The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(36)

“Maybe it would be easy, but you would probably end up getting in trouble, or worse, come out looking like the asshole.”

“You’re probably right, I would. I have the worst luck when it comes to guys.”

Elliot looks over at me then, pauses, hands hovering over the credit card reader as he studies my face, a peculiar expression passing through his eyes. His mouth is downturned at each end, not quite a frown, but not exactly a smile either.

“I highly doubt that.”

“Trust me, I do. The last guy I dated dumped me because I wouldn’t sleep with him on the second date.”

“That’s not you having bad luck, that’s dating a guy who ended up being a fucker. You can’t predict that shit—it’s like…standing in line for a ride at the fair, getting on, and finding out too late it’s a roller coaster.”

“Uh, okay…”

“Like being on a Ferris wheel. It looks like a fun ride, but in reality, it’s scary as hell.”

I’m not sure how we went from talking about dating to carnival rides, but here we are.

“You mean a wheel of terror?”

“You don’t like Ferris wheels either?”

“No!” My face contorts into a grimace.

The clerk hands Elliot his purchase after checking to make sure both shoes are the same size. Together, we walk out the door, stopping once more at the entrance.

“So now what?”

I grin up at him, gently remind him, “You promised me food.”

Elliot shifts on his heels, his eyes doing a scan of my body before he clears his throat and looks toward the far end of the mall. “I did.”

“Then let’s go!”





Elliot




She’s only lived here for a few weeks, but there’s already a palpable air of comfort and familiarity in our house. We’ve grown to really like each other’s company, probably a little too much—the relationship we’ve established is unlike any I’ve had with previous roommates, and I’ve had plenty in my four years at Iowa.

We’re both private, preferring to be home where it’s quiet.

We both laugh at dumb comedies.

Since she moved in, we’ve made dinner together more nights than not—spaghetti, soup, pasta, hamburgers on the charcoal grill I have on the back stoop.

We like each other.

A lot.

And we agree that maintaining our older friendships is more important than forcing ourselves to make new ones. I’m about to graduate, and I’m applying for master’s programs. Anabelle is a second semester junior transfer with a bunch of friends from Massachusetts. My friends might have graduated, but they’re still in the area and still in contact.

Partying isn’t my scene, and it isn’t Anabelle’s either.

So, it’s a surprise that one evening when we’re both getting ready to park our asses on the couch and watch TV, there’s a knock on the front door.

A loud, masculine knock.

“Hey!” Anabelle calls out, sticking her head out from behind the bathroom door. “I just got out of the shower—did you hear that knocking, or am I imagining things?”

“No, I heard it too,” I call out from the desk I hauled back into my room when she moved in. Setting down my pencil, I rise, starting for the door. “Don’t come out until you’ve got clothes on.”

“Yes, Dad.”

She couldn’t have said anything more ironic.

Because standing on the front porch when I pull open the door is Coach Donnelly.

I recognize him immediately—I’ve seen him numerous times in the course of Oz and Zeke’s wrestling careers, having attended many of their home meets and seen his face on the television during live broadcasts.

“Sir.”

I push open the glass storm door so he can step inside.

And he does, wasting no time, stepping into the living room, onto the welcome mat Anabelle laid out the weekend she moved in.

It’s round and blue and says Hello, You Look Nice Today!

Her father steps in the center of it, his presence filling the doorway, not looking nice at all.

“Who the hell are you?” He wastes no time with pleasantries.

“I’m Elliot, sir. You must be Anabelle’s father. I’m a friend of Zeke Daniels and Sebastian Osborne—their old roommate, actually.”

“What are you doing in my daughter’s house? Are you dating her?”

“Uh, no. Not exactly.”

“Where is Anabelle? I only have a little bit of time.” He jingles a set of car keys in his hand. “The bus pulls out for Ohio in an hour.”

“She’s just getting out of the shower.”

Shit. Wrong thing to say.

Coach’s lips pucker, bushy brows dipping into an unpleased glower.

He squints at me. “What did you say your name was?”

I open my mouth to respond when my roommate breezes into the room—thank fucking God—to rescue me from her father, throwing her arms around him, looking fresh and clean and smelling even better.

Her hair is wrapped in a bright white towel, turban-style on her head, slender body swathed in her gray, silky bathrobe.

Coach’s glower gets darker.

Jesus, is she trying to get me killed by wearing that damn thing? Coach looks murderous.