The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(6)

“Nice to meet you, Anabelle.”

I can’t say the same, but nonetheless, my hand slides into his, pumps his arm up and down, gripping his hand firmly. “Eric, it’s been interesting.”

“See you around?”

“Sure.” Then I add, “Why not?”





“Hey Dad, is this a bad time?” My knuckles give a soft rap on the window to his office, located at the entrance of the wrestling locker room. He sits at his desk, head bent over a sheaf of papers, bright yellow sticky notes on his computer, walls.

His head lifts, happy to see me standing in the doorway. “Hey Ana Banana.”

I used to hate when he called me that—he’s been doing it since I was five—but now I’m so used to it, the nickname actually brings a silly grin to my face.

“Got a free minute?”

“Anything for my baby girl.”

Oh brother.

I dial down my nervous energy and shuffle to one of the chairs in his office, a blue-painted cinderblock room with only a bank of windows separating it from the changing area, the showers.

A veritable fishbowl.

“I’m not going to accidentally see any naked wrestlers, am I?” Not that I’d be mad about it, but it might be embarrassing if my father was sitting beside me when it happened.

“Nope. No one should be getting here until”—he checks the ancient watch circling his wrist—“four.”

I dump my backpack on the concrete floor, which at one time was painted beige but has now faded, and plop down in an uncomfortable metal chair. No luxuries for my old man.

He leans forward, already interested in whatever it is I’m about to say. “How are classes?”

“Good.” Real good actually. “I was just on my way to grab a bite to eat. I’m starving. You want anything?”

I steal a peppermint from the bowl on his desk—the same brand he’s eaten since I was young—and peel it open, pop it in my mouth. Toss the green wrapper into the nearby wastebasket.

“Why don’t you just run home and grab something to eat?”

“Because I’m already on campus. I’ll just grab a sub in the union shop.”

“You don’t have to eat in the cafeteria you know—the food here is utter shit.”

There it is—my opening for the conversation I’ve been wanting to have.

“Actually Dad, that’s why I’m here.” I clear my throat, garnering my courage. “You know I love living with you and Linda, it’s just…I think it’s time to find my own place. It’s been a month,” I add hurriedly. “I think I’ve adjusted really well and there’s no need for me to, you know, stay with you guys anymore.”

Ugh, do I sound ungrateful? I feel terrible even bringing it up, but I really do need and want my own place.

Dad shifts in his seat, tipping it back until it squeaks, steepling his fingers in a move I’ve learned is his signature when he’s thinking of what to say next.

“Have you started looking?”

“Not really. I’m not sure where to start. I thought maybe you could help me.”

This puffs him up a bit, and he sits up straighter. Crying teenage girls, he knew nothing about. Scared little girls who missed their mother during a routine weekend visit, not a clue. Periods? Hormones? Boy troubles? No, no, and heck no. Those were all things he could never understand or help me with.

Finding a place to live?

That he knows a little something about.

I pat myself on the back for asking him. I hate that he feels like he failed me when my mother divorced him, hate that he missed so much of my life because of it—because he was busy chasing the dream while my mother only became bitter.

I can only wonder and imagine what it would have been like had they stayed together, tried to make it work. If my mother hadn’t minded moving every December when he took a new job for the spring. I wonder if it would have felt like an adventure not staying in the same town my whole life.

My hands fiddle with the hem of my sweatshirt, the only warm thing I’ve unpacked since I got to his place, knowing—hoping—it was temporary.

“I don’t want you living with strangers, Annie.”

“Everyone here is a stranger, Daddy. I’m still meeting people.”

“Then maybe now is not the right time to move into your own place.”

“Well.” I fold my hands on his desk. “Maybe that’s the solution. Maybe I should get my own place—maybe I shouldn’t do the roommate thing anymore. I’m a junior. I’ll be twenty-two in no time at all.”

His head lolls from side to side and he stares up at the ceiling. “Don’t remind me. It only makes me feel old,” he teases. Sits up again and directs his steely green gaze in my direction. “You really want to live alone?”

“Not really, but I don’t want to wait. It might take me forever to find people to live with.” I take a deep breath. “I love you Dad, and I love Linda. I just, you know, need my own space. It feels weird wanting to have my own guests.”

“Sure you can!”

“Dad, come on,” I deadpan. “By people, I mean guys.”

If I ever manage to meet someone.

I ramble on as if his face hasn’t just contorted into a horrified expression. “Can you imagine me sneaking someone into the house at night while you’re asleep? I snuck friends in when I lived at Mom’s. Man, she used to get so mad.”