The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  “I didn’t…I didn’t, uh, throw up in your car last night, did I?”

  I might have been completely blitzed out of my mind, but I do vaguely remember a conversation where he specifically asked me not to puke in his car. I have to wonder now if I did.

  His head gives a lazy shake as he laughs. “No, but I think it was close. I seriously thought you were going to toss your cookies.”

  “I’m…really glad I didn’t.”

  Talk about horrifying.

  Not to mention, I had Mexican food last night—me throwing up in his vehicle would have been a nightmare for both of us.

  Library Guy stays put, still in the doorway, watching me lie on his bed like a beached porpoise. I roll forward, intent on slowly dragging my feet over the side of his mattress, which is easier said than done when you’re hung-over.

  “Please don’t watch,” I murmur, only half joking.

  He moves toward me a few inches, unsure. “Do you want a hand getting up?”

  “No! No, I’m good. I got this.” Deep cleansing breath in, deep cleansing breath out.

  “Take your time, Donnelly, or you’ll be yacking it on my carpet.”

  Dear Lord, did he just call me by my last name? I suppose it makes sense given that he knows who my dad is, but still, kind of weird.

  “If you don’t mind, I would love to at least use your bathroom, get that headache medicine—my head is pounding.”

  “I can get you some water, too. You need to hydrate.”

  “Do you happen to have any choco—”

  “Chocolate milk? No, but you did ask for it last night.” He chuckles again, this time into his coffee mug.

  “Please, can we not talk about what I said last night? I don’t want to know—I don’t know if I’m emotionally equipped to handle it.” I groan when my feet hit the carpet; they’re bare, shoes and socks neatly placed by the door.

  I gaze up into his expectant face…his tan, handsome face.

  I stumble, grabbing for a nearby dresser, righting myself so I can stand. It’s not easy; everything aches, and also I’m dying.

  I’ve never wanted to crawl back under the covers and hide so much in my entire freaking life. My face, cheeks, and chest are a blazing inferno of shame.

  Ugh. Shoot me now.

  Seriously, put me out of my misery.

  “Thank you.” I hesitate, wondering how to broach the next subject, pointing to the rumpled sheets on the bed. “Did we, uh…”

  “No, of course not.” He sips from his mug. “I slept on the couch.”

  “Oh thank God.”

  His brows shoot into his forehead, and I realize that statement sounded worse out loud than it did in my head—my pounding, throbbing, spinning head.

  I wave it off. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…I can’t remember anything from last night and I woke up in your bed and I have no idea how I got here and I’m just really…” Deep breath, Anabelle. “Thank you for being a decent human.”

  “No, I get it. It’s fine.”

  “I mean it, thank you—and I’m sorry you probably didn’t get much sleep last night being on the couch. That’s so awkward, I’m sorry. I can never sleep on mine.”

  His toned, tanned shoulder goes up in a shrug. “I’ve slept in worse spots than the couch, trust me.”

  I lean a few feet, capturing my shoes. Socks.

  Slide one on, then the other, all the while managing not to fall on my ass.

  Rising, I grab my boots. “Where exactly is your bathroom?”

  He jams his thumb over his shoulder. “Straight across the hall, can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He moves, giving me a wide berth as I stick my head into the hallway, not sure what I’ll find. I don’t know where I am or how many people live here.

  How many guys are likely to see me doing the walk of shame? One? Three? Five?

  “I live alone,” his deep voice calls, interrupting my thoughts from what I presume is the kitchen. “It’s safe to come out.” Pause. “You want that water now or something?”

  Or something. Like, for example, a stun dart to my ass so I can pass out, wake up on a different day (or century), and remember none of this.

  I make the short trek across the hall, using the wall as support, shutting the door behind me and exhaling a loud, relieved breath.

  What I need right now is a warm shower, sleep, aspirin, water, and more sleep, in that order.

  His bathroom is a decent size, mostly bare save for a few essentials laid out on the countertop. One sink, but a nice, long counter.

