The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)
“I would have forbidden you to live there.”
“I know!” I rise to my tiptoes, giving him a loud peck on the cheek. “I’m going to hibernate before I go out, maybe take a shower.” Plant another kiss on his weathered face. “Thanks for taking care of Eric Johnson.”
“I’ve got my eye on him.”
My eyes narrow. “Trust me, so do I.”
Anabelle
I am going to a party tonight, and I am going to drink those assholes out of my system. I’m going to forget their idiotic plan and what the douchebags were planning for me.
One.
Drink.
At.
A.
Time.
Why does it bother me so much that a bunch of half-grown men would make a stupid bet involving me? They don’t even know me, couldn’t identify me in a lineup. I could have been any girl on campus—or the planet, for that matter—and they still would have done it.
So why did it make me cry?
Why did it piss me off so bad I’m at this dumb party getting wasted so I can forget about it for one night?
Because it was humiliating. Hearing yourself talked about like that, in such a derogatory way, by complete strangers? Terrible. Not climbing down off that elliptical machine and defending myself is something I’ll regret for a long time, even though the two guys talking about me were defending me.
Well, not defending me, but they didn’t condone Eric and Rex’s behavior, either, and to me, that’s enough for now. In a way, that makes them semi-decent guys who probably didn’t deserve me going psycho on their asses.
Another reason I’m out tonight is my new friend Madison. I met her today in one of my classes when she pulled up a seat during the one lab I have this semester to complete my science gen-ed credit, and we hit it off. Apparently, every Friday night she and her friends hit Jock Row—the off-campus party scene comprising student athlete housing—to chase jocks, hook up, and get drunk.
Which Madison has yet to do.
She’s remained somewhat sober until this point while I’ve admittedly been tipping them back faster than a frat boy. I’m pretty sure whatever’s in her red cup isn’t running out as fast as mine.
“Are you sure you don’t want to switch over to water or something?” she asks when I stare down into my empty cup. “I did.”
“It was ten bucks for this thing and I’m getting my money’s worth.”
“I mean…beer downtown is cheaper,” she points out. “And it doesn’t have all that foam.”
True.
“But look how cute I am with a foam mustache.” I lick it, laughing. “Where do you even find water in a place like this?”
It’s packed, the only visible liquid beverage in the form of the keg or a shot.
Madison takes a drink of her beer. “I went rooting through the fridge, they had it stocked. Also, it was unlocked, so that was convenient.”
“They lock their fridge?”
“I guess?”
“That’s weird.”
“Ya think?”
“What’s the deal with this place? Don’t people usually party on Greek Row?”
“Yeah, but a few years ago the alumni donors started buying up houses for the student athletes, fixing them up really nice, and it just became another place to go. It’s basically a meat market on the weekends because, guys.”
“My dad says meat market!” I giggle.
“Didn’t you say he works for the university?”
“He’s the head wrestling coach.”
“Wow. So you’re like a big flashing target.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are guys lining up to date you?”
“Not exactly.”
“I mean, wrestling is a huge sport in Iowa. Those guys are treated like royalty around here. You would think once word got out that the coach’s daughter goes here…”
I chug miserably at Madison’s innocent reminder of why I’m here in the first place—drinking my woes away.
“Oh, word got out all right.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“Some blowhards”—I hiccup—“on the team decided to have a little fun with it and made a disgusting bet about who could sleep with me first.”
“Shut up, no way!”
“Way. My dad told everyone on the team to stay away from me—like, first of all, thanks Dad. Secondly, it’s some guys who have already been in trouble for this kind of thing.”
My new friend is fascinated now. “No way.”
“Yes! And it’s been terrible the last couple of days, because it’s humiliating and the guys are all talking about it. I was bawling in the library yesterday after I found out.”
“How’d you find out?”
“I overheard it in the gym. I guess not everyone knows I workout in there. Keep your voice down at least!”
Madison reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong. All you have to do is tell your dad and I’m sure he’ll take care of it. Guys like that don’t deserve to shit in our same zip code when they do crap like that.”
My head dips, the last few healthy chugs of beer taking effect. “Ugh, I would, but I just moved here, and my dad and I are just getting to know each other again—no way could I tell him. I hate being dramatic. I’m his little girl.”
“Right…” She drags the word out. “That’s why you obviously need to tell him. Dads want to take care of that shit for their kids, Anabelle, and these guys—who, by your own admission are repeat offenders—need to be taught a lesson.”
“You sound like such a lawyer.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She grins. “Even though I’m studying nursing.”
“I’m still not telling my dad. I want to handle it myself. I just need to figure out how.”
“Okay, but do you really think getting trashed at a house party is a good way to handle it?”
“You’re the one who wanted to come out!”
“I know, but look at me!” Her hands flail up and down her torso. “I’m having a great time! I’m going to remember this entire night tomorrow!”
“But you still can’t drive us home.” I scowl.
She pouts. “True, but I’m not the designated driver.”
That’s right—we came with her friends, who have gone completely MIA.
“You know, we should probably go look for them.”
I give her a wobbly, drunken nod. “You go. I’ll wait here.”
One.
More.
Drink.
That’s it.
Then I’ll leave with Madison and her friends.
That’s all I need, to drink those assholes out of my system, to forget their idiot plan, the mortifying words, and what they were planning for me.
One.
Drink.
At.
A.
Time.
Elliot
The last person I expect to see drinking on Jock Row tonight is Coach Donnelly’s daughter, but that’s just who I spot over the rim of my plastic cup as I tip it back to take a gulp.
It’s been a long week, and the cold beer sliding down my throat is a welcome distraction.
Donnelly’s presence has me doing a double take. I’m barely able to reconcile her with the girl I found crying in the library. That girl was upset and disheveled but confident, sad but still friendly.
This one is piss-ass drunk.
I continue watching her from my corner of the room, leaning nonchalantly against the makeshift bar at the far end. It’s crudely built but serves its purpose, lined with empty bottles that used to hold vodka and cheap liquor, painted black and gold, Iowa’s school colors.
Coach Donnelly’s daughter is chugging from a red cup like a seasoned partygoer, the beer in her hand almost a permanent attachment on her mouth, her throat working to swallow, her hand wiping away dripping liquid, dribbling.
Beer must have landed on her sweater, because she takes a second to glance down at her chest, narrowing her eyes.
Takes an uncoordinated swipe at what must be a wet spot, tongue out in concentration as if the movement requires all her concentration.