How to Date a Douchebag_The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s what you’ll start calling me—everyone always does.”

  I laugh. “No, I won’t. I’m not a complete asshole, promise.”

  Rex rolls his brown eyes. “That’s what everyone says.”

  I nudge him, already taken with his casual demeanor and playful attitude. He’s fun, non-threatening, and not at all aggressive—unlike a few other guys I’ve met on campus.

  “Come on, just tell me.”

  “Fine.” He lets out a groan. “It’s short for Reginald.”

  “Reginald?” I don’t think I’ve ever met a person under the age of eighty named Reginald.

  “It’s terrible, I know.”

  “Nah, it’s kind of cute.”

  “Cute?” Rex rolls his eyes. “You’re a shitty liar, but I do appreciate the effort.”

  “Thanks. I really had my game face on.”

  We pause when a student tries to slide by us, making their way to the end of the row, to the only other open chair in our section.

  “So what’s your story, Anabelle?”

  My shoulders lift up in a casual shrug and I list my quick stats: Junior. Transfer from a small school in Massachusetts. Still trying to meet new people and make friends. Not acing this class.

  “A transfer, eh? What’s that like?”

  “It’s not what I thought it would be, honestly. This school is—phew—way bigger. By thousands.” I laugh. “Still getting used to the giant campus, still finding out where everything is, where the best places are to hang out.” Another shrug. “That sort of thing.”

  “Been to any parties?”

  “Not yet. I wouldn’t know which way to walk from campus.”

  Rex’s arm shoots out, hand pointed toward the dry-erase board at the front of the room. “You walk that way until you hear loud music and see drunk people!”

  I pretend to scratch my chin in thought. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “You like parties?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  Down toward the front of the lecture hall, the teacher’s assistant begins scribbling notes on the board with a black marker, glancing down at the sheet of paper in her hands before writing them, outlining today’s lecture.

  Class is about to begin.

  “I’ll write down an address—there’s a party tonight if you’re interested. Lots of chicks going. Maybe you’ll meet some new people.”

  Chicks?

  I try my hand at flirting. “Are you going to be there, Rex?”

  And fail.

  He shakes his head. “Negative, Ghost Rider, can’t. I only go out once a week, and tonight’s not the night.”

  “Why is that?” I wonder if he’s on a sports team because I know most of them have curfews during the week, and most certainly the nights before games.

  “I’m team manager. We have rules to adhere to.” His chest puffs out a little, much like a peacock posturing. “It’s my job to make sure the players follow those rules, so, you know, I have to set a good example. I’m pretty important.”

  “I see. Bet that’s a huge pain in the rear.”

  “It can be, but with a position like mine comes a lot of responsibility. I’m part team manager, part social director.”

  My smile is wry; I find Rex amusing. Though he’s not normally my type, his rumpled appearance and ridiculous conversation are charming.

  “Social director? Is that an official position or one you made up?”

  “I’d say it’s just a well-known fact.” He winks.

  A projector gets clicked on by the professor, who saunters to the center of the room, remote in her hand. Nods to her assistant, who cuts the lights.

  “All right everyone.” Her voice booms out, slicing through the noise like a knife. “Let’s cut the chatter!”

  And just like that, class has begun.

  Elliot

  I don’t know why I keep hanging around these goons; I swear, the more time I spend with them, the dumber I get.

  But they were my old roommate’s friends and for some reason, they keep coming around. So when they join me for lunch, I scoot over to make room at my table.

  “Long time no see, man, how’s it been going?” asks a big black dude named Pat Pitwell as he slides into the spot across from me. He’s larger than life—huge—regarding me earnestly, like he actually gives a shit about my answer, unlike the other three morons.

  “Good.” I shove my sandwich into my mouth, tearing off a hunk of bread with my teeth. “Quiet.”

  “Living alone now?”

  “Yup.”

  “Haven’t seen you out at all lately.”

  “Nope.”

  Brian Tenneson—a guy I cannot fucking stand—leans closer.

  “You’re not living in Osborne and Daniels’ shadows anymore—don’t you think it’s time to let loose and have a little fun?”

  I glance at him sharply. “When was I living in their shadows?”

  “Uh, only the last two years?”

  I shrug. “Whatever man, you’re dreaming. We’re friends—it’s fucking weird you’d see it as competitive, but whatever.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it, just meant it must be nice that they’re gone, not there to steal your thunder.”

  “Dude, I don’t have any thunder.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “And there was never any competition between us.”

  I might not have played sports for the university like they did, but my roommates and I did everything together. Worked out when we could. Conditioned. Ran. Did homework at the library.

  Sebastian helped me write a term paper or three, and Daniels bought and paid for my share of the groceries more than once.

  So, no, I never felt I was living in their shadows, and we were never competitive with one another. Tenneson is just a little fucker with too much free time and way too much drama surrounding him.

  “Don’t you have anything more to add to this conversation? You always have something to say.” I shoulder Rex Gunderson in the arm. “You’ve clammed up all of a sudden.”