  One navy blue hand towel folded into a neat square.

  It’s not the cleanest bathroom I’ve ever been in, but to be fair, I would have been surprised if it was. He is, after all, a guy living alone—what reason would he have to keep the place spotless?

  I brace my arms on the counter, one hand on either side of the sink, raising my eyes to gaze at the reflection in the mirror. It takes a few seconds to focus, the face before me blurred…until it’s not. I lean in closer, pressing my middle and forefinger into my cheeks, pulling at my bottom lids.

  Verdict: I don’t look as terrible as I thought I would.

  Okay, that’s a lie—I look like total shit.

  Ugh.

  Staring at the reflection, my expression is horrified. I gape at the sight of my hair, smudged mascara, and tired, red, bloodshot eyes. I’m so embarrassed by the way I look right now, embarrassed that my evening got so out of hand that a stranger—this guy I’ve only ever met once at the library—brought me home with him to keep me safe.

  To his house.

  To keep me safe.

  The thought of all the things that could have happened to me because I was completely drunk? Shameful, upsetting. I could have ended up as one of those girls you see on the evening news or read about online.

  Horrible decision to get drunk.

  Horrible decision to go out while I was indulging in a pity party.

  Horrible decision to allow this guy to bring me home, although I was passed out and couldn’t make the decision for myself.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  This is so unlike me.

  I hunt down a clean washcloth, running it under the cold water and scrubbing my face clean. Try to locate a little moisturizer but only find aftershave lotion instead. No brush, but I do find a comb, one that barely pulls through my snarled locks without pulling my hair out.

  Ouch.

  I train my blue eyes on my clothes; they need to come off and hit the laundry. Gross. There’s a huge, yellow stain on the front of my white top, the flared sleeves wrinkled and looking worse for wear.

  Pulling the cap off a tube of toothpaste, I squeeze it onto my finger and rub it along my teeth, the least effective technique for getting them clean, but it’s all I’ve got. Holding my hands under the water, I make a cup, drink, and swish water around my mouth, spitting the water and toothpaste into the sink. Repeat.

  Crossing the bathroom, I hook my finger on the shower curtain, drawing it back to peer inside at the beige-colored tiles. Hmmm, a tiled shower? Not bad for a college rental. I wonder what he’d think if I hopped inside and took a quick shower with all his stuff. Would that be weird?

  It definitely wouldn’t be any more impolite than crashing his pad and taking up his entire bed.

  Contemplating, I grasp a long chunk of my hair, giving it a long whiff: stinky and gross.

  I smell like I was in a dirty dive bar, not a harmless house party on Jock Row, and there wasn’t even anyone smoking. Even so, sweat, beer, and too many bodies can’t lead to any good.

  My fingers brush the metal faucet. On one hand, I desperately want to jump under the shower spray; on the other, I’d have to put my dirty clothes back on afterward.

  Crap.

  There is no winning this one.

  I let the shower curtain go, backing away.

  Heft out a sigh, giving myself another glance in the mirror before tu
gging open the door. I pass the bedroom I slept in, my curious gaze shooting into the only other room off the hallway. Large wooden desk. Bookshelf. Iowa pennants. Some kind of framed award.

  An office? A spare bedroom?

  There’s certainly no one living in there.

  Hmm.

  I trudge down the hall, shoulders back and chin up. Though I didn’t grow up living with my dad, he still taught me some life lessons: do everything with conviction, hold your head up.

  My walk of shame begins here.

  I can do this. I can walk into this guy’s kitchen and look him in the eye, thank him for everything he did for me last night. I will suck up my pride and have an adult conversation whether there is black mascara smudged under my eyes or not.

  I owe him that much.

  He’s leaning against a wooden countertop when I walk into the room, that white coffee mug still grasped in his large, mammoth hands.

  “Hey.” He nods in my direction. “Feel better?”

  “Somewhat human, thanks.”

