The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(10)

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.

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.”