The Coaching Hours(4)

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.”

“Why would you have to sneak people in?”

“Uh, because she was strict, never really wanted me to have people over. It’s not a big deal.”

Dad’s entire face changes and I feel guilty for bringing her up. “Anabelle, you know we will let you have people over. You don’t even have to ask.” He pauses. “Maybe not guys, but other people—girl kind of people.”

I’m still laughing when a door opens inside the locker room and we both look, watch as a dark, broody figure stalks across the tile floor.

“Who’s that?” My voice is breathy though I try to disguise it.

He cranes his head to look. “Zeke Daniels. He graduated but helps out from time to time.”

My lips part and I feel my head tilt as I study him. I let out a little puff of, “Whoa.”

“He has a girlfriend—and even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near him.”

My shoulders fall because damn he’s good-looking.

“Which reminds me—you might meet him at a dinner Linda and I are taking you to. Probably his girlfriend, too.”

I peel my eyes away…barely. “What dinner?”

“It’s the Big Brothers program I’ve had a hand in sponsoring the last few years. Daniels is a mentor for one of the boys, along with a few of my other wrestlers. Anyway, there’s an annual fundraising dinner at the end of February. Dinner, dancing, a silent auction. Linda and I enjoy it, make it a date night.”

“Date night?”

Dad does that thing where he narrows his eyes ever so slightly to gauge a person’s reaction—and no matter how much I school my expression, I know he sees the excitement in my eyes at the mention of a date.

“I told you, you’re not allowed to date any of these assholes.”

“Which assholes? You’ve warned me off practically everyone.”

“The wrestlers. It just doesn’t cotton.” Dad’s southern roots are showing. “I don’t need you tangled up with anyone on the team. It won’t end well.”

“Won’t end well for who?”

“Them.” He picks at a yellow sticky pad, scribbles something on it, and slaps the square of paper onto his computer monitor. “Besides, you know I’ve already told each and every damn one of them to stay away from you.”

“Some of them aren’t the best listeners,” I quip under my breath with a laugh.

My father doesn’t find it the least bit funny, unflinching in his chair. “Who?”

A tiny shake of my head. “No one.”

“Has one of them already come on to you?”

“No Dad. I was just making a joke.”

“Anabelle Juliet.”

“Oh brother, here we go with the middle name.”

“I’m not shitting around here Annie. Half them boys wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”

I smirk. “What about the other half?” Those are the ones I care about.

He levels me with an unamused stare. “Were you this much of a smartass with your mother?”

“Yes, kind of.” It’s one of the reasons Mom and I fought when I was a teenager. She couldn’t stand my mouth or my sense of humor, said I reminded her too much of my dad. Since when is that a bad thing? I’d always smart back.

“The other half don’t have time for dating, Anabelle. The other half are winning national championships and don’t need the distractions.”

Ahhh, there it is. “So you’re the one who doesn’t want the guys dating.”

He scoffs. “Anabelle, not a single coach in the history of the NCAA wants their athletes dating.”

I laugh, tipping my head back because he says it so matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious. “I get that Dad, but you can’t control everything they do.”

“No, but I can stop them from dating my daughter.”

“What if I end up liking one of them?”

“That’s not going to happen.” His tone dares me to argue with him.

So I do.

“Seriously Dad, what if I meet one and they are just so hot and funny and captivating I couldn’t possibly resist him?”

His fingers steeple again. “Lucky for me, those boys are already off the market. Is that what you kids call it? The meat market?”

“Worst metaphor, but sure.” I shrug. “We’ll go with meat market.”

“I’m not kidding about this.”

“I know that, Dad.”

“Good.” He makes a show of shuffling some papers to let me know we’re done with this conversation. “Besides, I don’t know why you’d want to date a wrestler to begin with—their ears are all funny.”

“Are you making a joke?”

“Yes. Was that not funny?”

“Not really, because I think those funny ears are kind of cute sometimes.” I’m giving him a hard time and he knows it. I rise from my seat and reach over, giving his earlobes a little wiggle. “Look at my daddy’s cute little ears.”

He swats at me, grouchy. “Stop it, people are looking.”

I give him an eye roll worthy of my teenage self. “No one is looking.”

Not if you don’t count the wrestler shuffling around the locker room. Zeke Daniels catches my eye and scowls, immediately presenting me with his broad back as he changes into a gym shirt. The entire expanse of it is covered with a black tattoo that looks like a rising phoenix. Stark against his skin, hard lines with a dark mood.

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.”