The Coaching Hours(5)

“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.

The rentals with pets? Pass—I’m allergic to cats.

Furnished would be fantastic; the last thing I want after moving out is to burden Dad and Linda with the task of scavenging for furniture with me. I can’t imagine what that would cost.

Plus, Dad’s in the middle of wrestling season; he doesn’t have time to orchestrate an entire move, so if I could find something even partially furnished, I’d be winning at life.

Frustrated, I close out the website and open the document I started earlier for my ethics class, determined to pound out the required word count, resolute to ace this assignment.

School doesn’t come easy for me; I have to work at it. Sometimes I’ll be reading and by the end of the first paragraph or page, I have to go back and read it again. Memorization is not my forte.

The sixth floor remains silent and empty, except for me, and I wonder why it’s not utilized. It’s the perfect place for studying, and…other things.

You hear stories at other universities about the top floor of the library, stories about couples having sex in the aisles of books. The long, dusty rows are dark and secluded and unsupervised by employees.

I’ve never heard any such stories about the top floor of this one.

Bummer.

I push my earbuds in deeper, sliding the button for noise cancellation to on.

Drop my head and get to work.





Elliot





The sixth floor.

Empty. Secluded. Quiet.

Just as I like it.

The lights are dull here on the top level of the library, almost as if it’s the forgotten floor. Row after row of dusty books, some of them long outdated but never replaced, keep its few study tables company.

I move toward the same table I always occupy, in the corner to the right and all the way back. There’s a window there, too, but it’s nearly dark out, so there’s not much to see outside but the glowing lights of the campus commons below and a few students hustling by hurriedly.

Rounding a corner rack of journals, I stop in my tracks when I see my table is already taken. A young woman sitting in my seat. Books set where I study. Feet propped where I prop my feet.

Shit, I hardly know what to do with myself.

No one ever sits there.

No one ever comes up here.

Pausing, I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose, eyeing her up, only getting glimpses at the crown of her bent brunette head. She’s hunched over an open book, one hand stroking a yellow highlighter along its pages, the other tapping the acrylic tabletop, nails clicking the surface.

Black long-sleeved T-shirt. Hair down over one shoulder.

She doesn’t see me.

Doesn’t look up when I grunt out my displeasure. Doesn’t look up when I shuffle along, irritated, moving to find a different table.

I gaze at my options critically, not wanting to sit in a repressive study room for the next few hours while I kill time before my soccer game in the park.

Also not wanting a table out in the open in case someone else comes up and decides to get chatty, which has been known to happen occasionally.

Near the east-facing window, I settle on a desk with two chairs. Its location is a little too bright for my liking, but beggars can’t be choosers, and until that girl packs up her shit and leaves, this desk will have to do.

Sullen, I get settled, using the second chair to rest my legs on. It’s way too fucking small for my frame, and I gripe to myself as I set down my bag, laying out all my crap. Laptop. Water bottle.

None of it fits on the desk the way it fits on my normal table, and it’s throwing off my groove. How am I supposed to study this way if I can’t spread out?

I power up all my electronics and click open the paper I started writing yesterday. It’s required to be a minimum of twenty-five ungodly pages long.

It’s due in two days.

Neuroplasticity. Neural connections.

Fuck.

I’m never going to learn this shit in the course of one semester.

Cursing myself for declaring kinesiology as a major as the workload continues to pile on, I open the search engine on my computer. Find a diagram of nerve cells in the human body.

In the brain.

Begin jotting notes and set an alarm so I don’t lose track of time and miss running with a soccer teammate. The minutes tick by and I stare at my laptop, overwhelmed by the assignment. I do everything but write my paper: message a few friends who have already graduated. Scroll through Instagram. Chug some water.

I take a quick break to piss, making my way back from the bathroom located in the far left corner, catching a side view of the girl—the squatter—glowing streetlamps outside hitting her in a way that has a halo circling the top of her head, long hair shining.