The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(58)

“No second date. Sorry.”

“Why?”

Because you bet your friend he couldn’t sleep with me!

Because you have a history of hazing!

Because you are sketchy as fuck!

“How about I check with my dad first? If he gives his approval, I’ll go on a date with you.”

I swear I wish I had my phone handy so I could take a picture of the expression on his face. Brows shooting up into his hairline, eyes wide, head rearing back.

“Pfft. Your dad?” He furrows his brows, acting perplexed, nose scrunched up like a baffled rabbit. It would be kind of cute—if he weren’t such a putz.

I laugh, right in his face. “Oh come off it, Gunderson. Any day now you can quit acting like you don’t know I’m Coach Donnelly’s daughter.”

He tips his head to the side, staring like I’m the confused one here. “Anabelle, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m saying, if you’re serious about dating me, I should check with my dad, Coach Donnelly, AKA your boss.”

He clutches his chest. “You went out with me knowing I was a wrestler? We have rules about this!”

This elicits a big, fat eye roll. “Rex, you can’t run around calling yourself a wrestler. You’re the team manager, which is basically like being assistant to the regional manager.”

“That was the height of rudeness.”

I tsk. “How about I mention this to my dad? You wouldn’t have a problem with that, would you?”

Rex Gunderson glances at me condescendingly, pursing his lips. “Anabelle, how old are you?”

What does my age have to do with this conversation?

“Twenty-one. Why?”

Gunderson shrugs, displaying forced nonchalance. “Aren’t you a little old to be asking your dad’s permission?”

I shoot him a fake, megawatt smile. “Not when it comes to matters of the heart, Rex. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.”





I’m the first one to arrive home tonight, the light above our little kitchen sink offering a dim, welcoming glow. I set my bag by the door, kicking off my shoes and unknotting my rubber band until my hair falls around my shoulders.

It was a long, stressful day.

One in which I did more thinking about Elliot than I did concentrating during my classes.

But I hide from him.

Slink off to my bedroom, closing the door, afraid to bump into him in our kitchen…or our bathroom, or the hallway, and oh my God I had sex with my roommate.

Sex with my roommate.

My Lord, are there any worse offenses? Yes, because I’ve already committed several of them this semester: Cried in a public place (the library). Blacked out drunk after a party. Passed out in a stranger’s bed. Went out with the campus idiot.

Had sex with my roommate, the same guy who saved me from myself, like a true friend would.

I cringe.

My body goes still when I hear the stirring of life at the front of the house. The door being opened and closed. Footfalls in the entryway. I imagine Elliot taking off his jacket and tossing it on the couch. Maybe sauntering into the kitchen to rifle through the fridge, leaning against the counter, shoes off, in his socks.

Alerted to his company, I cock my head to listen, waiting. Praying he doesn’t try to come find— A soft knock sounds at my bedroom door.

“Ana?” He knocks again. “You in here?”

“Yeah—yes.” Fuss with my hair before answering, straightening my sweatshirt. “The door is unlocked, come in. I’m decent.”

I groan at that last comment; what difference does it make if I’m decent? He’s already seen me naked. He’s seen my— The metal doorknob turns, time lapsing in slow motion as Elliot eases the door open, his sweet, sexy face appearing in tiny fragments, small bits at a time.

When the door is open all the way, it hits me how happy I am to lay eyes on him after a long day—so happy I want to pounce on him, kiss his beautiful face all over just to watch the changes in him as he reacts to me.

Instead, I stay firmly planted in the center of my twin bed, textbook spread on the coverlet, highlighter poised in my hand, ready for business—or at least pretending to be.

Breathlessly, I wait.

Petrified of rejection.

What if he wants to pretend last night and this morning never happened? Or that it was a huge mistake? I’ll be humiliated. Living across the hall from the guy you just slept with is the most awkward form of the walk of shame. It would be like a marathon of shame.

“How’s it going in here?”

Instinctively, I sense him weighing his words, treading lightly. Unsure.

So, doing my best to appear nonchalant, I shrug casually. “Good. Just catching up on a paper I should have written but spaced out on. What about you?”

“I was at the gym.” He leans against the doorjamb, broad shoulders slouching, hands in his pockets. Those big, capable man hands were on my body.

Every inch of it, just hours ago.

I peel my eyes away, sinking them down to my notebook, embarrassed, chest and cheeks turning red.

“How was it? Was it crowded?”

“Nah, not too bad. I think I beat the rush.”

“That’s good.”

“I was surprised to find the house almost dark when I walked in.”