The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(27)

“You’ve only met me once.”

His chuckle is deep. “Let’s just say I have a stronger moral compass than most of my friends. I’d rather see you safely home than take the chance and leave you to the wolves, to the jockholes.”

“Jockholes? That’s a new one.”

“You like? I made it up.”

I like. “Friends with any?”

“Most of my friends are athletes, so yeah, I’m surrounded by douchebags and jockholes.”

“Oh jeez.”

“I lived with two guys on the wrestling team for the past two years. It was a test in patience most of the time.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Graduated.”

“What year are you?”

“Technically I should have gone through commencement last year, but I declared my major too late, and there are a few classes I needed to take before graduating. And one enrichment class.”

An enrichment class—is this guy for real?

“Uh, so you’re taking that class for…?”

“Enrichment.” He casually sips his coffee while I stare at him, confused.

“Which is another word for…”

“Fun?”

Oh Lord. I’d never purposely take a class for fun—not even badminton. Okay fine, one time I took that as a gym class and had a blast, but for real, it costs a fortune just to screw around for an entire semester.

Lesson learned.

“Which class?”

“It’s a science class. It’s not required, but I think it will be beneficial.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

“You can never know enough, uh…” Uncomfortably, his sentence tapers off, missing an important piece. It’s then that I realize, I never introduced myself.

“Oh my God, Elliot, I never told you my name! I’m the worst!” I stick my hand out self-consciously. “I’m Anabelle.”

“Anabelle,” he echoes quietly. Leans back in the chair to watch me before unfolding his arms and reaching to slowly slide his palm across mine, pumping my hand once before dropping it.

Nope. Not awkward in the least.

“Anabelle. I’ve been wondering what your name was.” When his smile disappears into his mug, I dip my head and stare down at my lap, fiddling with the fabric of my jeans, biting back my own, stupid smile.

Elliot’s silent, lazy scrutiny is doing bizarre things to my already quaking insides—plus, he’s one of the good guys, which makes him even more attractive, if that’s even possible.

Unlike those assholes Eric Johnson and Rex Gunderson, who I never want to see again.

“I used to hate my name growing up. It was always so hard for me to spell, and no one gets it right.” One N, not two.

Elliot grins. “Really? I think it’s cute. Anyone ever call you Annie? Or Ana?”

“My dad sometimes. Ana Banana. Jelly Belle.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

The room is awkwardly still while both of us rack our brains for something new to say.

Then, “Oh, before I forget, here.” He produces a smartphone from his pocket that looks suspiciously like mine, sending it gliding across the kitchen table in my direction. “This was in my car last night—I remembered to grab it while you were in the bathroom. It’s been beeping like crazy.”

Tucking an errant hair behind my ear as he looks on, I remove the phone from the table, palming it. Slide my thumb over the screen to unlock it, cringing when I see that my father has texted me eight times in the past twenty minutes.

Great. He obviously thinks I’m dead.



Dad: Where the hell are you?

Dad: Did you come home last night?

Dad: Anabelle, answer me goddammit.

Dad: You better be dead in a ditch somewhere.

Dad: Anabelle Juliet Donnelly Dad: Young lady, answer your phone. You’re starting to worry Linda.

Dad: Anabelle, if you don’t text me back within ten minutes, so help me God, I’m calling the campus police and the state patrol.

Dad: Five minutes.



Hastily, I tap out a reply: Sorry Dad, just woke up. I stayed at a friend’s house last night. Too much alcohol to make it home.



He wastes no time asking questions.



Dad: Which friend?

Me: Daddy, does it matter?

Dad: Daddy? Now I know you’re up to something.

Are you trying to manipulate me by sweet-talking me? I smell bullshit. Who were you with last night? Was it a guy?

Dad: Has your mother ever given you the sex talk? Do you know the number one disease on college campuses is syphilis? That’s not a rock band or a rash, it’s an STD and you get it by being foolish.



Oh my God.

My phone pings again.



Dad: These college boys only want one thing, Anabelle Juliet.



Okay, now he’s laying it on a little too thick with the middle name business. I’m approaching twenty-two years old for crying out loud. Talk about heavy-handed parenting.

One more reason I need to move out, into my own place.



Me: I’m sorry Dad, but I didn’t want to wake you last night. It was late and I was in no condition to even call for a cab.