The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(2)

Honestly, my record isn’t the greatest either, but I don’t suck, and at least I continue making the team—which is more than I can say for my roommate, who slinks to my side when I return to my locker.

Gunderson’s bony shoulder hits the cube where I store all my shit, his beady eyes alive with a mischievous glint.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Rex starts in as I’m drying my thighs and chest, pulling on a clean pair of shorts.

“I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

Don’t know if I want to know.

“About Coach’s daughter.”

“You mean the one he told us to stay the fuck away from?” I yank my bag out, dropping it on the ground. Toss in my sneakers. “That coach’s daughter?”

“Yeah.” He gets into my personal space, a little too close for comfort. “I bet you don’t have the balls to bang her.”

I pause, turning to face him for the first time since he walked over. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Why does he do this shit?

Why do we let him talk? I should tell him to shut the fuck up, put an end to this entire conversation, but resistance has never been my strong suit. If there was a big red button on the wall that said DO NOT PRESS…I would press it.

“The last time you had an idea, you got us into trouble.”

The last time he had an idea, we plastered our ex-roommate’s ugly mug on campus to help get the poor bastard laid. It worked—a little too well, because he promptly moved out and in with his smoking hot girlfriend, leaving us with his portion of the rent and a big empty bedroom we can’t fill.

Not to mention, Coach is still riding our asses about all the pranks we pulled on him. The coaching staff kept calling it hazing—I mean, if you want to get technical about it, sure, maybe it was, but no one got hurt, or died, or had to pull their pants down in public.

The shitty part about it? Gunderson and I have had to keep our heads down, noses to the ground to stay out of trouble since they’re watching us. I’ve had to bust my balls in the practice gym and on the mats just to prove all over again that I’m worthy of being on the team, of them keeping me on the roster.

Gunderson gets closer. “You can’t tell me your mind didn’t immediately go there when he mentioned her.”

“No, I can tell you that.” I grab a clean shirt out of my locker. “My mind didn’t go there.”

But now that it has…

“Why not?” he prods, breathing down my neck, lowering his voice. “You don’t think you could fuck Coach’s daughter?”

My head whips around and I make sure no one is listening. “Jesus Christ, could you not talk about that shit here? If anyone hears you, we’re both fucked.”

He backs up a pace, slugging my bicep. “Think about it, man. You banging Coach’s daughter—bragging rights for months.”

My shirt comes down over my head. “We don’t even know what she looks like. She could be a brown bagger.”

Brown bagger = someone you’d only fuck if their face was covered. Coyote ugly.

“Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t—there’s only one way to find out.”

I ball up my towel and shoot for the cart in the corner of the room, aiming high and lobbing it dead center. It falls in easily.

“You need to stop with this bullshit before they kick you off the team.”

“I’m not on the team,” he stipulates. “I’m just the team manager. No chicks ever want to screw me.”

That’s true; in the food chain of life, as the team manager, Gunderson is on the bottom rung after girls feast on the endless banquet of athletes and other student body elite. They’d rather fuck a hundred of us than one of him.

He’s a glorified water boy.

“Plus,” he continues, grasping at straws, “you’re way better-looking than I am.”

Also true.

“Give me a reason why I should keep listening to your bullshit. Why I would jeopardize my spot on the team to do something so idiotic?”

Even if it would feel really fucking good if I could get her to go out with and screw me—whoever she is.

“You can’t turn down a bet?”

Another good point: I never can turn down a bet.

I grab the hoodie out of my locker and slam the door shut. Spin the combination lock. “What stakes are we talking about?”

What the fuck am I saying?

Gunderson leans in, hand braced against the wall. “Let’s make it interesting.”

My laugh is hollow. “It would have to be real fucking interesting to get me to do it.”

“First one of us to bang this chick—”

“Oh, you want in now too?” What is that shit all about?

“I had a few minutes to give it some more thought while you were resisting the idea.”

Right, as if he has any thoughts going through that thick skull of his.

I laugh.

He frowns. “Don’t think I can do it?”

I laugh again, hefting my duffel bag. “I know you can’t.”

He trails behind me like a lost puppy dog. “Winner gets the big bedroom—the one Rhett just moved out of.”

I halt in my tracks. I’ve been dying to move into that fucking bedroom, but Gunderson and I both agreed when Rabideaux moved out that we could charge more rent for it since it’s the largest of the three, and we need money more than either of us need a bigger bedroom.