The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

“They’re all shitholes,” I say, feeling the need to point out this unfortunate fact.

“True.” He stands, coming around his desk. “Find a few options and we’ll have a look. In the meantime, do your old man a favor and try to find a roommate, preferably one who studies a lot and likes to stay home, one who hates partying and boys.”

“Haha.” I rise too, wrapping my hands around his shoulders and squeezing. Give him a kiss on his weathered cheek. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Love you, Annie.” When he ruffles my hair, I let him.

I roll my eyes at the childhood nickname. “Love you too, Dad.”

I’ve found the perfect little spot on campus to study.

Climbing the steps all the way to the top floor of the university’s library, I weave through the peaceful space, past the archaic volumes of books, newspaper archives, and outdated, old-school periodical machines—you know, the ones where you search for articles from before we had the internet.

There are several study rooms on this level, but I choose a table instead. It’s in the corner, tucked away, hidden behind a bookshelf almost five feet high.

No one would be able to see me if they came up here.

No one will bother me since I haven’t seen a single soul the four times I’ve studied up here. It’s peaceful, the perfect environment for getting homework done.

Five floors down, there are way too many young people. It’s a place for students to socialize, yet another breeding ground for procrastination and flirting.

The damn library is like a nightclub.

I crack open my laptop and log into the school’s social media site. Click through, searching the classifieds. Roommates wanted and apartments for rent.

Too expensive.

Too far from campus.

Six roommates in a four-bedroom house? No thanks.

I scroll on by, passing over anything old and outdated. The houses that look dilapidated and falling apart. The ads with no photos.

The rentals with pets? Pass—I’m allergic to cats.

Furnished would be fantastic; the last thing I want after moving out is to burden Dad and Linda with the task of scavenging for furniture with me. I can’t imagine what that would cost.

Plus, Dad’s in the middle of wrestling season; he doesn’t have time to orchestrate an entire move, so if I could find something even partially furnished, I’d be winning at life.

Frustrated, I close out the website and open the document I started earlier for my ethics class, determined to pound out the required word count, resolute to ace this assignment.

School doesn’t come easy for me; I have to work at it. Sometimes I’ll be reading and by the end of the first paragraph or page, I have to go back and read it again. Memorization is not my forte.

The sixth floor remains silent and empty, except for me, and I wonder why it’s not utilized. It’s the perfect place for studying, and…other things.

You hear stories at other universities about the top floor of the library, stories about couples having sex in the aisles of books. The long, dusty rows are dark and secluded and unsupervised by employees.

I’ve never heard any such stories about the top floor of this one.

Bummer.

I push my earbuds in deeper, sliding the button for noise cancellation to on.

Drop my head and get to work.

Elliot

The sixth floor.

Empty. Secluded. Quiet.

Just as I like it.

The lights are dull here on the top level of the library, almost as if it’s the forgotten floor. Row after row of dusty books, some of them long outdated but never replaced, keep its few study tables company.

I move toward the same table I always occupy, in the corner to the right and all the way back. There’s a window there, too, but it’s nearly dark out, so there’s not much to see outside but the glowing lights of the campus commons below and a few students hustling by hurriedly.

Rounding a corner rack of journals, I stop in my tracks when I see my table is already taken. A young woman sitting in my seat. Books set where I study. Feet propped where I prop my feet.

Shit, I hardly know what to do with myself.

No one ever sits there.

No one ever comes up here.

Pausing, I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose, eyeing her up, only getting glimpses at the crown of her bent brunette head. She’s hunched over an open book, one hand stroking a yellow highlighter along its pages, the other tapping the acrylic tabletop, nails clicking the surface.

Black long-sleeved T-shirt. Hair down over one shoulder.

She doesn’t see me.

Doesn’t look up when I grunt out my displeasure. Doesn’t look up when I shuffle along, irritated, moving to find a different table.

I gaze at my options critically, not wanting to sit in a repressive study room for the next few hours while I kill time before my soccer game in the park.

Also not wanting a table out in the open in case someone else comes up and decides to get chatty, which has been known to happen occasionally.

Near the east-facing window, I settle on a desk with two chairs. Its location is a little too bright for my liking, but beggars can’t be choosers, and until that girl packs up her shit and leaves, this desk will have to do.

Sullen, I get settled, using the second chair to rest my legs on. It’s way too fucking small for my frame, and I gripe to myself as I set down my bag, laying out all my crap. Laptop. Water bottle.

None of it fits on the desk the way it fits on my normal table, and it’s throwing off my groove. How am I supposed to study this way if I can’t spread out?

I power up all my electronics and click open the paper I started writing yesterday. It’s required to be a minimum of twenty-five ungodly pages long.

It’s due in two days.

Neuroplasticity. Neural connections.

Fuck.

I’m never going to learn this shit in the course of one semester.

Cursing myself for declaring kinesiology as a major as the workload continues to pile on, I open the search engine on my computer. Find a diagram of nerve cells in the human body.

In the brain.

Begin jotting notes and set an alarm so I don’t lose track of time and miss running with a soccer teammate. The minutes tick by and I stare at my laptop, overwhelmed by the assignment. I do everything but write my paper: message a few friends who have already graduated. Scroll through Instagram. Chug some water.

I take a quick break to piss, making my way back from the bathroom located in the far left corner, catching a side view of the girl—the squatter—glowing streetlamps outside hitting her in a way that has a halo circling the top of her head, long hair shining.

She’s pretty.

She stole my table.

Anabelle

There are no available seats in the middle of the lecture hall, so I take two steps at a time, making my way up the center aisle, eyes scanning the back row for a chair. It takes a few moments, but I manage to locate one in the very last row, against the wall—the very last place I’d purposely choose.

I’m more of a front-row-center kind of girl, and the last row is usually reserved for those who want to rest their head against the wall and sleep during class.

Not me.

I’ve always found it difficult to budget my time between studying the occasional part-time job, and extracurricular activities. I wouldn’t call myself unorganized, but…

I’m unorganized. That said, I try to do my best as much as I can.

I trudge up the stairs, my bag slung over my shoulder, heading straight for the seat sandwiched between a girl with green braids and a guy who clearly just rolled out of bed—mussed brown hair, unkempt, disheveled, as if he went to bed too late and woke a little too early, throwing on whatever he could find before blindly stumbling out the door.

He’s wearing khakis, but they’re as wrinkled as his gray, untucked polo shirt. With a little effort—and a shower—I bet he’d really be kind of adorable.

I give him a friendly smile when I park my rear beside him, setting my aqua backpack near my feet.

Instead of typing my notes on the computer, I get out a notebook and pen, intending to write them longhand. Later I’ll go back and transcribe them into a document, hopeful the repetition will help me with memorizing all the terminology our professor is about to throw at us.