The Learning Hours(33)
“Well shit. I don’t know what to do with this information.”
“That’s because your situation is fucked up. Pick a guy and date him. Stop fucking your boyfriend’s roommate. There, I said it.”
“You wouldn’t understand what it’s like being average.”
“Why? Because I have bright red hair and big boobs and guys think I’m nice to look at? How does that make my life easier? All guys do is use me. That’s no fun either.” I pick up another fry, but my stomach is in knots and I can’t bring myself to put it in my mouth. “All I’m saying is, Dylan likes you. Either break up with him or stop seeing Johnathan. The shit is going to hit the fan and you’re going to be standing under it without an umbrella when it does.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Do you care?”
She picks at the food on her tray. “Honestly? Not really.”
“Well then, I’ll worry about my guy problems, and you can worry about yours.” The water I chug goes down smooth, but it feels shitty that my cousin can be such an asshole.
Laurel
“Those outfits are like the speedos of the athletic world, but better.” Donovan pokes me in the ribs with his forefinger to get my attention. “Do you see that guy from Ohio? I wonder if he’s single.”
“Or straight?” Lana teases, stealing the licorice from his hands and sticking it in her mouth.
“Would you two knock it off,” I plead. “I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“I would be, too,” Lana says, ripping off another bite of red vine. “The groupie game is strong in here tonight.”
We’re seated in the third row from the floor with the tickets Rhett had dropped at will call—three rows from the mats, sweat, and strapping male wrestlers.
So far, my roommates and I are enjoying the view.
“There are so many balls here I don’t know where to look first,” Donovan mutters excitedly. “And here I thought baseball pants were where it’s at. Compared to these singlets, they might as well be wearing diapers out there. I’ve slipped into my fantasy.”
“Would you please stop?” I laugh. “Stop staring at everyone’s balls.”
“I can’t help it.” He holds his hand out as if he’s presenting someone with a platter. “They’re literally right there. See? Balls.”
“And those groupies are on that shit hard,” Lana points out. Again.
She’s right though; the arena seems to be full of girls holding signs meant to draw attention to themselves, to attract attention from the players—wrestlers? Some of them wear next to nothing.
Fortunately, we’re not seated in the student section, not part of the throng. Unfortunately, we have to stare at that section from across the arena. When my eyes scan the crowd, they hit a sea of signs along the way.
WE WANT 2 HAVE YOUR BAE-BIES, OZ
OPEN FOR PITWELL, 24 HOURS!
RETT WE WANNA LAY YOU! CALL ME
Glitter, rhinestones, and markers. Sorority letters and tight t-shirts. Awkward and uncomfortable, I have to sit here and stare at the signs begging to lay Rhett Rabideaux.
WILLING WITH A PULSE #GETRETTLAID. CALL ME!!
Over my dead body.
If anyone is having sex with him, it’s going to be me.
Our boys earn themselves victory after victory, and the moment Rhett steps out onto the mats, I know I’m about to get educated on just how damn good a wrestler he is.
Why Iowa courted him so hard to bring him across the country, to our team.
He’s amazing.
Tall and lean, he is nothing but muscle. Firm contours of sweaty, sinewy brawn. His thighs online and in photographs are nothing compared to his thighs in person, live and in color.
Jesus.
“Are you imagining yourself fucking him?” Donovan asks, nudging me.
“Yes,” I whisper, staring.
“So am I.” My roommate laughs.
“Shut up, Donovan!” I shove him, eyes never leaving the center ring, the blue mat under the spotlight where Rhett takes a guardian stance, eyeing the Ohio wrestler he’s about to combat for the win.
For the pin.
Every cell in my body is aware of him, knees bent, arms out for centered gravity. Head goes down as he grapples with his opponent from Ohio, grabbing hold by the back of his neck. Pulling him down.
Rhett’s head hits the guy’s stomach, hands snake beneath his crotch, lifting. Ohio, as I’ve come to call him, flounders as his feet are suspended above the mats, Rhett flipping him onto his back.
Oh my God—that’s the double takedown!
He’s doing the move he did on me.