  “Shit, hold that thought.” His hand goes up, silencing us. “I see someone from one of my classes—I’m gonna go say hi.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  That “someone” from his class must be a girl, or he wouldn’t give a shit about leaving to say hello. I don’t know what it is about Gunderson, but he always manages to smooth-talk the ladies, always manages to have them eating out of the palm of his hands.

  It hardly matters that he’s the biggest dipshit of God’s creation; girls fucking love him.

  Gunderson pushes away from the table, standing, skimming his hands down the front of his pants to iron out the wrinkles. Finger-combs his messy hair.

  “Dude, are you primping?” Pitwell deadpans. “No amount of grooming is gonna help you. You’re hopeless.”

  There’s a raucous chorus of laughter as Rex grabs his backpack in a huff. Turns toward the table before walking off. “Shut the fuck up you guys, and keep it down—I don’t need you embarrassing me.”

  “You don’t want us to embarrass you?” I crow, gesturing around the table, waving my sandwich in the air. “Are you hearing this, boys? He doesn’t want us to embarrass him.”

  The guys are dying, falling all over themselves, loud and rowdy.

  “Don’t worry, bro. We won’t embarrass you—you’ll take care of that all on your own.”

  Anabelle

  “Let’s get real here—the only reason he wants to fuck her is because she’s Coach’s daughter. I heard she’s not even hot.”

  At the word Coach, my interest is instantly piqued—naturally. I strain my ears, slowing down the elliptical machine I’m on to make it easier to hear. Resist the urge to turn my head and stare down the two guys talking, trying to figure out what they’re discussing.

  Maybe it’s another coach’s daughter?

  One of them snorts. Grunts as he deadlifts a bar
bell. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Basketball player. Conrad was in here one night when she came in to talk to Donnelly.”

  Oh shit. It is me.

  My stomach drops, and I instantly feel ill.

  I can hear the skepticism in the other guy’s voice when he says, “I don’t know, man, Gunderson says she’s locked up tighter than a vault.”

  Gunderson.

  Rex Gunderson? That guy from my contract law class? I never in a million years would have thought he’d do something like this; he looks so unassuming.

  Looks can be deceiving, and I just learned the hard way.

  “Cute? He says that about anyone willing to bang him.”

  “Maybe.” His breathing is labored, breaths coming hard. “The idiot says he’s one more smooth-talk away from getting her into bed.”

  One smooth-talk away?

  One.

  He thinks I’m that easy? That I’d sleep with him after a few contract law classes—because he makes me laugh? That all he has to do is be nice and funny—and I’ll sleep with him?

  We’ve only attended a few classes together! He’s never even asked me on a date!

  What a dickhead!

  “That’s impossible,” the guy is saying. “No way would any chick with half a brain purposely fuck that loser. He’s a parasite.”

  The big guy shifts on the balls of his feet, the weight in his hands pumping up and down as his biceps flex.

  “All I know is, Eric says somehow Gunderson became friends with her. You know how it is with him—for some fucking reason, girls love him.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t look threatening.”

  “Because he’s so skinny. My sister could take that guy down.”

  The other sets his barbell down momentarily to laugh. “What does his weight have to do with anything?”

  “Dude, my sister’s always preaching about how she won’t date any guy who weighs less than she does, and Gunderson is skinnier than everyone we know, including most chicks.”

  My cheeks flush; they’re right—I immediately trusted him because he looks unassuming and nerdy and too thin to be any harm, like the dorky sidekick from a bad television sitcom everyone is annoyed by but still finds endearing.

  “Little do they know what a friggin’ moron he is. Bitches be learnin’ the hard way.”

  What he says next is devastating.

  “You know if Coach finds out those two were making bets about who could sleep with his daughter first, they’ll be gone in a heartbeat.”

  My stomach finishes dropping to my feet; Rex was making bets about being able to sleep with me? I want to puke, toss my cookies all over my shoes and the elliptical machine.

  “Donnelly would go through the fucking roof if he knew.”

  He lets out a huff of breath. “Do you think we should tell him?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. Maybe I’ll ask my girlfriend tonight—she has the answers to everything.”

  “Yeah, ask her. The whole thing just doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but me either.”

  I don’t stand around waiting for the rest of the conversation. I’ve heard enough. I shut down the treadmill and hop off, grabbing my towel before fleeing to the locker room and grab my things from the locker before I burst into tears, not bothering to shower or change into clean clothes.

  I make my way to the one spot on campus I know I can be alone before I have a panic attack.

  The library.

  Elliot

  Fiddling with my headphones, I pull one of the earbuds out to adjust the tiny piece of plastic, hesitating to put it back in when I hear a soft whimper.

  Then a cry, and it’s coming from my usual spot in the corner, which was once again occupied when I arrived.

  I tap my pencil, staring in the direction of the back.

  Curious, but also…

  Concerned.

  Rising to my full height, I slowly make my way toward the sound.

  Yup, someone is definitely crying, and it sounds like a girl.

  Weak. Low. Barely perceptible sobs.

  A hiccup.

  I move closer, feet shuffling against the carpet, hoping to make just a little noise so I won’t spook her.

