by Sara Ney
“Maybe. I don’t know—I guess time will tell.”
“Time will tell?” I ask slowly, treading lightly.
“As in, nine months from now?”
“What?” She looks horrified, the implication turning her face an unflattering shade of red. “No! No, that’s not even remotely close. God no.”
“You know what, forget I asked.”
“Is it weird that I kind of want to talk to you even though I don’t know you?”
“No, it’s not weird, because you don’t know me and I’m not going to judge you. Plus, I live alone and wouldn’t have anyone to tell when I get home, haha.”
Her lean fingers toy with my notebook, bending back the edges nervously.
“So there are these guys,” she starts.
There always are.
I nod. “Uh huh.”
“Why does this have to be so embarrassing?” Her hands cover her face self-consciously and she shakes her head. “Phew, here goes nothing!” She takes a deep breath. “Okay, so, you know how some guys are complete assholes, and occasionally you hear about, like, fraternity guys or whatever betting that they can sleep with a girl?”
“Yeah. Happens all the time.”
“Well it happened to me.”
I’m ramrod straight, unmoving as she blushes bright red, silently waiting for her to continue.
“They, um…” Her tongue darts out, licking her lips. “They had a bet to see who could sleep with me, and I overheard some guys talking about it in the gym.”
“Were they laughing about it?”
“No, not these guys. They seemed upset about it—actually, they were discussing whether or not to rat out their friends.”
“Do you know who the guys are?”
“Yes.”
“Did you end up actually…” my sentence trails off and I can’t bring myself to ask her if she actually slept with the guy. Man this is awkward.
Her head gives a shake. “God, no, I’m not desperate. Or stupid. What is wrong with someone that they’d make a bet like that? What assholes.”
“Who were they?”
“Some guys who know my dad.”
“How do they know your dad?”
“He’s…” her voice stalls. “He works here.”
“Staffer?”
“Coach.”
I sit back in my seat, eyes glued to her face. “Are they players?”
Slight nod.
I let out a low whistle. “Holy shit.” Talk about shitting where you eat. “Does your dad know?”
“No, and I’m not going to tell him—not yet anyway. I have to give it more thought.”
I don’t point out that she won’t have to; these things have a way of being discovered all on their own. Her dad will find out soon enough.
Snitches, snitches everywhere.
“Do you mind me asking what sport he coaches?” Curiosity gets the best of me. “I won’t say anything, promise.”
Her response is a long, weighted pause as she considers whether or not to tell me.
Her lips move, the low mutter barely audible.
“Say again?”
“Wrestling.”
Wrestling. Coach Donnelly.
I’ve never met the man personally, but last roommates were wrestlers and have shared plenty of stories over the last few years. From what I’ve gleaned, the man is sharp, shrewd, and tolerates zero bullshit.
“I might have heard rumors that they’ve had problems with some people on the team.”
“Rumors?”
“Yeah. Last year a few guys were busted for hazing a new member on the wrestling team. Half of them faced suspension.”
“Really? Wow, I didn’t know that—I’m surprised my dad never said anything.” She tilts her head curiously.
“He never railed about it in front of you? He had to have been pissed.”
“I actually didn’t live with him until this semester, and our phone conversations were always about me.” Her shoulders slouch. “Man that sounds selfish.”
“No, it sounds like you didn’t have tons of time to sit on the phone talking about his job. He wanted to hear about you, not complain.”
She bites back a smile. “Tell me more about the hazing. Do you know anything about it?”
I’m quiet, racking my brain for specific details.
“So I only know this information because my roommates were wrestlers and they would come home and bitch about it. Last year, when a new guy joined the roster, they gave him shit. Stuck him with a restaurant tab, ditched him at some cabin in the woods, shit like that. It probably seemed like harmless fun, but it wasn’t. I’d tell you to ask your dad about it, but he probably won’t discuss it if he hasn’t already.”
“Why?”
“Confidentiality.”
Her, “Oh,” is small.
“Have you considered telling him about these dickwads?”
“No. Well, yes, but he would totally lose his mind. This is our fresh start and it would, I don’t know, make him so mad. He’d freak, and I don’t want to ruin the semester.” Her sigh is loud. “Why do guys do stuff like that?”
“Stuff? You mean act like fucking idiots? I have no freaking idea since I generally try not to act like one.”
“I can tell.”
“How?”
“I don’t know—you have a way about you. You’re more mature, and you’re not… you’re just different.”
Anabelle
This guy is kind of awesome.
He’s gazing at me insightfully, waiting for me to say something, to tell him what happened that had me so upset I was ugly crying in the back corner of the library.
So upset that I interrupted his studying.
Ugh.