  “You should drink this.” He holds another cup toward me and I take it, bashful now that he’s still being so nice.

  He should have kicked me out by now, and I wonder why he hasn’t. I’ve been nothing but a pain in his ass. When will he have had enough?

  I sip on the ice water in my hands, grateful for the liquid, which feels wonderful sliding down my throat. I watch him from above the rim of the cup. He’s not creepy at all, despite his size. Tall and built, I can tell he works out. Maybe he plays intramural sports? Goes to the gym? He does something for sure—his arms are way too toned for him to be sitting around doing nothing.

  His green eyes never stray from my face, laugh lines appearing at the corners, wrinkling when I plop down in his kitchen chair with a loud sigh.

  “I know I’ve already said this several times, but I really am sorry about all this.” I pause, fiddling with the plastic cup in my hands.

  “Right place, right time.”

  “Yes.” I bow my head, staring down at the cup, reading the screen-printed label on its side. Raise my eyes, shooting him a crooked, wane smile. “You don’t even know my name. I don’t know yours.”

  There’s a long silent pause.

  “Elliot.”

  “Elliot,” I repeat. “What’s your last name?”

  He shifts against the counter, stuffing one hand in the pocket of his sweatpants. “St. Charles.”

  Elliot St. Charles, ooh la la.

  It’s an awesome name I let linger in my mind, turning it around and around, romanticizing it. St. Charles.

  Saint Charles.

  Charles.

  Saint.

  “Saint—that’s a nice way to think of you, since you’ve rescued me twice in one week.” I say it softly into the confines of his tiny kitchen; it’s so tiny, there’s barely room for both of us at this small table. “I’m not normally the kind of girl who needs rescuing, let alone this many times within the span of a few short days.”

  “Saint.” His expression is impossible to read, his mouth…those lips…an impassive line. “I don’t know if that’s how I’d describe myself.”

  “But it seems to suits you.”

  Those gorgeous lips twitch. “How would you know?”

  My butt wiggles in the chair. “First, you came over to console me in the library.”

  “That’s because you stole my spot.”

  “I did? How?” What on earth is he talking about?

  “That’s the table I sit at when I study.”

  I laugh.

  Wince because ouch, that hurts my head.

  “I’d say I owe it back to you then.”

  His nod is slow, deliberate. “I’ll allow it.” Sips from his mug. “What else have I done to earn the nickname?”

  “You brought me to your house to keep me safe,” I explain. “A complete stranger. I could have been a complete psycho.”

  God, what if I’d puked?

  “I could have been a complete psycho, too. Maybe I still am.”

  My face flushes red hot, a blush so deep I feel it move from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.

  “You are not.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I opened your cabinets—you don’t have any medications.”

  We both laugh, and when he sits down across from me at the small wooden table, I can’t stop the heat warming up my entire body.

  His large wide shoulders and smooth exposed skin.

  “I might have overstepped my boundaries, but I couldn’t leave you at that party. You were way too drunk.”

  Yes, he could have.

  He totally could have, and he also could have taken advantage of me, of the fact that I was three sheets to the wind drunk. Trashed. Wasted. Blacked out. Unconscious.

  But Elliot didn’t.

  He could have done all sorts of terrible things to me and he chose to…keep me safe. What a nice freaking guy.

  “Elliot, I’m sure you’ve seen your fair share of drunk chicks about to pass out at parties. What was it that made you leave with me?”

  He stares toward the window. Purses his lips. “I knew why you were getting trashed.” Turns to face me. “And trust me, I was trying to get you to your house, but you couldn’t tell your left from your right.”

  Taking me home, back to Dad’s would have been a blessing and a curse.

  I briefly imagine Elliot taking me to my father’s house, dumping me on the front stoop. Ringing the doorbell and having Dad answer, most likely in his robe, furious.

  At me.

  At Elliot, because he no doubt would have misinterpreted the entire situation.