Seeing it done on someone else—with more force but just as much control—has me clasping my hands, lifting them to my mouth. Squealing when Rhett and Ohio are flat on the mats, twisting and flipping and rolling around on the floor.
Flipping and rolling: that’s how it looks to me.
“Damn!” Lana shouts. “Holy shit, look at him!”
Rhett has Ohio on the mat in less than a minute, pinned by the neck in a chokehold or whatever they call it, the rest of his body a brick wall of force intended to keep his opponent down.
The ref counts the match.
One.
Two.
Three.
Rhett stands, sweating, the referee holding up his arm, declaring him the winner. His roommate runs to him with a white towel and a water bottle as his coach slaps him on the ass—his firm, tight ass, the muscles constricting with every step he takes to the sideline.
I find him easily afterward; he’s alone in the hall, black duffle slung over his left shoulder. Head bent, tired. Lonely?
Watching him approach, I recline against the cinderblock wall of the basement tunnel that leads to the locker rooms, hands flattened against the cold partition behind me.
I’m wearing a tight black Iowa wrestling t-shirt I bought especially for the occasion, skinny jeans, and black half boots. My red hair falls in a straight curtain, and I feel my cheeks flush as he gets closer.
“Hey.” He looks up when I greet him, disbelief in his eyes at the sight of me. Pleasure.
He’s pleased.
“Hey. You came.” His white teeth wink at me. “And you waited for me.”
“Of course.” My heart begins a steady beat inside my chest. “You’re amazing. That was incredible, Rhett.” I blurt out the words, not nearly as eloquent as they sounded in my head while I waited for him to emerge.
“Thanks.” His brown eyes drag up and down my body, penetrating. Unless my imagination is playing a cruel trick on me, Rhett is throwing heat he’s never thrown my way before. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Did you see me in the stands?”
Affirmative. “I knew just where to look, and that hair of yours is hard to miss.” He moves in closer, fingers flexing at his sides. Open, closed. “Man, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
His voice is low. Intense.
“I am?” My heart races. Nerve endings practically tingle with anticipation.
“Yeah.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “I am so full of adrenaline right now.”
I glance down at his hands. “Looks like it.”
“I could run ten miles.”
I’ve heard of these adrenaline highs, the rush athletes have after a game, the blood still raging through their strong, fit bodies. I’ve heard stories from other girls about sex marathons after a game. Sex for hours and hours.
I can see the tension in his eyes, the high color in his cheeks and face and neck.
He’s turned on.
Rhett approaches. Drops his duffle to the ground and stands in front of me, chest heaving up and down inside his tight compression shirt. Pecs firm. Nipples hard.
I want to run my palms up his torso.
“Je vais t’embrasser.” His mouth is moving, speaking words I don’t understand, inching closer.
I nod. “Okay.”
Those rough, callused hands cup my jaw, thumbs stroking my smooth skin.
“Je suis content que te es ici, Laurel.” His lips brush the skin beneath my ear. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
He’s so gentle. So tender.
My eyes slide closed and I bite my lip, bite back a moan.
“Putain, tu es jolie,” he murmurs into my ear. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”
“Merci.” It’s the only other French word I know, and it slips out on a whisper as I tilt my neck so he can plant a kiss there. His warm hands slide to the back of my neck, lips dragging along my jawline. To the corner of my mouth.
I part my lips as his full mouth glides over mine, the tips of our tongues meeting. Rhett tastes like spearmint toothpaste, hard work, and good decisions. A sure thing.
Commitment.
It doesn’t take long for us to get carried away, and soon, we’re making out in the empty tunnel as if our lives depend on it. Rhett has me pinned to the wall, years of repressed sexual energy and adrenaline bubbling over, and before I know it, his chaffed hand is sliding down my spine.
Across my waist. Up the front of my shirt, thumb brushing along the undersides of my breasts.
My capable hands rake up his chest, around his neck. Tangle into the hair that could use a trim.
It’s all so fucking good.
I’m pinned to the wall, his pelvis—his hard dick—pressed into the apex of my thighs, and I do the only thing I’m capable of doing at the moment: I moan.
We’re just getting to the good stuff when the sound of my moan mingles with the sound of voices echoing out of the locker room door. We’re not alone.