The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 4)

Pen poised above my blue spiral notebook, I give the guy beside me a sidelong glance. He seems okay. Friendly.

“Hi.” He smiles, a charming grin with one slightly crooked bottom tooth, delivering a cheesy pick-up line. “Come here often?”

I give a tortured groan. “Actually, yeah. This is my second time taking a contract law class,” I confess. “I should be teaching this course by now.”

I don’t know why I’m telling him this.

He scoffs. “Don’t sweat it. If you need a study group, they have a sign-up sheet by the door. I’ve been to a few of them already.”

“You think it’s helping?”

He laughs, sliding down in his chair, feet spreading sluggishly. “Let me put it to you this way: my grade can’t get any worse.”

“Same, but I have high hopes this semester.” I set down my pen and introduce myself. “I’m Anabelle.”

“Gunderson. Rex.”

“Gunderson Rex? That’s kind of a fun name.”

He laughs, knobby Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “First name is Rex, last name Gunderson.”

“It’s still fun, however you say it.”

“You think?”

I nod. “Sure! Is Rex short for something?”

“Yes, but I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s what you’ll start calling me—everyone always does.”

I laugh. “No, I won’t. I’m not a complete asshole, promise.”

Rex rolls his brown eyes. “That’s what everyone says.”

I nudge him, already taken with his casual demeanor and playful attitude. He’s fun, non-threatening, and not at all aggressive—unlike a few other guys I’ve met on campus.

“Come on, just tell me.”

“Fine.” He lets out a groan. “It’s short for Reginald.”

“Reginald?” I don’t think I’ve ever met a person under the age of eighty named Reginald.

“It’s terrible, I know.”

“Nah, it’s kind of cute.”

“Cute?” Rex rolls his eyes. “You’re a shitty liar, but I do appreciate the effort.”

“Thanks. I really had my game face on.”

We pause when a student tries to slide by us, making their way to the end of the row, to the only other open chair in our section.

“So what’s your story, Anabelle?”

My shoulders lift up in a casual shrug and I list my quick stats: Junior. Transfer from a small school in Massachusetts. Still trying to meet new people and make friends. Not acing this class.

“A transfer, eh? What’s that like?”

“It’s not what I thought it would be, honestly. This school is—phew—way bigger. By thousands.” I laugh. “Still getting used to the giant campus, still finding out where everything is, where the best places are to hang out.” Another shrug. “That sort of thing.”

“Been to any parties?”

“Not yet. I wouldn’t know which way to walk from campus.”

Rex’s arm shoots out, hand pointed toward the dry-erase board at the front of the room. “You walk that way until you hear loud music and see drunk people!”

I pretend to scratch my chin in thought. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“You like parties?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Down toward the front of the lecture hall, the teacher’s assistant begins scribbling notes on the board with a black marker, glancing down at the sheet of paper in her hands before writing them, outlining today’s lecture.

Class is about to begin.

“I’ll write down an address—there’s a party tonight if you’re interested. Lots of chicks going. Maybe you’ll meet some new people.”

Chicks?

I try my hand at flirting. “Are you going to be there, Rex?”

And fail.

He shakes his head. “Negative, Ghost Rider, can’t. I only go out once a week, and tonight’s not the night.”

“Why is that?” I wonder if he’s on a sports team because I know most of them have curfews during the week, and most certainly the nights before games.

“I’m team manager. We have rules to adhere to.” His chest puffs out a little, much like a peacock posturing. “It’s my job to make sure the players follow those rules, so, you know, I have to set a good example. I’m pretty important.”

“I see. Bet that’s a huge pain in the rear.”

“It can be, but with a position like mine comes a lot of responsibility. I’m part team manager, part social director.”

My smile is wry; I find Rex amusing. Though he’s not normally my type, his rumpled appearance and ridiculous conversation are charming.

“Social director? Is that an official position or one you made up?”

“I’d say it’s just a well-known fact.” He winks.

A projector gets clicked on by the professor, who saunters to the center of the room, remote in her hand. Nods to her assistant, who cuts the lights.

“All right everyone.” Her voice booms out, slicing through the noise like a knife. “Let’s cut the chatter!”

And just like that, class has begun.

Elliot

I don’t know why I keep hanging around these goons; I swear, the more time I spend with them, the dumber I get.

But they were my old roommate’s friends and for some reason, they keep coming around. So when they join me for lunch, I scoot over to make room at my table.

“Long time no see, man, how’s it been going?” asks a big black dude named Pat Pitwell as he slides into the spot across from me. He’s larger than life—huge—regarding me earnestly, like he actually gives a shit about my answer, unlike the other three morons.

“Good.” I shove my sandwich into my mouth, tearing off a hunk of bread with my teeth. “Quiet.”

“Living alone now?”

“Yup.”

“Haven’t seen you out at all lately.”

“Nope.”

Brian Tenneson—a guy I cannot fucking stand—leans closer.

“You’re not living in Osborne and Daniels’ shadows anymore—don’t you think it’s time to let loose and have a little fun?”

I glance at him sharply. “When was I living in their shadows?”

“Uh, only the last two years?”

I shrug. “Whatever man, you’re dreaming. We’re friends—it’s fucking weird you’d see it as competitive, but whatever.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, just meant it must be nice that they’re gone, not there to steal your thunder.”

“Dude, I don’t have any thunder.”

Everyone laughs.

“And there was never any competition between us.”

I might not have played sports for the university like they did, but my roommates and I did everything together. Worked out when we could. Conditioned. Ran. Did homework at the library.

Sebastian helped me write a term paper or three, and Daniels bought and paid for my share of the groceries more than once.

So, no, I never felt I was living in their shadows, and we were never competitive with one another. Tenneson is just a little fucker with too much free time and way too much drama surrounding him.

“Don’t you have anything more to add to this conversation? You always have something to say.” I shoulder Rex Gunderson in the arm. “You’ve clammed up all of a sudden.”

“Shit, hold that thought.” His hand goes up, silencing us. “I see someone from one of my classes—I’m gonna go say hi.”

“Suit yourself.”

That “someone” from his class must be a girl, or he wouldn’t give a shit about leaving to say hello. I don’t know what it is about Gunderson, but he always manages to smooth-talk the ladies, always manages to have them eating out of the palm of his hands.

It hardly matters that he’s the biggest dipshit of God’s creation; girls fucking love him.

Gunderson pushes away from the table, standing, skimming his hands down the front of his pants to iron out the wrinkles. Finger-combs his messy hair.