The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

A girl like me? That’s weird, I thought he said I wasn’t hot, which in guy speak essentially means unfuckable. Curious, I face him, giving him the smallest fraction of my time. “What do you mean, a girl like me?”

“You’re obviously out of my league, but I want to take you out anyway.”

“I can’t believe you’re basing this all on my looks—I haven’t exactly been pleasant.”

“That’s because you’re gorgeous. I don’t expect you to be nice—hot chicks usually aren’t.”

Oh boy. Now he’s laying it on a little thick. I’m not completely unfortunate, but I’m also not winning any beauty pageants either.

“Just let me take you out once. If you can’t stand me, I promise you can tell me to fuck off.”

I gape at him incredulously. What would have made him think I’d want to go out with him?

He tries again. “What if I meet you somewhere—you don’t even have to tell me where you live.”

An idea takes root, burrowing deep in my imagination, picturing Eric Johnson arriving at my father’s house to pick me up for a date.

My dad would kill him.

And Eric Johnson would be in for one hell of a surprise.

A rather unpleasant one.

The look on the kid’s face alone might be worth whatever drama it would cause, just to see his reaction when my dad yanks open the door of the house.

The thought has me positively giddy.

“Tell you what, Eric, I’ll give you one…let’s not call it a date. Let’s call it hanging out. I’ll hang out with you once. If you drive me nuts, I’m calling time-out and you’re taking me home. Do we have a deal?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Deal.”

“I’m not going to text you my address—I don’t need you knowing my phone number—but I will write it down for you.”

“I’m picking you up?”

“Sure, why not.” I write down my address, giving him an evil grin beneath my lashes. “See you at seven. If you can get past my doorman, you have yourself a buddy for the night.”

“What, do you have a guard dog or something?”

Another grin. “Something like that.”

“Dad, can you get the door?”

It’s Friday night on one of the only weekends Dad’s been home at a reasonable hour, and I watch from the top of the stairs as he hauls himself up out of his old recliner, hobbling with a slight limp, knees crooked, toward the foyer.

He’s still in his typical uniform, the one he wears to wrestling practice every day: black Adidas track pants, black Iowa wrestling T-shirt, and track jacket to match, zipped to the neck.

Baseball cap.

Cantankerous set of his mouth.

Along with my dad hobbling to the door, the normal sounds of the house can be heard. Linda puttering in the kitchen cleaning up their dinner, the television set to ESPN, the worst watchdog in the world snoring at the foot of my dad’s chair.

Anxious, I flip my long hair, laser-focused on the front door from my perch on the landing of the stairs, hidden from view. A devious smile spreads my lips when Dad finally grips the door handle, turning, pulling it slowly open.

He peers through the screen.

“Johnson.” I hear the censure in his voice and grin wider. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Silence.

“Well?” Dad demands impatiently. “Did something happen?”

“I…” Another long stretch of silence before Eric finds his voice. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

Yikes.

That sure as hell wasn’t the right answer.

“Who did you think lived here, Johnson? Huh? You lost?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He sounds panicked, ill-prepared for a battle of wits with Harry Donnelly.

“Then what do you want? Speak up,” he continues, lecturing, “Johnson, it’s Friday night, on your one weekend off. How did you find yourself on my doorstep?”

“I have the wrong address, sir.”

“You boys pranking me? Is that what this shit is about?” I can see him moving toward Eric, leaning over the threshold so he’s nice and close, intimidating. “You think I’m going to forget about the hazing bullshit you pulled last year with your pal Gunderson? Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’m going to ask you again: what the hell are you doing on my porch in the middle of the godforsaken night?”

Middle of the night?

That’s a stretch—it’s barely seven o’clock.

Eric can’t summon up a reply, so my dad fills the silence for him. “You better have the wrong goddamn address, son. If you’re here for the reason I think you’re here for, you better hop back in that piece-of-shit car you own and drive away. I don’t wanna see your face anywhere besides the goddamn gym, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stop calling me sir. It’s grating on my last damn nerve.”

“Yes, sir.” He gulps. “Sorry, sir. Shit. All right. Sorry.”

My father huffs, aggravated. “You have three seconds to get off my goddamn porch.”

Through the upstairs window above the doorway, I watch him stumble backward across the lawn as my father slams the door and locks it. Slides the deadbolt in place. Stands, hands on his hips, peering through the sidelight windows as the junior wrestler turns tail and power walks across the yard. Jumps into his red, beat-up pickup truck and guns the engine.

Screeches away from the curb, drives off without looking back.

It’s almost comical.

“Dad, who was it?” I sound innocent and guileless.

My old man turns, glowering up the stairs, leaning on the newel post. “Don’t be coy with me—you know damn well who that was.”

I can’t stop the laughter that bursts from my lips. “I’m sorry, Dad. I couldn’t resist. He’s been driving me crazy at school and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“How?”

“I go to the gym to workout, not get hit on, and that guy cannot take a hint. I just wanted you to scare the shit out of him. He needed to learn a lesson.”

Nothing is mentioned about the bet or how I’ve been battling about whether or not to tell my parents.

Dad’s brows shoot up into the brim of his cap. “I’ll do more than scare the shit out of him tomorrow in my office.”

“Dad, please. Tonight was enough to cure whatever notions Eric Johnson has about pursuing me.” My voice holds a warning. “He’s wicked stupid if he continues harassing me after tonight.”

Dad’s meaty arms cross. “He’s a good wrestler, but no one has ever accused him of being smart.”

I make my way down the steps, yoga pants a little too long and dragging along the carpet, oversized sweatshirt engulfing my entire frame. I envelop my father in a hug, inhaling the familiar smell of him: the gym, sweat, and the same cologne he’s worn since I was little.

He pats my back awkwardly, not comfortable with displays of affection. “You’re not going out tonight?”

“Not until later, Dad—no one goes to a party this early. I have a few contract law flashcards to make. Torts and malfeasance don’t learn themselves, you know.”

His gaze sweeps my face, analyzing my expression. “You start apartment hunting yet?”

“Apartment or house?” I can’t keep the optimistic inflection out of my tone.

Dad’s head lolls from side to side, a low “Ehhh,” rising from his throat. “We’ll see about a house. I’d prefer you in something more secure, somewhere with locks and gates and guards.”

“They don’t have those here, Daddy.” I don’t call him that often, but for whatever reason, the word just seemed to fit, felt right. “My last apartment had a wooden fire escape and a couch with a giant hole in the middle. The springs would stab us in the ass if we sat down too fast.”

He hefts a heavy sigh. “How did I not know this?”

“Because I never said anything when I sent you a copy of the lease. I wanted you to sign it, not tell me I couldn’t live there.”