The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

“Dude, are you primping?” Pitwell deadpans. “No amount of grooming is gonna help you. You’re hopeless.”

There’s a raucous chorus of laughter as Rex grabs his backpack in a huff. Turns toward the table before walking off. “Shut the fuck up you guys, and keep it down—I don’t need you embarrassing me.”

“You don’t want us to embarrass you?” I crow, gesturing around the table, waving my sandwich in the air. “Are you hearing this, boys? He doesn’t want us to embarrass him.”

The guys are dying, falling all over themselves, loud and rowdy.

“Don’t worry, bro. We won’t embarrass you—you’ll take care of that all on your own.”

Anabelle

“Let’s get real here—the only reason he wants to fuck her is because she’s Coach’s daughter. I heard she’s not even hot.”

At the word Coach, my interest is instantly piqued—naturally. I strain my ears, slowing down the elliptical machine I’m on to make it easier to hear. Resist the urge to turn my head and stare down the two guys talking, trying to figure out what they’re discussing.

Maybe it’s another coach’s daughter?

One of them snorts. Grunts as he deadlifts a barbell. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Basketball player. Conrad was in here one night when she came in to talk to Donnelly.”

Oh shit. It is me.

My stomach drops, and I instantly feel ill.

I can hear the skepticism in the other guy’s voice when he says, “I don’t know, man, Gunderson says she’s locked up tighter than a vault.”

Gunderson.

Rex Gunderson? That guy from my contract law class? I never in a million years would have thought he’d do something like this; he looks so unassuming.

Looks can be deceiving, and I just learned the hard way.

“Cute? He says that about anyone willing to bang him.”

“Maybe.” His breathing is labored, breaths coming hard. “The idiot says he’s one more smooth-talk away from getting her into bed.”

One smooth-talk away?

One.

He thinks I’m that easy? That I’d sleep with him after a few contract law classes—because he makes me laugh? That all he has to do is be nice and funny—and I’ll sleep with him?

We’ve only attended a few classes together! He’s never even asked me on a date!

What a dickhead!

“That’s impossible,” the guy is saying. “No way would any chick with half a brain purposely fuck that loser. He’s a parasite.”

The big guy shifts on the balls of his feet, the weight in his hands pumping up and down as his biceps flex.

“All I know is, Eric says somehow Gunderson became friends with her. You know how it is with him—for some fucking reason, girls love him.”

“That’s because he doesn’t look threatening.”

“Because he’s so skinny. My sister could take that guy down.”

The other sets his barbell down momentarily to laugh. “What does his weight have to do with anything?”

“Dude, my sister’s always preaching about how she won’t date any guy who weighs less than she does, and Gunderson is skinnier than everyone we know, including most chicks.”

My cheeks flush; they’re right—I immediately trusted him because he looks unassuming and nerdy and too thin to be any harm, like the dorky sidekick from a bad television sitcom everyone is annoyed by but still finds endearing.

“Little do they know what a friggin’ moron he is. Bitches be learnin’ the hard way.”

What he says next is devastating.

“You know if Coach finds out those two were making bets about who could sleep with his daughter first, they’ll be gone in a heartbeat.”

My stomach finishes dropping to my feet; Rex was making bets about being able to sleep with me? I want to puke, toss my cookies all over my shoes and the elliptical machine.

“Donnelly would go through the fucking roof if he knew.”

He lets out a huff of breath. “Do you think we should tell him?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Maybe I’ll ask my girlfriend tonight—she has the answers to everything.”

“Yeah, ask her. The whole thing just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but me either.”

I don’t stand around waiting for the rest of the conversation. I’ve heard enough. I shut down the treadmill and hop off, grabbing my towel before fleeing to the locker room and grab my things from the locker before I burst into tears, not bothering to shower or change into clean clothes.

I make my way to the one spot on campus I know I can be alone before I have a panic attack.

The library.

Elliot

Fiddling with my headphones, I pull one of the earbuds out to adjust the tiny piece of plastic, hesitating to put it back in when I hear a soft whimper.

Then a cry, and it’s coming from my usual spot in the corner, which was once again occupied when I arrived.

I tap my pencil, staring in the direction of the back.

Curious, but also…

Concerned.

Rising to my full height, I slowly make my way toward the sound.

Yup, someone is definitely crying, and it sounds like a girl.

Weak. Low. Barely perceptible sobs.

A hiccup.

I move closer, feet shuffling against the carpet, hoping to make just a little noise so I won’t spook her.

“Hey.” My voice is gravelly, gentle.

Her head comes up at my words, face splotchy from tears, red marring her skin, chest, cheeks.

Lips parting, she brushes the hair out of her eyes, the long brown strands glossy under the neon light.

She swipes a hand across her face, batting at the tears, dabbing them away. Dries them on the leg of her jeans, all without lifting her gaze to face me.

I advance a couple paces, stopping a few feet away.

“Are you okay?”

Another hiccup and she’s dipping her head deeper into her black Iowa hoodie. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t look fine, certainly doesn’t sound fine, not even close. Those aren’t happy tears.

“W-Was I bothering you? I’m so s-sorry, I…” She can’t keep the crying out of her voice as she swipes at her rosy cheeks again, doing her best to hide it. “I’ll try to stop.”

Hiccup.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” She pauses, voice muffled. “But thank you.”

She looks up at me then, and I can see that her eyes are blue—a brilliant blue from the weeping, set ablaze by the redness of her blush-stained skin.

Dark brows.

Chin trembling, she offers me a wane smile, and I realize I know her; it’s the same girl who was here earlier in the week, the one who stole my study spot.

“You’re sure?” I have two sisters, so I’m kind of an expert on when girls are bluffing; this one is trying to get rid of me.

“I’m sure.”

I pull down the brim of my ball cap, tipping it in her direction.

“Well, I’m just across the way if you need anything, at the desk in the corner. Paper, pencils, body chalk for the corpse if you need an accomplice.” I give her a wide smile.

She tucks the hair behind her ears. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“All right, well, I’ll just be…” I point over my shoulder. “Give a holler.”

“Thanks.”

I meander back to my desk slowly, listening for the telltale sign of sniffles. Weeping. Sobbing.

Anything.

Despite hearing none, I have a hard time getting back to work, unable to focus, straining for noise on the other side of the room, and before I know it, I’ve wasted an entire forty-five minutes doing jack shit.

Deciding there’s no hope for it, I start packing up my crap.

“Hey.” A small voice practically whispers, interrupting.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, long hair now pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the girl bashfully approaches my table, face still red, eyes tired.

But friendly.

I bet when she’s not ugly-crying all over the library study tables, she’s actually kind of cute. Pretty.