The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  “I would love that! We can bond.” She winks. “Get to know each other better.”

  Super.

  Nonetheless, I just hammer the nail deeper into my coffin. “Maybe we can stop somewhere before we come home and get dinner?”

  “When do you want to leave?”

  “I don’t know, the mall doesn’t open for a few hours, but if you want we can stop to get coffee and shoot the shit.”

  “Okay! I’ll get changed. Just knock on my door when you’re ready to go.”

  Which ends up being exactly one hour later.

  By nine, Anabelle is walking out of her bedroom in a fitted pair of jeans, wedges, and a tucked-in gray T-shirt that says Good Vibes Only in white block letters.

  “Ready?” She pushes a pair of sunglasses to the top of her head, tucking a purse under her armpit, and when she breezes past me toward the door, I catch a whiff of her perfume.

  “Ready.”

  As I’ll ever be.

  Which is not ready at all.

  Elliot

  “I don’t understand why you just let these guys treat you like shit.”

  We’re walking along the food court, sipping on smoothies from Jamba Juice, and I don’t know how the conversation turned to guys, but it stops Anabelle in her tracks.

  “I’m not letting them treat me like shit. This thing isn’t my fault—they’re the morons who made the stupid bet, I’m just the collateral damage.”

  “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I meant, you should confront them about it instead of not doing anything.”

  “If only it were that easy. I don’t want to cause a bunch of drama, especially with my dad being the coach here.”

  “You know what I think you need to do? Give those two assholes a taste of their own medicine. You do know that wrestlers are like the bottom feeders on the athletic food chain.”

  “Stop it, they are not.” She gives me a little smack on the arm.

  “Yes they are—have you seen their ears?”

  “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 m
y 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.

  “Dad! Why didn’t you tell me you were stopping by?”

  “I didn’t realize I had to.” He shoots me an icy glare, glancing between Anabelle and me. “Where is your roommate? Are the two of you here alone?”

  “Well, funny story about that…” She stares down at her narwhal slippers, giving them a wiggle.

  I’d think it was a totally cute move if her father wasn’t standing in our doorway hating on me.

  “Funny story about what, young lady? Cut to the chase.”

  “Dad, you didn’t stop by to yell at me, did you? I think we still have some leftovers from dinner if you’re hungry?”

  “Answer me, Anabelle. Who is this kid? That’s the bullshit I’m trying to wade through here.”

  “Should we go into the kitchen to talk?”

  “No. I’m not moving from this spot until you start talking.”

  There’s an awkward stretch of silence before I excuse myself, taking a few cautious steps toward my bedroom. “Okay, well, I’ll just go make myself scarce so you two can have some privacy. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  “You stand right there, son. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Dad, how do you know this isn’t my boyfriend?”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, no…”

  “Then explain to me, if this isn’t your boyfriend, why he’s in this house and you’re wearing a bathrobe.” Coach crosses his meaty arms across a brawny chest. “Go on. I’ve got thirty minutes.” He raises his forearm, staring down at his watch. “Go.”

  “See, the thing is—remember that night I didn’t come home and stayed with a friend?”

  Her dad gives a jerky nod.

  “This is that friend.”

  When she moves to stand next to me, I back away slowly, afraid to get too close, not wanting to set Coach Donnelly off. She’s wearing a sexy robe for fuck’s sake. The last thing I want is him getting the wrong idea.

  Her hands move, gesturing as she explains. “And he was living here all on his own, with a spare room he’d turned into an office. When I saw it, I thought it would be perfect converted into a bedroom.”

  Her old man glares at me as if it was my evil intention to lure his daughter into my den of sin from the beginning. “How convenient.”

  “I know, right?” Anabelle, bless her heart, doesn’t hear the sarcasm in her father’s voice, too relieved that she’s finally able to tell him the truth. “So I asked him if I could move in. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Daddy, but I thought you’d freak out.”

  “Freak out,” he deadpans, looking me up and down as only a father can. “So you lied, because I specifically remember you saying your roommate’s name was Ellie.”

  “I might have?” She chews on her thumbnail.

  “I guess with a name like Ellie, I didn’t realize you came with a penis. I assumed you’d have a vagina.”

  “Oh my god, Dad!”

  “Well, I’ve heard very little about him, what did you expect?” Coach shrugs his solid shoulders, studying the living room.

  “Now would be a good time to say something, son.”

  “I honestly had no idea you didn’t know she was living with a guy, sir. We never talked about it.”

  “Is that so.”

  Anabelle lays a hand on her dad’s arm. “I swear, he didn’t know. I never told him about our discussion. I was just so excited, and Elliot—that’s his name—has been so great. It’s like living with a girl.”

  Awesome.

  “He’s been the best.”

  Once again, Coach Donnelly trails his eyes up and down my body, scoping me out, shoulders relaxing with a sigh of relief. “So you’re saying he’s gay.”

  Anabelle’s laugh is light and twinkling. “No, I didn’t say that.”

  “This is lying by omission. You led me to believe you were living with another young lady. How many times did you call him Ellie during our conversations?”

  My brows go up.

  She did?

  “Dad, he’s the best roommate I’ve ever had. Please just give it a chance, okay? I’m not moving out. Elliot is my friend, and I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”

  “Not even when you were in Mass?”

  “No, not even then. I don’t want you to be mad, okay? I want you to trust me.”

  “Even though you lied, you want me to trust you.”

  “Dad, it was one little white lie—I never actually said I was living with a girl.”

  “Young lady,” he warns, tone low.

  “All right, all right, I was wrong. I’m sorry.” She sidles up to her dad, putting an arm around his waist, squeezing. “Dad, this is my roommate Elliot. Elliot, this is m
y dad.”

  Jesus, could this be any more fucking awkward?

  There’s a knock on my door and before I can respond, a set of delicate hands are easing it open, Anabelle sticking her head through the crack, pert nose playing peekaboo.

  “Are you decent? Is it safe to come in?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, it’s safe.”

  She pushes it all the way open. “Thank God—I’d die if I ever walked in on you. That’s like, breaking roommate code, right?”

  “Uh, that must be a girl thing, cause I wouldn’t really give a shit. I’ve showered with a room full of guys.”

  “Oh, good point.”

  I swivel toward her in my chair, tossing my pencil on the flat surface of my desk. “What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to come in and apologize again for what happened earlier with my dad. I know it was a real shitty situation to put you in.”

  “Not gonna lie, Anabelle, it was fucking awkward. I felt like a ten-year-old being scolded, and I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

  “I know.”

  I look at her now, standing near the door, her long hair dry, hanging in loose waves. Eyes bright and alert and lined in black. Concerned—for me. She inches closer, dressed in jeans and an Iowa sweatshirt, feet bare. I can’t help fixating on her toes, the long length of her legs, the pretty sight of her pink glossy lips.

  Guilty, I glance away, staring up at the trophies lining my wall on a shelf my dad helped me build at the beginning of the year when I moved all my shit into this dump.

  Anabelle closes the space between us, inviting herself farther into my room, perching on the edge of my bed, making herself comfortable like we’re familiar, like we’ve chatted like this a million times before.

  “Are you going somewhere tonight?” I ask curiously, changing the subject.

  “Yes, just for a little bit.” She leans back, resting with her elbows on my quilt, swinging her legs off the end of my bed. “I met this girl in one of my classes and we really hit it off. She just texted me and thought we could meet up and have a coffee or something.”