The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(16)

I laugh because I can’t help myself; the look on his face is priceless. So dramatic. “Well? Which is it, jock or asshole?”

“Honestly? A bit of both.”

I hit the speed button on the machine, dropping it from a light jog to a walk, slowing so I can get a better look at this guy, the one who made a disgusting bet with Rex Gunderson, who has the gall to think I’d be interested in sleeping with him.

“Can I be honest with you? You drive me nuts.”

“Nuts in a good way or a bad way, because I photocopied mine once.”

“You photocopied your nuts? Why?” I hold my hand out to stop him because I don’t actually want him to answer. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. I meant it in a bad way.”

I grab the towel hanging off the treadmill, tossing it around my neck, intent on heading to the locker room, hoping he won’t trail behind me.

He does, because he’s dense, quickening his pace to keep in step. “What’s your name?”

I halt.

“I’ve told you before, Eric Johnson.” I throw out his name to rub in the fact that he forgot mine so quickly. “We’ve already exchanged names.”

“Sorry. I meet a lot of people.” He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.

“I just bumped into you a few days ago.”

“Can we start over?”

I keep walking, waving him off. “Nah, we’re good.”

“Lilah, wait up.”

I roll my eyes. Stop in my tracks. Spin on my heel to glare at him. “It’s Anabelle—Lilah isn’t even close.”

Eric Johnson grins. “I knew you’d tell me your name.”

“Oh my God, you’re—you’re such a…” Douchebag.

His stupidity has rendered me speechless, and I wonder what my dad would say about all this, what he’d say if he knew Eric was making bets and stalking me around the gym.

“I seem to have that effect on all the ladies.”

“You’re not having an effect on me.”

“I’m not?”

When I laugh, it’s a little too loud, turning a few heads in our direction. Oops. “No, you’re not.”

“What’s it going to take to get a girl like you to go out with a guy like me?”

A girl like me? That’s weird, I thought he said I wasn’t hot, which in guy speak essentially means unfuckable. Curious, I face him, giving him the smallest fraction of my time. “What do you mean, a girl like me?”

“You’re obviously out of my league, but I want to take you out anyway.”

“I can’t believe you’re basing this all on my looks—I haven’t exactly been pleasant.”

“That’s because you’re gorgeous. I don’t expect you to be nice—hot chicks usually aren’t.”

Oh boy. Now he’s laying it on a little thick. I’m not completely unfortunate, but I’m also not winning any beauty pageants either.

“Just let me take you out once. If you can’t stand me, I promise you can tell me to fuck off.”

I gape at him incredulously. What would have made him think I’d want to go out with him?

He tries again. “What if I meet you somewhere—you don’t even have to tell me where you live.”

An idea takes root, burrowing deep in my imagination, picturing Eric Johnson arriving at my father’s house to pick me up for a date.

My dad would kill him.

And Eric Johnson would be in for one hell of a surprise.

A rather unpleasant one.

The look on the kid’s face alone might be worth whatever drama it would cause, just to see his reaction when my dad yanks open the door of the house.

The thought has me positively giddy.

“Tell you what, Eric, I’ll give you one…let’s not call it a date. Let’s call it hanging out. I’ll hang out with you once. If you drive me nuts, I’m calling time-out and you’re taking me home. Do we have a deal?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Deal.”

“I’m not going to text you my address—I don’t need you knowing my phone number—but I will write it down for you.”

“I’m picking you up?”

“Sure, why not.” I write down my address, giving him an evil grin beneath my lashes. “See you at seven. If you can get past my doorman, you have yourself a buddy for the night.”

“What, do you have a guard dog or something?”

Another grin. “Something like that.”





“Dad, can you get the door?”

It’s Friday night on one of the only weekends Dad’s been home at a reasonable hour, and I watch from the top of the stairs as he hauls himself up out of his old recliner, hobbling with a slight limp, knees crooked, toward the foyer.

He’s still in his typical uniform, the one he wears to wrestling practice every day: black Adidas track pants, black Iowa wrestling T-shirt, and track jacket to match, zipped to the neck.

Baseball cap.

Cantankerous set of his mouth.

Along with my dad hobbling to the door, the normal sounds of the house can be heard. Linda puttering in the kitchen cleaning up their dinner, the television set to ESPN, the worst watchdog in the world snoring at the foot of my dad’s chair.