The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(8)

Mysterious and hard and angry, just as he appears to be.

“Is he always broody like that? Or is it just me?”

“Daniels?” My dad cranes his neck again, peering through the glass. Grunts dismissively. “He’s always like that.”

“Why?”

“Suspect it has something to do with his upbringing. He doesn’t get along with his parents.”

“Ahh.”

Neither of us speak after that, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am. That a person’s parents shape the person they become, whether they want them to or not. I mean, look at me—I have two perfectly normal parents who happen to be divorced, and in a way, it kind of did a number on me.

I moved halfway across the country to seek my dad’s approval, to atone for my mother leaving him. I’ve taken enough high school psych classes to know this behavior stems from my past and has everything to do with my family dynamic.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Dad is saying, “but he’s really come a long way. He was such a goddamn prick last year, I almost had to suspend him.”

I study Zeke through the glass, gaze roaming up and down his body, ogling. Really Anabelle, in front of your father?

Ugh.

“Suspend him? Why?”

“Piss-poor attitude—pardon my French.”

“He doesn’t look all that terrible.”

Dad hmphs. “Looks can be deceiving, and I suspect his girlfriend has a lot to do with it.”

“Have you met her?”

I watch as Zeke sits on the bench, back to us, lacing up a pair of black wrestling shoes and sliding a tank top over his head. Such a pity, covering his broad back.

“Once, at the Big Brothers fundraiser. I’m guessing by now, that blonde has him wrapped around her little finger.”

Blonde? Typical.

Guys like that always go for the blondes.

“Tiny slip of a thing, not much to her. Has a stutter.”

Say what? “A stutter?”

“You know, a speech impediment.”

“I know what a stutter is, Dad.” My brows go up, curious. “That guy is dating a girl with a speech impediment?”

“He is.”

I can’t peel my eyes off him now, curiosity getting the best of me as I second-guess my initial valuation of him.

“What’s she like?”

“Who, Violet?”

“Is that her name?”

“Yes.” Dad steeples his fingers once again. “She volunteers a lot. Babysits. Small and quiet, I guess. I wouldn’t have paired the two of them together in a million years, but I guess we can’t choose who we fall in love with.”

I can’t decide if that’s a dig at Zeke or at Violet’s choice in romantic partners.

“Anyway, I have to hand it to the boy—he works his ass off for the team.”

I would say so—he’s an hour and a half early for practice, already wrapping his wrists. Tilting his head from side to side, headgear dangling from around his wrist.

“Enough about him. We need to get your living situation squared away.”

I breathe a sigh, relieved he’s ready to talk about it. “Yes. Thank you, Dad.”

“If you want to live on your own, I have nothing to say against it, but I don’t want you in a shithole.”

“They’re all shitholes,” I say, feeling the need to point out this unfortunate fact.

“True.” He stands, coming around his desk. “Find a few options and we’ll have a look. In the meantime, do your old man a favor and try to find a roommate, preferably one who studies a lot and likes to stay home, one who hates partying and boys.”

“Haha.” I rise too, wrapping my hands around his shoulders and squeezing. Give him a kiss on his weathered cheek. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Love you, Annie.” When he ruffles my hair, I let him.

I roll my eyes at the childhood nickname. “Love you too, Dad.”





I’ve found the perfect little spot on campus to study.

Climbing the steps all the way to the top floor of the university’s library, I weave through the peaceful space, past the archaic volumes of books, newspaper archives, and outdated, old-school periodical machines—you know, the ones where you search for articles from before we had the internet.

There are several study rooms on this level, but I choose a table instead. It’s in the corner, tucked away, hidden behind a bookshelf almost five feet high.

No one would be able to see me if they came up here.

No one will bother me since I haven’t seen a single soul the four times I’ve studied up here. It’s peaceful, the perfect environment for getting homework done.

Five floors down, there are way too many young people. It’s a place for students to socialize, yet another breeding ground for procrastination and flirting.

The damn library is like a nightclub.

I crack open my laptop and log into the school’s social media site. Click through, searching the classifieds. Roommates wanted and apartments for rent.

Too expensive.

Too far from campus.

Six roommates in a four-bedroom house? No thanks.

I scroll on by, passing over anything old and outdated. The houses that look dilapidated and falling apart. The ads with no photos.