The Coaching Hours(3)

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.

I take his measure. Average, he has the look of a wrestler, no doubt about it: wide forehead, ears a tad bent, intense brown gaze directed at me.

I smooth a nervous hand down the front of my tight athletic pants, conscious of my appearance. Of my tight tank top, the sweat dripping between my boobs. The skin on my back squishing out of my sports bra. My mass of long, out of control, chestnut hair.

“Are you like—holy?” he enquires.

“Am I holy?” I play dumb. “What does that mean?”

He waves a hand in the air. “You know, are you saving yourself for marriage and shit?”

My nose goes in the air. “That’s personal—I don’t even know you.”

His smirk is cocky, like he has me—and the universe—figured out. “So you are saving yourself.”

I sigh. “Holy Immaculate is where my mom went. That’s where she wanted me to go, so I…went.”

“How did you end up here?”

I grab the towel hanging off the handrail, patting at the perspiration dampening my chest, the wet hairs at the nape of my neck. “Family.”

My dad.

His discount as a member of the staff.

Iowa’s stellar law program.

“What family?”

I shoot him a look. “Why are you so nosy?”

“Why aren’t you answering me?”

“I don’t know you.”

“My name is Eric. You can get to know me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.” I laugh. “You seem like a total…” Pain in the ass. Too pushy for my taste. “You’re a complete stranger.”

“I’m not a sixty-five-year-old pervert, I can tell you that.”

“Not yet, but you will be someday.” It slips out before I can stop it and I cover my mouth, laughing. “Oops, did I say that out loud?”

He looks surprised. “Am I weirding you out?”

“You’re coming on a little strong,” I answer honestly.

“Coming on? What does that mean?”

My eyes narrow as I gather my things. “Look around you, pal. You cannot tell me you have to run on this same treadmill every day and if you don’t, you’ll have bad luck. That’s such a load of crap.”

Eric studies me, lip twitching. “Fair enough. Maybe I did want to come over here to meet you—do you blame me?”

“Making up a string of lies isn’t a great way to start a friendship with someone.”

“So we’re friends now?”

I shrug.

He pauses, considering this information, looking into my eyes. Dark chocolate gaze slides down my nose to my mouth. Up again, to my hairline. “You look familiar.”

“Maybe I look like someone you know.”

“You know, you’re right. You do.”

“Who?”

I have a feeling I already know the answer, but I wait for him to fill in the blanks. He looks like a semi-smart fellow.

“I heard a rumor that one of the coaches here had a daughter.”

I nod knowingly. “Ah, so you are a wrestler.” God, I love it when I’m right.

“So what if I am?”

Ha! Yes! I knew it. “My father is the coach.”

“You look nothing like him.” He continues watching me. “Well, you kind of do, but you’re much better-looking.”

Obviously, I’m much better-looking. I mean, my dad is a man. Plus, he hasn’t aged well. The stress of his job has definitely taken its toll, and he looks nothing like the man my mother fell head-over-heels in love with twenty years ago.

Whoever this wrestler is, he came over here knowing who I was.

I step onto the carpeted floor. “Eric, what’s your last name?”

“Johnson.”

I bank that away in my mind for a rainy day, just in case I need to shake down my father for intel on the kid.

“Well Eric Johnson, it’s been swell, but I’m pretty sure my dad warned the entire team off me, and you’ve just lied to me twice. So, you’re either hard of hearing or looking for trouble. Which one is it?”

“You don’t think this meeting was purely coincidental?”

I squint at him, unable to read his blank expression. The guy has an amazing poker face.

Shooting me another friendly smile, the mischievous glint is telling me he’s definitely interested in whatever he thinks I have to offer, or he wants to get on my dad’s good side.

He’s also kind of dopey but in a cute way.

Hmm.

Still, I decide not to give him the time of day. I have things to do, and his level of persistence can only lead to trouble, I’m sure of it.

“What’s your name?” he calls out as I weave through the exercise machines, heading toward the locker room.

Jeez, why is he so loud?

Halting, I retreat, not wanting to yell back across the gym, not in a room full of athletes I’ve never met—hot, perspiring athletes. Did I mention hot?

“Would you keep your voice down?”

He does a mini shrug. “It’s loud in here.”

“Not so loud you have to shout.”

“Sorry?”

“My name is Anabelle.”

Eric Johnson, my new acquaintance—one my father will not be pleased about—sticks out his hand, offering it up for a shake. I hesitate to take it at first, certain my palms are sweaty and gross.

“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?”