The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(19)

“You sound like such a lawyer.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She grins. “Even though I’m studying nursing.”

“I’m still not telling my dad. I want to handle it myself. I just need to figure out how.”

“Okay, but do you really think getting trashed at a house party is a good way to handle it?”

“You’re the one who wanted to come out!”

“I know, but look at me!” Her hands flail up and down her torso. “I’m having a great time! I’m going to remember this entire night tomorrow!”

“But you still can’t drive us home.” I scowl.

She pouts. “True, but I’m not the designated driver.”

That’s right—we came with her friends, who have gone completely MIA.

“You know, we should probably go look for them.”

I give her a wobbly, drunken nod. “You go. I’ll wait here.”

One.

More.

Drink.

That’s it.

Then I’ll leave with Madison and her friends.

That’s all I need, to drink those assholes out of my system, to forget their idiot plan, the mortifying words, and what they were planning for me.

One.

Drink.

At.

A.

Time.





Elliot




The last person I expect to see drinking on Jock Row tonight is Coach Donnelly’s daughter, but that’s just who I spot over the rim of my plastic cup as I tip it back to take a gulp.

It’s been a long week, and the cold beer sliding down my throat is a welcome distraction.

Donnelly’s presence has me doing a double take. I’m barely able to reconcile her with the girl I found crying in the library. That girl was upset and disheveled but confident, sad but still friendly.

This one is piss-ass drunk.

I continue watching her from my corner of the room, leaning nonchalantly against the makeshift bar at the far end. It’s crudely built but serves its purpose, lined with empty bottles that used to hold vodka and cheap liquor, painted black and gold, Iowa’s school colors.

Coach Donnelly’s daughter is chugging from a red cup like a seasoned partygoer, the beer in her hand almost a permanent attachment on her mouth, her throat working to swallow, her hand wiping away dripping liquid, dribbling.

Beer must have landed on her sweater, because she takes a second to glance down at her chest, narrowing her eyes.

Takes an uncoordinated swipe at what must be a wet spot, tongue out in concentration as if the movement requires all her concentration.

I wouldn’t have pegged her for a sloppy drunk.

But I suppose her intoxication makes sense, given that she’s out trying to make friends. Throw in the fact that she’s had a fairly shitty week…

She doesn’t look the same; she looks sad and tired, and of course, she looks fucking drunk.

It doesn’t matter that everyone else here is too.

Somehow on her it just seems wrong.

Out of character.

I notice she’s here with a small group of girls, girls I recognize as frequent visitors to the house—another thing surprising me tonight. They’re partiers, out for a good time and to meet athletes. Having lived with two of the university’s champion wrestlers, I’ve seen enough jock chasers to meet my lifetime quota, and the girls Donnelly is with are a stereotype.

Short skirts.

Tight, midriff-bearing tops.

High heels despite the casual nature of the party’s atmosphere.

I glance over again to find Donnelly’s daughter standing by herself again; they’re not sticking together as a group. Drunk, lethargic, clumsy.

So I watch.

Like a fucking creeper. Not caring if it’s weird, I watch, setting down my own beer. Gesture to the dude serving behind the bar and request a water.

Wonder what would happen if the guys here found out the drunk girl in the corner was the wrestling coach’s daughter. Wonder what that information would do to her reputation if they saw her like this.

It really isn’t smart for her to be so reckless; Jock Row isn’t the place to come when you’re trying to hide from your troubles.

This is where you come to be seen.

When Coach’s daughter wavers on shaky legs, I’m at full attention, accidentally bumping the guy next to me, causing him to spill his beer. He plays baseball and lived in this house before they opened rooms to freshmen; too many bodies and he was out.

“Dude, what the hell is your problem?”

I ignore his salty glare.

“Rowdy, see that brunette over there? I think I might need to take her home.”

He claps me on the back. “Atta boy, Elli-nor! It’s about damn time you dipped your wick into someone from Iowa.”

Rowdy’s crude reference to sex doesn’t faze me—my roommate Sebastian was a hundred times worse.

“I meant because she needs help out of here, not so I can sleep with her.” I give him a shove.

“Everyone’s too drunk to be here, or haven’t you noticed?”

“That one, that girl right there.” I turn his body toward Donnelly’s daughter. “Her.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I see what you mean,” he concedes, nodding his head up and down, examining her from across the room. “She might be too shitfaced to stay. It can’t possibly end well. Wanna take her upstairs and put her in Rookie’s bed to sleep it off?”