The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(12)

My stomach drops, and I instantly feel ill.

I can hear the skepticism in the other guy’s voice when he says, “I don’t know, man, Gunderson says she’s locked up tighter than a vault.”

Gunderson.

Rex Gunderson? That guy from my contract law class? I never in a million years would have thought he’d do something like this; he looks so unassuming.

Looks can be deceiving, and I just learned the hard way.

“Cute? He says that about anyone willing to bang him.”

“Maybe.” His breathing is labored, breaths coming hard. “The idiot says he’s one more smooth-talk away from getting her into bed.”

One smooth-talk away?

One.

He thinks I’m that easy? That I’d sleep with him after a few contract law classes—because he makes me laugh? That all he has to do is be nice and funny—and I’ll sleep with him?

We’ve only attended a few classes together! He’s never even asked me on a date!

What a dickhead!

“That’s impossible,” the guy is saying. “No way would any chick with half a brain purposely fuck that loser. He’s a parasite.”

The big guy shifts on the balls of his feet, the weight in his hands pumping up and down as his biceps flex.

“All I know is, Eric says somehow Gunderson became friends with her. You know how it is with him—for some fucking reason, girls love him.”

“That’s because he doesn’t look threatening.”

“Because he’s so skinny. My sister could take that guy down.”

The other sets his barbell down momentarily to laugh. “What does his weight have to do with anything?”

“Dude, my sister’s always preaching about how she won’t date any guy who weighs less than she does, and Gunderson is skinnier than everyone we know, including most chicks.”

My cheeks flush; they’re right—I immediately trusted him because he looks unassuming and nerdy and too thin to be any harm, like the dorky sidekick from a bad television sitcom everyone is annoyed by but still finds endearing.

“Little do they know what a friggin’ moron he is. Bitches be learnin’ the hard way.”

What he says next is devastating.

“You know if Coach finds out those two were making bets about who could sleep with his daughter first, they’ll be gone in a heartbeat.”

My stomach finishes dropping to my feet; Rex was making bets about being able to sleep with me? I want to puke, toss my cookies all over my shoes and the elliptical machine.

“Donnelly would go through the fucking roof if he knew.”

He lets out a huff of breath. “Do you think we should tell him?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Maybe I’ll ask my girlfriend tonight—she has the answers to everything.”

“Yeah, ask her. The whole thing just doesn’t sit well with me.”

“I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but me either.”

I don’t stand around waiting for the rest of the conversation. I’ve heard enough. I shut down the treadmill and hop off, grabbing my towel before fleeing to the locker room and grab my things from the locker before I burst into tears, not bothering to shower or change into clean clothes.

I make my way to the one spot on campus I know I can be alone before I have a panic attack.

The library.





Elliot



Fiddling with my headphones, I pull one of the earbuds out to adjust the tiny piece of plastic, hesitating to put it back in when I hear a soft whimper.

Then a cry, and it’s coming from my usual spot in the corner, which was once again occupied when I arrived.

I tap my pencil, staring in the direction of the back.

Curious, but also…

Concerned.

Rising to my full height, I slowly make my way toward the sound.

Yup, someone is definitely crying, and it sounds like a girl.

Weak. Low. Barely perceptible sobs.

A hiccup.

I move closer, feet shuffling against the carpet, hoping to make just a little noise so I won’t spook her.

“Hey.” My voice is gravelly, gentle.

Her head comes up at my words, face splotchy from tears, red marring her skin, chest, cheeks.

Lips parting, she brushes the hair out of her eyes, the long brown strands glossy under the neon light.

She swipes a hand across her face, batting at the tears, dabbing them away. Dries them on the leg of her jeans, all without lifting her gaze to face me.

I advance a couple paces, stopping a few feet away.

“Are you okay?”

Another hiccup and she’s dipping her head deeper into her black Iowa hoodie. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t look fine, certainly doesn’t sound fine, not even close. Those aren’t happy tears.

“W-Was I bothering you? I’m so s-sorry, I…” She can’t keep the crying out of her voice as she swipes at her rosy cheeks again, doing her best to hide it. “I’ll try to stop.”

Hiccup.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” She pauses, voice muffled. “But thank you.”

She looks up at me then, and I can see that her eyes are blue—a brilliant blue from the weeping, set ablaze by the redness of her blush-stained skin.