The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(14)

“You know what, forget I asked.”

“Is it weird that I kind of want to talk to you even though I don’t know you?”

“No, it’s not weird, because you don’t know me and I’m not going to judge you. Plus, I live alone and wouldn’t have anyone to tell when I get home, haha.”

Her lean fingers toy with my notebook, bending back the edges nervously.

“So there are these guys,” she starts.

There always are.

I nod. “Uh huh.”

“Why does this have to be so embarrassing?” Her hands cover her face self-consciously and she shakes her head. “Phew, here goes nothing!” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so, you know how some guys are complete assholes, and occasionally you hear about, like, fraternity guys or whatever betting that they can sleep with a girl?”

“Yeah. Happens all the time.”

“Well it happened to me.”

I’m ramrod straight, unmoving as she blushes bright red, silently waiting for her to continue.

“They, um…” Her tongue darts out, licking her lips. “They had a bet to see who could sleep with me, and I overheard some guys talking about it in the gym.”

“Were they laughing about it?”

“No, not these guys. They seemed upset about it—actually, they were discussing whether or not to rat out their friends.”

“Do you know who the guys are?”

“Yes.”

“Did you end up actually…” my sentence trails off and I can’t bring myself to ask her if she actually slept with the guy. Man this is awkward.

Her head gives a shake. “God, no, I’m not desperate. Or stupid. What is wrong with someone that they’d make a bet like that? What assholes.”

“Who were they?”

“Some guys who know my dad.”

“How do they know your dad?”

“He’s…” her voice stalls. “He works here.”

“Staffer?”

“Coach.”

I sit back in my seat, eyes glued to her face. “Are they players?”

Slight nod.

I let out a low whistle. “Holy shit.” Talk about shitting where you eat. “Does your dad know?”

“No, and I’m not going to tell him—not yet anyway. I have to give it more thought.”

I don’t point out that she won’t have to; these things have a way of being discovered all on their own. Her dad will find out soon enough.

Snitches, snitches everywhere.

“Do you mind me asking what sport he coaches?” Curiosity gets the best of me. “I won’t say anything, promise.”

Her response is a long, weighted pause as she considers whether or not to tell me.

Her lips move, the low mutter barely audible.

“Say again?”

“Wrestling.”

Wrestling. Coach Donnelly.

I’ve never met the man personally, but last roommates were wrestlers and have shared plenty of stories over the last few years. From what I’ve gleaned, the man is sharp, shrewd, and tolerates zero bullshit.

“I might have heard rumors that they’ve had problems with some people on the team.”

“Rumors?”

“Yeah. Last year a few guys were busted for hazing a new member on the wrestling team. Half of them faced suspension.”

“Really? Wow, I didn’t know that—I’m surprised my dad never said anything.” She tilts her head curiously.

“He never railed about it in front of you? He had to have been pissed.”

“I actually didn’t live with him until this semester, and our phone conversations were always about me.” Her shoulders slouch. “Man that sounds selfish.”

“No, it sounds like you didn’t have tons of time to sit on the phone talking about his job. He wanted to hear about you, not complain.”

She bites back a smile. “Tell me more about the hazing. Do you know anything about it?”

I’m quiet, racking my brain for specific details.

“So I only know this information because my roommates were wrestlers and they would come home and bitch about it. Last year, when a new guy joined the roster, they gave him shit. Stuck him with a restaurant tab, ditched him at some cabin in the woods, shit like that. It probably seemed like harmless fun, but it wasn’t. I’d tell you to ask your dad about it, but he probably won’t discuss it if he hasn’t already.”

“Why?”

“Confidentiality.”

Her, “Oh,” is small.

“Have you considered telling him about these dickwads?”

“No. Well, yes, but he would totally lose his mind. This is our fresh start and it would, I don’t know, make him so mad. He’d freak, and I don’t want to ruin the semester.” Her sigh is loud. “Why do guys do stuff like that?”

“Stuff? You mean act like fucking idiots? I have no freaking idea since I generally try not to act like one.”

“I can tell.”

“How?”

“I don’t know—you have a way about you. You’re more mature, and you’re not… you’re just different.”