Pregnant With The Douchebag Jock novel Chapter 4

Maddoc

I need a freaking doctor.

Something’s seriously wrong with me. Did I hit my head? Some delayed brain damage from birth? Because clearly, I’ve lost it.

I don’t date.

I don’t do relationships.

I don’t want a WAG or some clingy emotional mess crawling into my life.

Girls are distractions. Bloodsuckers. Drama with lip gloss.

And yet here I am. In the shower. Hard as a rock. Thinking about kissing Ellie freaking Henriksson.

Why her?

WHY?!

I punch the wall. “FUCK!”

“Keep it down!” Jason yells from the other side of the bathroom wall. Paper-thin frat house walls. No privacy. No peace. Just noise and mildew.

I groan, forehead against the tile.

“Maddoc,” Jason groans. “Seriously. I’m trying to concentrate out here.”

I punch the wall again. “I’m having a crisis!”

“Then just rub one out already!”

“I hate you.”

“Dude, you’ve been groaning and whispering ‘Ellie’ for like… forty minutes. Either do something or shut up.”

This fucking linebacker. He’s dead to me. Best friend or not—he’s dead.

“Stop listening through the wall, you creep!”

“I’m stuck on the toilet with a stomach ache. Not like I have a choice!”

I glare at the wall like I can incinerate him with rage alone. “Now I can’t do it, thanks to you!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re listening, freak!”

“Go to your room and lock the door.”

“I will! But not to jerk off!”

“Sure. And I won’t look up Ellie Henriksson’s Instagram while you’re totally not jerking off.”

“DO NOT FUCKING LOOK HER UP!”

Jason laughs. “Ohhhh, you’re shy now? Mr. I-don’t-date suddenly has a type?”

“Ellie is not my type!”

“You sure? Delicate voice, bookish vibe, cheeks like she’s always blushing… You’ve been saying her name for forty minutes, man. You want me to name my daughter after her?”

“I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

“Empty threats.”

“I’m not kidding, Jason. I will bury your body in the garden.”

“Yeah, well, at least I’ll die knowing the great Maddoc Daniels finally caught feelings.”

He’s laughing like this is the funniest shit he’s ever heard, and I’m standing in the shower with my dignity in shambles. There are hotter girls on campus. Girls who’ve tried to crawl into my lap with blowjob offers. Girls with curves and fake lashes and zero fear of me.

But none of them make my head spin like that tiny nerd who flinches when I breathe too loud.

“I hate myself,” I mutter.

I slam off the water, wrap a towel around myself, and stomp into my room. My head’s a mess. My dick’s a mess. My life is a mess.

I drop onto my bed, arm hanging off the side, staring at the ceiling like it has answers.

“I shouldn’t text her. I know I shouldn’t.”

But I grab my phone anyway.

I’m already typing.

Me: Don’t stand me up tomorrow, Henriksson.

The second it says “seen,” I want to throw up.

I’m smiling.

What is wrong with me?!

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