The Coaching Hours(20)
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I think you need to teach those dicks a lesson, and you know what else? I’m the person to help you do it. There’s no bigger asshole than me if I want to be, and you’re not going to teach them jack shit if you don’t fight fire with fire.”
“Okay now you’re just starting to sound like my dad, and you are not an asshole—like, at all.”
“I’m not? Shit. I try so hard, too.”
Anabelle rolls her eyes, bumping me with her hip. “You wish. You’ll never achieve douchebag status. You’re doomed.”
“Next you’ll be slapping a nice guy label on me and telling me I’m sweet, asking me to stay in on the weekends and paint your toenails.”
“Why do guys think being called nice is an insult? I’ll never understand that.”
“It’s in our DNA to rebel against it.”
She laughs. “You’re doing a shitty job rebelling—pardon my French.”
“Okay smartass.” We pass by a jewelry shop, wandering past clothing store after clothing store until I stall us both in front of the sporting goods store where my new soccer gear awaits. “Before we go inside, I just want you to think about speaking up against these guys. These dicks don’t get to treat you this way.”
“A revenge plot Saint Elliot? Really?”
“No, no, not a revenge plot—I just think someone needs to call them on their bullshit. We can do it.”
She cocks a brow. “We’ll see.”
Anabelle
I cannot believe I’m having this conversation.
A revenge plot? Seriously?
I don’t think I have it in me, and I certainly don’t have any desire to be the kind of girl who does.
We’re at the front counter of an athletic store, Elliot waiting for the clerk to retrieve an order from the back room—a new pair of black and white indoor soccer shoes.
I lean toward him conspiratorially. “So when you say get back at these guys, like, what exactly do you mean?”
He shrugs. “You know, the usual. The punishment should fit the crime.”
“Crime? Settle down, drama llama.” I stare at him, not sure how to respond, speaking slowly. “I have no idea what you mean by ‘punishment fitting the crime’ because I have no idea what they’ve done to anyone else—you weren’t specific the last time we talked about it and I’m new here, remember?”
“Good point.”
“So?”
“Specifically? When the new guy joined the wrestling team last year—nice guy, right? He comes from Louisiana and likes to keep to himself. Quiet, studies a lot. Anyway, Rex and Eric were living with him. Get drunk one night and decide Rhett—that’s his name—needs to get laid.”
“Wait, they decided? Like it’s their decision to make?”
“Yeah. Anyway, they’re totally lit one night, and they make photocopies of a flyer with Rhett’s face and phone number on it and hang them all over campus.”
I gasp. “What! That’s terrible!”
“It was bad. Girls were calling his number and messaging him for months.”
“Oh nooooo!” My hand flies to my mouth, muffling my horror. “Then what?”
“The guys laid off for a while—except a few other people pulled pranks on the kid, copycat hazing. Let me think for a second…I know those two morons have done other dumb shit. They used to drive my old roommates up the fucking wall.”
“Hypothetically, if I were going to do something to teach them a lesson, what’s something that would piss you off if you were a guy?” He gives me a pointed look and I roll my eyes, poking him in the bicep. “Knock it off, you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know, maybe we can Google some ideas? I’m not a dick, and I’ve certainly never hazed anybody. It would make me feel like the biggest piece of shit.”
“Don’t you think it should be something public? Like…at a party or in class or something? I have a class with Rex, it would be so easy to embarrass him.”
“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.