The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(17)

Anxious, I flip my long hair, laser-focused on the front door from my perch on the landing of the stairs, hidden from view. A devious smile spreads my lips when Dad finally grips the door handle, turning, pulling it slowly open.

He peers through the screen.

“Johnson.” I hear the censure in his voice and grin wider. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Silence.

“Well?” Dad demands impatiently. “Did something happen?”

“I…” Another long stretch of silence before Eric finds his voice. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

Yikes.

That sure as hell wasn’t the right answer.

“Who did you think lived here, Johnson? Huh? You lost?”

“I don’t know, sir.” He sounds panicked, ill-prepared for a battle of wits with Harry Donnelly.

“Then what do you want? Speak up,” he continues, lecturing, “Johnson, it’s Friday night, on your one weekend off. How did you find yourself on my doorstep?”

“I have the wrong address, sir.”

“You boys pranking me? Is that what this shit is about?” I can see him moving toward Eric, leaning over the threshold so he’s nice and close, intimidating. “You think I’m going to forget about the hazing bullshit you pulled last year with your pal Gunderson? Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I’m going to ask you again: what the hell are you doing on my porch in the middle of the godforsaken night?”

Middle of the night?

That’s a stretch—it’s barely seven o’clock.

Eric can’t summon up a reply, so my dad fills the silence for him. “You better have the wrong goddamn address, son. If you’re here for the reason I think you’re here for, you better hop back in that piece-of-shit car you own and drive away. I don’t wanna see your face anywhere besides the goddamn gym, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And stop calling me sir. It’s grating on my last damn nerve.”

“Yes, sir.” He gulps. “Sorry, sir. Shit. All right. Sorry.”

My father huffs, aggravated. “You have three seconds to get off my goddamn porch.”

Through the upstairs window above the doorway, I watch him stumble backward across the lawn as my father slams the door and locks it. Slides the deadbolt in place. Stands, hands on his hips, peering through the sidelight windows as the junior wrestler turns tail and power walks across the yard. Jumps into his red, beat-up pickup truck and guns the engine.

Screeches away from the curb, drives off without looking back.

It’s almost comical.

“Dad, who was it?” I sound innocent and guileless.

My old man turns, glowering up the stairs, leaning on the newel post. “Don’t be coy with me—you know damn well who that was.”

I can’t stop the laughter that bursts from my lips. “I’m sorry, Dad. I couldn’t resist. He’s been driving me crazy at school and wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“How?”

“I go to the gym to workout, not get hit on, and that guy cannot take a hint. I just wanted you to scare the shit out of him. He needed to learn a lesson.”

Nothing is mentioned about the bet or how I’ve been battling about whether or not to tell my parents.

Dad’s brows shoot up into the brim of his cap. “I’ll do more than scare the shit out of him tomorrow in my office.”

“Dad, please. Tonight was enough to cure whatever notions Eric Johnson has about pursuing me.” My voice holds a warning. “He’s wicked stupid if he continues harassing me after tonight.”

Dad’s meaty arms cross. “He’s a good wrestler, but no one has ever accused him of being smart.”

I make my way down the steps, yoga pants a little too long and dragging along the carpet, oversized sweatshirt engulfing my entire frame. I envelop my father in a hug, inhaling the familiar smell of him: the gym, sweat, and the same cologne he’s worn since I was little.

He pats my back awkwardly, not comfortable with displays of affection. “You’re not going out tonight?”

“Not until later, Dad—no one goes to a party this early. I have a few contract law flashcards to make. Torts and malfeasance don’t learn themselves, you know.”

His gaze sweeps my face, analyzing my expression. “You start apartment hunting yet?”

“Apartment or house?” I can’t keep the optimistic inflection out of my tone.

Dad’s head lolls from side to side, a low “Ehhh,” rising from his throat. “We’ll see about a house. I’d prefer you in something more secure, somewhere with locks and gates and guards.”

“They don’t have those here, Daddy.” I don’t call him that often, but for whatever reason, the word just seemed to fit, felt right. “My last apartment had a wooden fire escape and a couch with a giant hole in the middle. The springs would stab us in the ass if we sat down too fast.”

He hefts a heavy sigh. “How did I not know this?”

“Because I never said anything when I sent you a copy of the lease. I wanted you to sign it, not tell me I couldn’t live there.”

“I would have forbidden you to live there.”

“I know!” I rise to my tiptoes, giving him a loud peck on the cheek. “I’m going to hibernate before I go out, maybe take a shower.” Plant another kiss on his weathered face. “Thanks for taking care of Eric Johnson.”