As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough, the guy is really cute, and it’s never fun making an ass of yourself in front of a complete stranger you find attractive. Like, shoot me now.
He waits me out with a neutral expression schooled on his face, dark brows dipped into a worried line. They’re darker than his hair, a rich brown, expressive, arching and bending with each word I utter.
I noticed his height when he first approached my table, tall and toned with a gray T-shirt stretched across a set of broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Eyes I can see are green now that I’m up close.
A tiny cleft in his chin I’m finally forced to peel my eyes off of.
“As I mentioned, I, uh…” Could he not study me so intently? He’s listening so hard it’s making me nervous. “I overheard some guys in the weight room talking about me.”
“What did they say?”
I lower my voice into a false baritone. “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.” I pause. “In a nutshell.”
“Not hot?” The guy laughs, tipping his head back. “Well we know that’s bullshit, and I can say this because I’m not trying to hit on you. You are definitely not a brown bagger.”
That’s his take-home factoid from all that? “Uh…thanks?”
“The good news is, now that other people know about it, it won’t be a bet for long. It will get back to your dad, trust me.”
“Yeah.” My voice is small and I hate it. “I bet it will.”
“Was that a joke?”
“Not on purpose.”
“I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything, but maybe you should stay out of the weight room for a while, just until you figure out what you’re going to do, until the whispers die down.”
“Maybe, but I still have to exercise. If I see either of those guys, it’ll make me want to…”
“Cry?” he supplies when I don’t finish my sentence.
“No, punch them in their faces.”
He draws back with another laugh, his whole face changing.
Jesus, that dent in his chin—so freaking ugh!
“I doubt anyone would blame you if you planted them a facer, and Donnelly wouldn�
��t either.”
I sigh into my hands. “Yeah, my dad’s been known to support a good, swift kick to the groin.”
“That would level them to the ground, for sure.”
“That doesn’t solve my problem though—I have class with one of these guys.”
“Right.” His voice is smooth and steady like a rich whiskey. “What are you going to do?”
“Besides avoid him like the plague? I don’t know, I’ll have to think about it, maybe Google voodoo magic and revenge spells.”
“Well, I’m here all the time if you want to run any ideas past me.” He chuckles low and deep.
And that’s my cue to leave.
“I should get going.” I rise, collecting my things. “See you around maybe?” I glance at him over my shoulder, silky hair swaying.
He lifts his hand in a wave. Smiles. “Take care. I’ll see you around.”
“Thanks for, you know, listening.”
“No problem. Good luck.”
I saunter away slowly, checking my phone, shooting him another glance over my shoulder. He’s watching me, that handsome smile plastered on his classically handsome face.
What a nice freaking guy, unlike those assholes on the wrestling team.
I feel so much better after getting everything off my chest, but my mind still reels, not quite ready to let Eric Johnson or Rex Gunderson off the hook.
Those douchebags need to learn a lesson.
And I’m just the girl to teach them.
Anabelle
“We have to stop meeting like this.”
Without even looking, I know it’s Eric Johnson—that fucker—standing next to the treadmill, lurking.
It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to turn on him. Scream. Knee him in the nuts. “Meeting like what?”
“At our special spot.”
My legs continue moving to the rhythm of the music beating through my headphones, the thumping bass a lively melody I was enjoying until a moment ago, praying I wouldn’t run into him.
Seems God wasn’t taking requests this morning.
“This is not our special spot, but nice try. This is you interrupting while I’m trying to get my workout in.”
“It could be our special spot if you let it.”
I remove my earbuds, an exasperated sigh building in my throat. I force it back down. “You’re pushy, aren’t you?”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I’m just trying to figure out if it’s a jock thing or an asshole thing.”
He clutches his chest in mock pain. “Ouch! So angry today.”
I laugh because I can’t help myself; the look on his face is priceless. So dramatic. “Well? Which is it, jock or asshole?”
“Honestly? A bit of both.”
I hit the speed button on the machine, dropping it from a light jog to a walk, slowing so I can get a better look at this guy, the one who made a disgusting bet with Rex Gunderson, who has the gall to think I’d be interested in sleeping with him.
“Can I be honest with you? You drive me nuts.”
“Nuts in a good way or a bad way, because I photocopied mine once.”
“You photocopied your nuts? Why?” I hold my hand out to stop him because I don’t actually want him to answer. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. I meant it in a bad way.”
I grab the towel hanging off the treadmill, tossing it around my neck, intent on heading to the locker room, hoping he won’t trail behind me.
He does, because he’s dense, quickening his pace to keep in step. “What’s your name?”
I halt.
