The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(22)

Basically, I’m fucked.

Stuck with her.

My car hits a pothole and she chooses that moment to groan.

“Please don’t barf in my car,” I beg.

Her arm reaches out in an attempt to give mine another reassuring pat. Too heavy to execute the action, it flops down on the center console with a thud.

“Mmkay.” Her pretty head rolls toward me, eyelids cracking open. She gives me a wobbly smile. “I won’t barf in your truck.”

It’s a car—a black Mustang, to be exact—not a truck, and I’m entirely convinced she’s going to vomit at any moment, big doe eyes sliding closed, dark lashes fluttering against her smooth cheeks.

Damn. Even passed-out drunk, she’s really fucking attractive.

I hang a left, trying not to notice her appearance.

Drive two blocks. Turn right. Pull up in front of the one-room rental I moved into at the end of last semester once my roommate Zeke moved his girlfriend into my old place since he owns it.

Education.

Career.

Those are my priorities.

Gone are the days where I piss away my nights partying, though I certainly enjoy hanging out with my friends on the weekends, enjoy playing pick-up soccer when I have the time.

My rental house is small, painted a disgusting shade of yellow, in the center of the block. Grass overgrown, siding and trim in desperate need of repair, but that’s not my problem, it’s my landlord’s, and he doesn’t give two shits about the exterior of the house.

The upside? It’s mine until I graduate.

The rent is so affordable it makes having a piece-of-shit landlord worth the hassle of having to fix things on my own. I can do whatever I want, whenever the fuck I want, without answering to anyone.

I cut the engine and unbuckle, turning my torso toward a girl whose name I do not know. She’s slumped in my passenger seat, and I still know nothing about her, except that her father is the wrestling coach here—a man who’s respected and revered across the nation and the entire NCAA.

A girl who was dumped on by a few of his idiotic wrestlers without a lick of any goddamn sense.

Bunch of fuckers.

A snore escapes her lips when I reach to unbuckle her seat belt, a snore that tells me she’s in no condition to walk herself to my front door.

Wasting no time, I climb out of my car and jog to the passenger side. Pause. Hike up my short sidewalk in a few long strides, yanking open the screen and unlocking the door. Push through it, propping it with the nearest heavy object—a twenty-pound weight—satisfied it’s open wide enough so I won’t bang her head when I carry her limp body through.

Quickly, I jaunt back to her slumbering figure; the young woman doesn’t stir at the sound of the door easing open.

Not even when I slide my hands behind her back, skimming one arm under her ass to hoist her. She’s lighter than she looks, but still heavier than a sack of flour.

Ha.

Awesome. I’m so delirious I’m making stupid fucking jokes to myself.

Jesus, Elliot, get a grip.

I heave, raising her up, sliding her out of my car, which isn’t an easy task. Maneuvering her without knocking her head on the metal doorframe of my car is damn near impossible. It’s a miracle I don’t give her a concussion.

Kicking the door shut with the bottom of my foot, I lift her, shifting so I have a steady grip.

I’ve never carried anyone in my arms before—drunk or sober—but here I am, carrying a veritable stranger across the threshold of my shoddy college rental.

Walking straight to my bedroom, I don’t have the chance to straighten my covers, choosing to lay her as gently as possible in the center of my bed. I set about removing her shoes, little black boots with a gold zipper up the side.

Her feet are dainty, like her hands, and when I peel off her socks, I notice her toenails are a shocking shade of blue.

She wiggles them then, as if she knows I’m looking, rolling to her side. Her shirt hikes up, revealing a flat, pale stomach.

Innie belly button.

Easing my comforter from under her slim frame, I pull it up and over her body, blue sheets still trapped beneath her. She stirs, hands clasped beneath her chin like one of those angel figurines my mom used to collect, looking innocent and sweet, not drunk and incoherent.

Snuggles deeper into my mattress and pillows.

Sighs.

Groans.

Leaving her on my bed, I flip the light off, backing into the hallway with a quick glance over my shoulder. Grab the garbage can from the bathroom and place it next to the bed.

Pull the door closed behind me but leave it slightly ajar. I flick the bathroom light on in case she wakes in the middle of the night.

Shit.

What if she does wake up in the middle of the night and freaks the fuck out because she has no idea where she is? What if she wakes up then wakes me up?

What if she barfs in my bed?

That would be my worst nightmare, but I’m so tired I don’t have the energy to think about it anymore. Being a good Samaritan is fucking exhausting.

I settle my ass on the couch, pulling off one shoe at a time, then my socks. Yank on a hoodie I tossed on the coffee table earlier because where the hell is my snuggle blanket?

Oh, there it is.

Disgruntled, I snatch up one of the couch cushions to use as a pillow, grabbing the one throw blanket I have and tossing it over my legs. It’s gray, and approximately the size of a postage stamp—it barely covers anything. Cursing into the cold air, bad insulation, and sky-high monthly electric bills that keep my heating needs unmet, I hunker deeper into my Iowa hoodie.