  Elliot studies me, an easy grin brightening his face, white teeth way too perfect. He’s altogether too alert, way too cheerful considering he spent the entire night on an uncomfortable-looking couch. I give it a glance over my shoulder—no way did his tall frame fit on that thing.

  “You’ve only met me once.”

  His chuckle is deep. “Let’s just say I have a stronger moral compass than most of my friends. I’d rather see you safely home than take the chance and leave you to the wolves, to the jockholes.”

  “Jockholes? That’s a new one.”

  “You like? I made it up.”

  I like. “Friends with any?”

  “Most of my friends are athletes, so yeah, I’m surrounded by douchebags and jockholes.”

  “Oh jeez.”

  “I lived with two guys on the wrestling team for the past two years. It was a test in patience most of the time.”

  “Where’d they go?”

  “Graduated.”

  “What year are you?”

  “Technically I should have gone through commencement last year, but I declared my major too late, and there are a few classes I needed to take before graduating. And one enrichment class.”

  An enrichment class—is this guy for real?

  “Uh, so you’re taking that class for…?”

  “Enrichment.” He casually sips his coffee while I stare at him, confused.

  “Which is another word for…”

  “Fun?”

  Oh Lord. I’d never purposely take a class for fun—not even badminton. Okay fine, one time I took that as a gym class and had a blast, but for real, it costs a fortune just to screw around for an entire semester.

  Lesson learned.

  “Which class?”

  “It’s a science class. It’s not required, but I think it will be beneficial.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  “You can never know enough, uh…” Uncomfortably, his sentence tapers off, missing an important piece. It’s then that I realize, I never introduced myself.

  “Oh my God, Elliot, I never told you my name! I’m the worst!” I stick my hand out self-consciously. “I’m Anabelle.”

  “Anabelle,” he echoes quietly. Leans back in the chair to watch me before unfolding his arms and reaching to slowly slide his palm across mine,
pumping my hand once before dropping it.

  Nope. Not awkward in the least.

  “Anabelle. I’ve been wondering what your name was.” When his smile disappears into his mug, I dip my head and stare down at my lap, fiddling with the fabric of my jeans, biting back my own, stupid smile.

  Elliot’s silent, lazy scrutiny is doing bizarre things to my already quaking insides—plus, he’s one of the good guys, which makes him even more attractive, if that’s even possible.

  Unlike those assholes Eric Johnson and Rex Gunderson, who I never want to see again.

  “I used to hate my name growing up. It was always so hard for me to spell, and no one gets it right.” One N, not two.

  Elliot grins. “Really? I think it’s cute. Anyone ever call you Annie? Or Ana?”

  “My dad sometimes. Ana Banana. Jelly Belle.”

  “Huh.”

  “Yeah.”

  The room is awkwardly still while both of us rack our brains for something new to say.

  Then, “Oh, before I forget, here.” He produces a smartphone from his pocket that looks suspiciously like mine, sending it gliding across the kitchen table in my direction. “This was in my car last night—I remembered to grab it while you were in the bathroom. It’s been beeping like crazy.”

  Tucking an errant hair behind my ear as he looks on, I remove the phone from the table, palming it. Slide my thumb over the screen to unlock it, cringing when I see that my father has texted me eight times in the past twenty minutes.

  Great. He obviously thinks I’m dead.

  Dad: Where the hell are you?

  Dad: Did you come home last night?

  Dad: Anabelle, answer me goddammit.

  Dad: You better be dead in a ditch somewhere.

  Dad: Anabelle Juliet Donnelly

  Dad: Young lady, answer your phone. You’re starting to worry Linda.

  Dad: Anabelle, if you don’t text me back within ten minutes, so help me God, I’m calling the campus police and the state patrol.

  Dad: Five minutes.

  Hastily, I tap out a reply: Sorry Dad, just woke up. I stayed at a friend’s house last night. Too much alcohol to make it home.

  He wastes no time asking questions.

  Dad: Which friend?

  Me: Daddy, does it matter?

  Dad: Daddy? Now I know you’re up to something.