The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

I wouldn’t have pegged her for a sloppy drunk.

But I suppose her intoxication makes sense, given that she’s out trying to make friends. Throw in the fact that she’s had a fairly shitty week…

She doesn’t look the same; she looks sad and tired, and of course, she looks fucking drunk.

It doesn’t matter that everyone else here is too.

Somehow on her it just seems wrong.

Out of character.

I notice she’s here with a small group of girls, girls I recognize as frequent visitors to the house—another thing surprising me tonight. They’re partiers, out for a good time and to meet athletes. Having lived with two of the university’s champion wrestlers, I’ve seen enough jock chasers to meet my lifetime quota, and the girls Donnelly is with are a stereotype.

Short skirts.

Tight, midriff-bearing tops.

High heels despite the casual nature of the party’s atmosphere.

I glance over again to find Donnelly’s daughter standing by herself again; they’re not sticking together as a group. Drunk, lethargic, clumsy.

So I watch.

Like a fucking creeper. Not caring if it’s weird, I watch, setting down my own beer. Gesture to the dude serving behind the bar and request a water.

Wonder what would happen if the guys here found out the drunk girl in the corner was the wrestling coach’s daughter. Wonder what that information would do to her reputation if they saw her like this.

It really isn’t smart for her to be so reckless; Jock Row isn’t the place to come when you’re trying to hide from your troubles.

This is where you come to be seen.

When Coach’s daughter wavers on shaky legs, I’m at full attention, accidentally bumping the guy next to me, causing him to spill his beer. He plays baseball and lived in this house before they opened rooms to freshmen; too many bodies and he was out.

“Dude, what the hell is your problem?”

I ignore his salty glare.

“Rowdy, see that brunette over there? I think I might need to take her home.”

He claps me on the back. “Atta boy, Elli-nor! It’s about damn time you dipped your wick into someone from Iowa.”

Rowdy’s crude reference to sex doesn’t faze me—my roommate Sebastian was a hundred times worse.

“I meant because she needs help out of here, not so I can sleep with her.” I give him a shove.

“Everyone’s too drunk to be here, or haven’t you noticed?”

“That one, that girl right there.” I turn his body toward Donnelly’s daughter. “Her.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I see what you mean,” he concedes, nodding his head up and down, examining her from across the room. “She might be too shitfaced to stay. It can’t possibly end well. Wanna take her upstairs and put her in Rookie’s bed to sleep it off?”

Terse shake of my head. “I should get her out of here, away from the alcohol.”

Besides, since when is it safe to leave an incoherent drunk chick in an unlocked house full of intoxicated assholes? Last time I checked, the answer was never.

“You want help getting her to the car, you let me know.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Should I let everyone know you’re offering babysitting services to complete strangers now, Elliot?”

I laugh. “She’s not a complete stranger, not really—I kind of know her. She’s going through a rough time.”

I don’t tell him she’s the wrestling coach’s daughter; that little factoid will stay a secret, at least for now.

“You sure you weren’t a boy scout in a past life? Always helping people, doing nice shit for the elderly and such. How many badges do you have on your vest at home?”

“I’m not always helping people, lay off.” Jeez, why do I sound so defensive?

His brawny shoulders heft in a shrug. “Whatever, suit yourself. You’ll find me in this exact spot, holding up the bar if you need me.” He takes a swig of beer. “I have one more month until spring training starts and my life starts sucking major balls.”

Balls. “Was that a baseball pun?”

“You’re funny Elli-nor. Remind me to laugh at that later.”

I walk away, squeezing through the crowd, shouldering people every now and again, sights focused on one thing.

The girl.

Who is totally sloshed and in need of rescuing. No doubt she’ll be nursing a hangover in the morning, and based on how she’s slamming down beer or whatever it is in that cup, she’s nursing some pretty damn hard feelings.

I know she’s miserable.

I know she’s new here.

What I don’t know is her first name or where she lives, but I’m going to help her anyway.

I make my way toward her through the thick crowd, the house getting more congested by the hour. I curse these weekly parties but still show up.

Thank fucking Christ I don’t live here.

I get slapped on the back in greeting every five feet; it takes an entire ten minutes for me to cross a twenty-foot room. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone wants to be my friend because of who my roommates were. Zeke Daniels and Sebastian “Oz” Osborne, two of the most celebrated student athletes on campus, both of whom have graduated and moved on.

They moved in with their girlfriends while I, on the other hand, am still working on my degree, working toward grad school. Having declared a major late in the game, I fell behind, putting me a year behind.

How those assholes managed to play a sport and graduate on time is beyond me.

I keep pushing forward, excusing myself the entire way, annoying some people, bumping into others.

“Donnelly.”

Her smile is lopsided when she lifts her neck to look up at me, eyelids droopy. “Oh! It’s you!”

“Yup. It’s me.”

“Library guy, why are you always coming to say hello when I look shitty?” Her mouth turns down in an exaggerated frown. “It’s rude.”

“You don’t look shitty.” You look drunk.

She lifts a hand to her dark brown hair self-consciously. It falls in messy waves over her shoulders. “I don’t?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Ugh,” she groans, pressing a forefinger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’m drunk.”

My smile is wry, my arms crossed. “You don’t say.”

“Yes, really really drunk.” Back against the wall, she slumps, white off-the-shoulder top sagging to one side, threatening to lower indecently as the fabric catches then drags along the wall.

“Don’t you think you should stop drinking if it’s making you feel like crap?”

She ignores my question, instead lodging complaints. “My head feels ugh and I know I’m going to have the spins when I get home.” The heel of her hand presses to her forehead and she moans. “Do you have any chocolate milk?”

“Chocolate milk?”

“Yeah, it’s good for a hangover,” she slurs. “It’s hydrating and will help raise my blood sugar.”

“I was not aware of that.”

“My cousins drink a lot.”

“And you don’t?”

“No, can’t you tell? I don’t know where all the beer came from.”

“The keg. It came from the keg, and now I think it’s time for us to go.”

“I don’t want to go because if I do, I’ll go to sleep, and if I sleep, I’ll get the spins, and I’m so scared of the spins.”

“What are the spins?” Is this girl code for something?

“Here, I’ll show you.” She demonstrates, twirling her hand in circles. “When the room goes round and round and round until you wanna puke.” Her head gives a remorseful shake. “It’s the worst.”

“Sounds like it.”

“Know what I think?” She’s slurring again, peering into her red cup with one eye squeezed shut. Even intoxicated, the gesture is endearing.

“What do you think?”

“Beers is gone.” Her cup gets thrust into the space between us. “Think I need another one.”

“Pretty sure you’ve had enough.”