The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

Obviously, I’m much better-looking. I mean, my dad is a man. Plus, he hasn’t aged well. The stress of his job has definitely taken its toll, and he looks nothing like the man my mother fell head-over-heels in love with twenty years ago.

Whoever this wrestler is, he came over here knowing who I was.

I step onto the carpeted floor. “Eric, what’s your last name?”

“Johnson.”

I bank that away in my mind for a rainy day, just in case I need to shake down my father for intel on the kid.

“Well Eric Johnson, it’s been swell, but I’m pretty sure my dad warned the entire team off me, and you’ve just lied to me twice. So, you’re either hard of hearing or looking for trouble. Which one is it?”

“You don’t think this meeting was purely coincidental?”

I squint at him, unable to read his blank expression. The guy has an amazing poker face.

Shooting me another friendly smile, the mischievous glint is telling me he’s definitely interested in whatever he thinks I have to offer, or he wants to get on my dad’s good side.

He’s also kind of dopey but in a cute way.

Hmm.

Still, I decide not to give him the time of day. I have things to do, and his level of persistence can only lead to trouble, I’m sure of it.

“What’s your name?” he calls out as I weave through the exercise machines, heading toward the locker room.

Jeez, why is he so loud?

Halting, I retreat, not wanting to yell back across the gym, not in a room full of athletes I’ve never met—hot, perspiring athletes. Did I mention hot?

“Would you keep your voice down?”

He does a mini shrug. “It’s loud in here.”

“Not so loud you have to shout.”

“Sorry?”

“My name is Anabelle.”

Eric Johnson, my new acquaintance—one my father will not be pleased about—sticks out his hand, offering it up for a shake. I hesitate to take it at first, certain my palms are sweaty and gross.

“Nice to meet you, Anabelle.”

I can’t say the same, but nonetheless, my hand slides into his, pumps his arm up and down, gripping his hand firmly. “Eric, it’s been interesting.”

“See you around?”

“Sure.” Then I add, “Why not?”

“Hey Dad, is this a bad time?” My knuckles give a soft rap on the window to his office, located at the entrance of the wrestling locker room. He sits at his desk, head bent over a sheaf of papers, bright yellow sticky notes on his computer, walls.

His head lifts, happy to see me standing in the doorway. “Hey Ana Banana.”

I used to hate when he called me that—he’s been doing it since I was five—but now I’m so used to it, the nickname actually brings a silly grin to my face.

“Got a free minute?”

“Anything for my baby girl.”

Oh brother.

I dial down my nervous energy and shuffle to one of the chairs in his office, a blue-painted cinderblock room with only a bank of windows separating it from the changing area, the showers.

A veritable fishbowl.

“I’m not going to accidentally see any naked wrestlers, am I?” Not that I’d be mad about it, but it might be embarrassing if my father was sitting beside me when it happened.

“Nope. No one should be getting here until”—he checks the ancient watch circling his wrist—“four.”

I dump my backpack on the concrete floor, which at one time was painted beige but has now faded, and plop down in an uncomfortable metal chair. No luxuries for my old man.

He leans forward, already interested in whatever it is I’m about to say. “How are classes?”

“Good.” Real good actually. “I was just on my way to grab a bite to eat. I’m starving. You want anything?”

I steal a peppermint from the bowl on his desk—the same brand he’s eaten since I was young—and peel it open, pop it in my mouth. Toss the green wrapper into the nearby wastebasket.

“Why don’t you just run home and grab something to eat?”

“Because I’m already on campus. I’ll just grab a sub in the union shop.”

“You don’t have to eat in the cafeteria you know—the food here is utter shit.”

There it is—my opening for the conversation I’ve been wanting to have.

“Actually Dad, that’s why I’m here.” I clear my throat, garnering my courage. “You know I love living with you and Linda, it’s just…I think it’s time to find my own place. It’s been a month,” I add hurriedly. “I think I’ve adjusted really well and there’s no need for me to, you know, stay with you guys anymore.”

Ugh, do I sound ungrateful? I feel terrible even bringing it up, but I really do need and want my own place.

Dad shifts in his seat, tipping it back until it squeaks, steepling his fingers in a move I’ve learned is his signature when he’s thinking of what to say next.

“Have you started looking?”

“Not really. I’m not sure where to start. I thought maybe you could help me.”

This puffs him up a bit, and he sits up straighter. Crying teenage girls, he knew nothing about. Scared little girls who missed their mother during a routine weekend visit, not a clue. Periods? Hormones? Boy troubles? No, no, and heck no. Those were all things he could never understand or help me with.

Finding a place to live?

That he knows a little something about.

I pat myself on the back for asking him. I hate that he feels like he failed me when my mother divorced him, hate that he missed so much of my life because of it—because he was busy chasing the dream while my mother only became bitter.

I can only wonder and imagine what it would have been like had they stayed together, tried to make it work. If my mother hadn’t minded moving every December when he took a new job for the spring. I wonder if it would have felt like an adventure not staying in the same town my whole life.

My hands fiddle with the hem of my sweatshirt, the only warm thing I’ve unpacked since I got to his place, knowing—hoping—it was temporary.

“I don’t want you living with strangers, Annie.”

“Everyone here is a stranger, Daddy. I’m still meeting people.”

“Then maybe now is not the right time to move into your own place.”

“Well.” I fold my hands on his desk. “Maybe that’s the solution. Maybe I should get my own place—maybe I shouldn’t do the roommate thing anymore. I’m a junior. I’ll be twenty-two in no time at all.”

His head lolls from side to side and he stares up at the ceiling. “Don’t remind me. It only makes me feel old,” he teases. Sits up again and directs his steely green gaze in my direction. “You really want to live alone?”

“Not really, but I don’t want to wait. It might take me forever to find people to live with.” I take a deep breath. “I love you Dad, and I love Linda. I just, you know, need my own space. It feels weird wanting to have my own guests.”

“Sure you can!”

“Dad, come on,” I deadpan. “By people, I mean guys.”

If I ever manage to meet someone.

I ramble on as if his face hasn’t just contorted into a horrified expression. “Can you imagine me sneaking someone into the house at night while you’re asleep? I snuck friends in when I lived at Mom’s. Man, she used to get so mad.”

“Why would you have to sneak people in?”

“Uh, because she was strict, never really wanted me to have people over. It’s not a big deal.”

Dad’s entire face changes and I feel guilty for bringing her up. “Anabelle, you know we will let you have people over. You don’t even have to ask.” He pauses. “Maybe not guys, but other people—girl kind of people.”

I’m still laughing when a door opens inside the locker room and we both look, watch as a dark, broody figure stalks across the tile floor.

“Who’s that?” My voice is breathy though I try to disguise it.

He cranes his head to look. “Zeke Daniels. He graduated but helps out from time to time.”