  “Hey.” My voice is gravelly, gentle.

  Her head comes up at my words, face splotchy from tears, red marring her skin, chest, cheeks.

  Lips parting, she brushes the hair out of her eyes, the long brown strands glossy under the neon light.

  She swipes a hand across her face, batting at the tears, dabbing them away. Dries them on the leg of her jeans, all without lifting her gaze to face me.

  I advance a couple paces, stopping a few feet away.

  “Are you okay?”

  Another hiccup and she’s dipping her head deeper into her black Iowa hoodie. “I’m fine.”

  She doesn’t look fine, certainly doesn’t sound fine, not even close. Those aren’t happy tears.

  “W-Was I bothering you? I’m so s-sorry, I…” She can’t keep the crying out of her voice as she swipes at her rosy cheeks again, doing her best to hide it. “I’ll try to stop.”

  Hiccup.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.” She pauses, voice muffled. “But thank you.”

  She looks up at me then, and I can see that her eyes are blue—a brilliant blue from the weeping, set ablaze by the redness of her blush-stained skin.

  Dark brows.

  Chin trembling, she offers me a wane smile, and I realize I know her; it’s the same girl who was here earlier in the week, the one who stole my study spot.

  “You’re sure?” I have two sisters, so I’m kind of an expert on when girls are bluffing; this one is trying to get rid of me.

  “I’m sure.”

  I pull down the brim of my ball cap, tipping it in her direction.

  “Well, I’m just across the way if you need anything, at the desk in the corner. Paper, pencils, body chalk for the corpse if you need an accomplice.” I give her a wide smile.

  She tucks the hair behind her ears. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “All right, well, I’ll just be…” I point over my shoulder. “Give a holler.”

  “Thanks.”

  I meander back to my desk slowly, listening for the telltale sign of sniffles. Weeping. Sobbing.

  Anything.

  Despite hearing none, I have a hard time getting back to work, unable to focus, straining for noise on the other side of the room, and before I know it, I’ve wasted an entire forty-five minutes doing jack shit.

  Deciding there’s no hope for it, I start packing up my crap.

  “Hey.” A small voice practically whispers, interrupting.

  Backpack slung over one shoulder, long hair now pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the girl bashfully approaches my table, face still red, eyes tired.

  But friendly.

  I bet when she’s not ugly-crying all over the library study tables, she’s actually kind of cute. Pretty.

  “I’m heading out, but…I just wanted to say thanks for coming over to check on me, and, you know, being a concerned citizen and all.”

  She musters up a weak smile.

  “Don’t worry about it, I have sisters—I’ve been down this path a time or two.” Or a hundred, usually under duress.

  When I was younger—ganglier—my sister Veronica used to sit on my chest to hold me down while she spilled her guts so she’d have someone to talk to. I had to hear all about her drama—drama with my parents, with boys, with her friends.

  Her teen years were my worst nightmare.

  “So are you feeling better?”

  Her smile is wobbly. “I am. Much better.”

  I shift on the balls of my feet, hands stuffed in the pockets of my jeans. “That’s good.”

  “I’m…” she considers her words. “I’m new here this year and it’s been…a challenge meeting new people. Everyone
has their friends.”

  The backpack I’ve hoisted over my shoulder gets set down on the study desk.

  “Yeah?” I want to ask her how it’s been challenging, but don’t want to pry. Still, it seems like she needs someone to talk to, and I have a little time to kill, so I sit back down in my chair. “How?”

  She shifts, worrying her bottom lip, and I can tell she’s holding back, unsure about invading my space and taking up more of my time.

  “Want to sit?” I grab a nearby chair, dragging it over as a gesture of encouragement.

  “Uh…sure.” Tentatively, she closes the space between us, pulling the chair out the rest of the way. Sets her bag next to mine. “But only if it’s not a bother?”

  “Nah, I have a few minutes.”

  “All right.” Pause. “Is this weird? I’m so sorry my crying interrupted you before—I’m really embarrassed about that.”

  “You were crying? I thought that was a herd of dying cats,”

  I joke, failing to mention that her crying was less irritating than her hogging my favorite study spot.

  “Haha, very funny.” She laughs, sniffling. “But also true.”

  “We’ve all had our shitty days—this one was yours, I guess.”

  “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a few beats. “So what was it I interrupted? What are you working on?”

  “Human anatomy paper. Tedious.”

  “That sounds…” her voice trails off.

  “Boring? It is.”

  “Boring is not at all what I was going to say! What’s your major?”

  “Kinesiology.” I grab the water bottle out of my bag and take a long pull, trying to stay hydrated. “What’s yours?”

  “Pre-law.”

  My brows go up. “What’s your focus?”

  “I’m thinking family law.”

  I smile. “My dad is a lawyer.”

  This news perks her up. “Really? What kind.”

  “Real estate. Mergers and acquisitions.”

  “Whoa, fancy.”

  It kind of is. “He loves it.” I rack my brain for something new to say, blurting out, “So do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Her shoulders sag. “Not really. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Why, did you do something stupid?”