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

His mouth curves into a smirk, a knowing little smile—and if I didn’t know any better, I’d think his lips were saying, “Thank God you don’t look anything like your dad.”

That can’t be what he said, can it? This guy doesn’t even know me.

Doesn’t know my dad is Coach Donnelly, the winningest coach in college wrestling history. Doesn’t know I’m here to live with him and my stepmom until I can get my own place off campus, as soon as freaking possible because Dad’s hovering is about to drive me nuts.

I understand his need to watch over me, I really do.

The man hasn’t seen me in over a year, and I haven’t lived within a thousand miles of him since I was eight, since my mom packed our bags and moved us to the east coast.

But I’m not a little kid anymore.

Dad can’t know where and what I’m doing all hours of the day. He’s been making my lunch like I’m in elementary school, leaving the lights on in the hall at night like you’d do for a child afraid of the dark. His wife—my stepmom, Linda—has been great, preparing the guest bedroom for my arrival, outfitting me with everything I need.

Or would have needed—for the dorms, or for when I was twelve.

Everything is pink.

The problem is—and this is a big one—I’m not a freshman anymore. I don’t want to live with my parents, and I sure as hell don’t want to live in the damn dorms.

I want a house or an apartment. I want to come home and sit on the couch in my underwear, eat pizza out of the box, and watch TV until two in the morning without having my father walk into the room to shut it off.

I want what I had before I transferred.

An apartment. A roommate.

Friends.

I love my family, but the college experience just isn’t the same if you’re living at home.

Sighing, I finally hit the twenty-minute mark with one mile under my belt for the morning. Not too shabby.

Tap the cool-down button on the controls, letting the treadmill slow on its own. Slow my gate from a run…to a light jog…to a walk. Look over and see the guy with the blond hair and cocky grin leaning against the wall, watching me. I study him right back.

The cutoff tee.

The biceps. The perspiration under his armpits, staining his shirt. His damp hair.

The wrestling logo on his shirt.

My lips purse.

I’m not judging the guy, I just don’t want him knowing who I am. Not yet.

Not if he’s a wrestler.

There’s only one way to find out.

Four minutes left.

Two and a half.

I lower the speed, pressing until the machine hits a sloped two-point-six. Lazy, tired paces.

Blondie meanders over, headphones draped around his neck. “Done?”

I nod. “Done.”

His hands rest on his hips—lean hips that are obviously in shape. He offers me a patronizing smile. “Thanks for understanding.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Right.”

“You come here often?” he asks, approaching with a sanitizing wipe, beginning with the handles of the treadmill before I’ve even stepped off it.

“No. I’m new here.”

“Junior?”

“Yup. Second semester transfer.”

“From where?”

He’s just full of questions, isn’t he?

“A small school out east.”

A real small Catholic college, if you want to get technical. The college where my mom went, in the town where she met my dad, back when times were good and he was beginning his coaching career. They were young and excited and hardly fought about all the time he was gone, leaving her alone.

Newly graduated and full of ambition, his first job was as an assistant conditioning coach at Holy Immaculate of Massachusetts College. He bumped into my mother coming around the corner near the gym, almost knocked her off her feet, and when he moved to help her up—well, the rest was history.

Until it wasn’t.

I don’t know why Mom pushed and pushed so hard for me to enroll there. She hates my dad with the passion of a thousand blazing suns, blames him for the breakdown in their marriage. Blames the college recruiting process, his driven nature to always want more, to be more, to have more.

To win.

I was young when they separated, but I can still remember them fighting every time he got a new opportunity at a new college or university, doing his best to advance on the coaching path. The next best school. The next level.

Until he landed Iowa.

Holy Immaculate must have held enough good memories for her because she pleaded with me to give it a shot, to give it at least one year until I transferred.

I gave her two and a half.

“What was your small school called?” the guy prods, done wiping down the handles, rubbing the wipe back and forth against the control panel.

Lost in thought, I’ve forgotten our conversation. “Huh?”

“Your last university—what was it called?”

Right. “Oh, you’ve never heard of it, trust me.”

“Try me.” He’s so cocky it’s almost unbelievable.

This time, I do roll my eyes. “Holy Immaculate of Massachusetts College.”

His eyes widen. “Yup, definitely never heard of it.”

I laugh at him; he’s kind of goofy, if a bit relentless. I can’t decide if it’s annoying or refreshing—probably a bit of both.