “Hi, I’m Laurel.” She holds her hand out for Zeke, who stares down at it with a scowl until she pulls it back.

Douchebag.

“Laurel, nice to meet you.” Oz turns his blue gaze on me, something like respect shining behind his eyes. “New Guy, you headed to the gym or what?”

“Class.”

“Damn. I was hoping you’d show me how you slipped Gehring into that hold last week.” He rubs his chin. “When you gonna be around?”

I rock on the balls of my feet. “Why don’t I just show you tomorrow?”

“Where? On the damn bus?”

Good point.

Zeke Daniels scoffs, arms crossing over his massive chest. “I can show you how he did it.”

Oz rolls his eyes, turning to level our teammate with a stare. “I haven’t seen you use that move once this entire year.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t fucking do it.”

“Whatever dude, I’m going straight to the source.” Oz clamps his hand on my shoulder, speaks to Laurel. “This guy is one of the best fucking wrestlers we’ve ever had. Have him show you his Penetration Step.” He winks at her. “He can take that move straight into the Spiral Ride.”

Seriously, what the fuck is he doing?

Is he trying to make me look good in front of Laurel? Matchmaking? Does he honestly think a girl that looks like her is going to date a guy who looks like me?

For her part, Laurel gives me a glance, her gaze trailing down my body, shining and alive with interest, cheeks flushed from the brisk fall weather. “I’ll take that into consideration.” She flirts back coyly, touching my sleeve as she says, “I’ve been trying to convince him to show me some self-defense moves.”

She has?

I stare down at her fingers resting on my forearm. Her nails are a bright green, same as her sweater, which looks soft and snuggly and touchable.

Just like her.

Zeke Daniels uncrosses his arms with a grunt. “Self defense—that’s what I’ve been doing with my girlfriend, Violet.” He curtly nods his approval. “She’s so tiny.”

“Does she work at the library?” Laurel asks.

“Yeah. She’s a tutor.”

“I’ve seen her. Blonde? So cute.”

Zeke grunts, nods. “That’s her.”

Laurel’s eyes catch sight of someone in the distance, fingers giving my arm another little tap. “Oh! There’s my cousin. I’m going to run and catch up to her.” Her hand leaves my sleeve, glossy pink lips curved into a pretty smile. “I have to give her a message from her mom.”

“Sure.”

“Bye Rhett. Talk to you later?”

“Uh yeah, sure.”

“Good.” She turns and takes a few steps, glancing over her shoulder once, probably at Oz and Zeke, her fingers giving a little wave. “Bye Rhett.”

She said that already.

“Thanks for walking me to class.”

I blink in her direction.

The three of us watch her walk off, hips swaying, red hair sweeping back and forth across her back, sashaying all the way over to her cousin.

None of us speak.

Until, “Dude. Who. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Oz asks in fragments. He socks me in the arm, right in the fucking deltoid.

“That was Laurel,” I stupidly reply, rubbing the sting out of my upper arm. Motherfucker hits hard.

“Are you screwing her?” Oz asks. Beside him, Zeke grimaces at his crude question. “Please say yes.”

I laugh bitterly. “Sorry to disappoint y’all.”

“Why the hell not? Fire Crotch is fucking hot.”

Fire Crotch? Jesus, what is wrong with this guy? He’s worse than Gunderson and Eric combined.

“Did you seriously just ask if I’m having sex with her? Look at her.” Then look at me.

We crane our heads to look again. Laurel strides down the sidewalk in the center of campus, bright hair a beacon in the distance, color set off by the hue of her sweater. Links her arm with Alex. Guides her toward the philosophy building, where her English class is held.

“Oh I’m looking at her alright.” If I didn’t know the guy had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t know the guy had a girlfriend. “You sure you’re not dating her?”

Now Zeke is rolling his eyes. “Of course they’re not dating, he just said it twice. Why don’t you ever fucking listen?”

“We hardly know the guy,” Oz argues. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to tell us.”

“Know how we know?” Zeke smacks him in the stomach. “Because Rabideaux doesn’t have the balls to date a chick like that. He wouldn’t have a clue what to do with her.”

They study me for a few awkward beats, both of them nodding slowly like they have the goddamn answers to everything. Much as I hate to admit it, they’re right; I wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a girl like Laurel.

Osborne narrows his eyes in my direction. “Please tell me he’s wrong. Please tell me you’re at least hooking up.”

I sigh, hefting my backpack. “I’m not dating her.”

“Hooking up?”

“No.”

Oz throws his hands up, frustrated. “Dude, why not? Did you see the way she was checking you out?”

“She wasn’t checkin’ me out; she was looking at you idiots.”

Whack. “Are you fucking blind? That chick is into you, trust me.”

But he’s wrong, so wrong.

He must be.





Laurel





My knuckles rise to knock, rap on the wooden front door twice before releasing the screen and drawing back.

I take a step back, smoothing back long red hair with the palm of my free hand, smile plastered on my face, butterflies multiplying one by one in the pit of my stomach.

It takes three long minutes for the door to swing open and Rhett’s face to appear, shrouded in the darkness of the house.

Shoot, why is it dark inside the house? Was he already sleeping?

It’s only eight thirty.

“Laurel?” Rhett presses his hand to the screen, pushing it open a few feet. “Is everything okay?”

He’s wearing a cutoff t-shirt.

I stare, dumbfounded, brain processing the visuals hitting me hard, one at a time: Rhett wearing a cutoff shirt…the bulge of his sunless arms. My eyes do a quick scan along his smooth clavicle, visible from the scoop neckline of the shirt, a smattering of light hair in the center of his chest.

I stare some more, the plate of cookies in my hands forgotten. My gaze drops to his biceps, rakes along his deltoids and triceps, solid and lean. I want to skim my palms over it all.

“Is everything okay?” he repeats, pushing the door open farther. “Laurel?”

“Everything is fine,” I murmur, reluctantly dragging my gaze off his upper torso.

“Then why…” Are you here?

The unfinished question hangs between us.

“Why am I here?” The weight of the plate in my hands is a gentle reminder. “Oh jeez! Duh! Here.” I thrust the cookies in his direction. “I hope you like chocolate chip.”

Because they were all I could afford to make after running to the grocery store for the ingredients I didn’t have, which was most of them: flour, butter, and chocolate chips. Fortunately, it was a simple recipe—easy to make in a short amount of time.

They’re still warm, fresh from the oven.

Rhett stares down at the paper plate. “You brought us cookies?”

Us? Like him and his roommates?

“No, I brought you cookies.” I nibble my bottom lip, worried he’s going to think I’m clingy, but his crooked smile is warm. It gets me warm, too. “Are you allowed to eat these?”

His smile gets wider. “Yeah, I can eat your cookies.”

I can eat your cookies.

I search his face for traces of sexual innuendo, find none.

Bummer.

“They’re for the bus ride tomorrow.”

“You brought me cookies for the bus ride.” He stares hard at the plate. At the cookies. Up at my face, confused.

Please don’t ask me why, I silently beg, because I don’t even know the answer to that myself. If I said I had just wanted to do something nice for him, I’d be lying. Cookies are the last thing on my mind as I stand on this stoop.