The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(30)

Judging by the look on his face, he is not hating this idea.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, I did move into your storage closet—what would I need?”

“A bed?”

“I could arrange that. Anything else?”

Just then, Elliot’s phone begins playing a mariachi tune, vibrating enthusiastically across the study table. “Shit. Can we finish this conversation later? I have to go.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah. Sure.” I pause. “Do you have a class?”

“No, a pick-up soccer game. There’s a big group of us that plays a few nights a month whenever we can.”

“Really?”

He’s packing up his bag, shoving the laptop inside haphazardly, suddenly in a rush. “Yeah, down at Hadley Park.” Glances up at me. “You should come sometime and watch.”

“I would love that. I actually play soccer.”

He stops. Stares at me. “You do?”

“Varsity, all through high school. I was a halfback.” I flash him a grin, running a hand along my long, sleek ponytail. “Man, was I fast.”

Elliot studies me a few more moments. Quirks a brow. “You interested in playing? That’s what a pick-up game is—anyone can join.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. Are you interested?”

“I…yeah. I mean, sure! Maybe I’ll come watch you play tonight then I can have my mom send my cleats? I’d have them by next week.”

“Cool.” Elliot stares down at my bag as he hefts his onto his broad, sexy shoulders, nodding toward the exit. “You coming or what, Donnelly?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m coming.”





Elliot



“St. Charles, you bringing dates to the games now or what?”

“Huh?” I’m down on the ground, tying my cleats when my teammate Devin hovers over me, giving my shoulder a nudge with his knee.

He’s wearing black shin guards and a shit-eating grin. “Bro, I asked you three times if you’re bringing a date to our games now. You’re not even paying attention.”

“A date? Why would you ask me if she was my date?”

“Because you brought a girl here and she’s been watching you the whole time?”

I look up from my laces, gaze colliding with Anabelle’s. She shoots over a small wave.

“Oh yeah, her—I should probably introduce you.”

“You got a girlfriend you forgot to tell us about?”

“Uh, no. I think that’s my new roommate?”

“Roommate?” Devin Pierce takes his turn glancing over at Anabelle Donnelly, legs crossed on a lawn chair, watching us intently. “Her?”

“We haven’t talked through all the details yet, but yeah, she’s probably going to move into my house.”

“Her? You’re going to live with her?”

My eyes narrow and I stand, pulling at my shin guards and adjusting my shorts. “Why are you saying it like that?”

He stares at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. “Because, there is no fucking way you’re going to live in a house with her without wanting to, you know…”

Dev takes his hand, makes the symbol for okay, and then takes the forefinger from his other hand and pokes it through, over and over. Immature asshole.

I shake my head. “You are out of your fucking mind. Anabelle and I are just friends.”

Sort of.

“Men and women can’t be friends, yo, and they sure as shit can’t live together.”

“Why not?”

“Feelings and sex and shit.”

“That’s not going to happen, but thanks for the warning.”

“Hey man, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing! I just think you’re two reasonably attractive people with functioning downtown equipment. It’s going to happen.”

“Have you always been this annoying?”

“No. You’re just being sensitive because you know I’m right.” His eyes stray to the sidelines, hands propped on his waist. When he begins speaking, it’s as if he’s talking to Anabelle, but only I can hear him. “You totally dig him already, don’t you? Yup, yup, I see you watchin’ him, girl. He’s got real fine legs, don’t he?”

“Shut the fuck up, would you?”

He ignores me. “Stare a little harder, honey, he ain’t gonna notice. He’s got you planted firmly in the friend zone.”

“Stop talking like that. She’s watching us, not staring—there’s a huge difference.”

“You’re saying you haven’t had any dirty thoughts about her?”

“No.”

Dev laughs. “You will.”

A whistle blows in the distance and our feet start moving, our forward facing our goalpost, kicking the ball back to me.

I tap it still. Pause.

Run, moving it up the field a few yards before a defender from the yellow team invades my space. Pass it left to our midfielder.

Try to block out the image of Anabelle on the sidelines. She’s risen from her folding chair, clapping, hands around her mouth, shouting and calling my name.

Cheering me on.

The game is fast-paced and high energy and over before I know it, ninety minutes gone by in a flash.