“I’ve told you before, Eric Johnson.” I throw out his name to rub in the fact that he forgot mine so quickly. “We’ve already exchanged names.”
“Sorry. I meet a lot of people.” He doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.
“I just bumped into you a few days ago.”
“Can we start over?”
I keep walking, waving him off. “Nah, we’re good.”
“Lilah, wait up.”
I roll my eyes. Stop in my tracks. Spin on my heel to glare at him. “It’s Anabelle—Lilah isn’t even close.”
Eric Johnson grins. “I knew you’d tell me your name.”
“Oh my God, you’re—you’re such a…” Douchebag.
His stupidity has rendered me speechless, and I wonder what my dad would say about all this, what he’d say if he knew Eric was making bets and stalking me around the gym.
“I seem to have that effect on all the ladies.”
“You’re not having an effect on me.”
“I’m not?”
When I laugh, it’s a little too loud, turning a few heads in our direction. Oops. “No, you’re not.”
“What’s it going to take to get a girl like you to go out with a guy like me?”
A girl like me? That’s weird, I thought he said I wasn’t hot, which in guy speak essentially means unfuckable. Curious, I face him, giving him the smallest fraction of my time. “What do you mean, a girl like me?”
“You’re obviously out of my league, but I want to take you out anyway.”
“I can’t believe you’re basing this all on my looks—I haven’t exactly been pleasant.”
“That’s because you’re gorgeous. I don’t expect you to be nice—hot chicks usually aren’t.”
Oh boy. Now he’s laying it on a little thick. I’m not completely unfortunate, but I’m also not winning any beauty pageants either.
“Just let me take you out once. If you can’t stand me, I promise you can tell me to fuck off.”
I gape at him incredulously. What would have made him think I’d want to go out with him?
He tries again. “What if I meet you somewhere—you don’t even have to tell me where you live.”
An idea takes root, burrowing deep in my imagination, picturing Eric Johnson arriving at my father’s house to pick me up for a date.
My dad would kill him.
And Eric Johnson would be in for one hell of a surprise.
A rather unpleasant one.
The look on the kid’s face alone might be worth whatever drama it would cause, just to see his reaction when my dad yanks open the door of the house.
The thought has me positively giddy.
“Tell you what, Eric, I’ll give you one…let’s not call it a date. Let’s call it hanging out. I’ll hang out with you once. If you drive me nuts, I’m calling time-out and you’re taking me home. Do we have a deal?”
He nods enthusiastically. “Deal.”
“I’m not going to text you my address—I don’t need you knowing my phone number—but I will write it down for you.”
“I’m picking you up?”
“Sure, why not.” I write down my address, giving him an evil grin beneath my lashes. “See you at seven. If you can get past my doorman, you have yourself a buddy for the night.”
“What, do you have a guard dog or something?”
Another grin. “Something like that.”
“Dad, can you get the door?”
It’s Friday night on one of the only weekends Dad’s been home at a reasonable hour, and I watch from the top of the stairs as he hauls himself up out of his old recliner, hobbling with a slight limp, knees crooked, toward the foyer.
He’s still in his typical uniform, the one he wears to wrestling practice every day: black Adidas track pants, black Iowa wrestling T-shirt, and track jacket to match, zipped to the neck.
Baseball cap.
Cantankerous set of his mouth.
Along with my dad hobbling to the door, the normal sounds of the house can be heard. Linda puttering in the kitchen cleaning up their dinner, the television set to ESPN, the worst watchdog in the world snoring at the foot of my dad’s chair.
Anxious, I flip my long hair, laser-focused on the front door from my perch on the landing of the stairs, hidden from view. A devious smile spreads my lips when Dad finally grips the door handle, turning, pulling it slowly
open.
He peers through the screen.
“Johnson.” I hear the censure in his voice and grin wider. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Silence.
“Well?” Dad demands impatiently. “Did something happen?”
“I…” Another long stretch of silence before Eric finds his voice. “I didn’t know you lived here.”
Yikes.
That sure as hell wasn’t the right answer.
“Who did you think lived here, Johnson? Huh? You lost?”
“I don’t know, sir.” He sounds panicked, ill-prepared for a battle of wits with Harry Donnelly.
“Then what do you want? Speak up,” he continues, lecturing, “Johnson, it’s Friday night, on your one weekend off. How did you find yourself on my doorstep?”
“I have the wrong address, sir.”
“You boys pranking me? Is that what this shit is about?” I can see him moving toward Eric, leaning over the threshold so he’s nice and close, intimidating. “You think I’m going to forget about the hazing bullshit you pulled last year with your pal Gunderson? Do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I’m going to ask you again: what the hell are you doing on my porch in the middle of the godforsaken night?”
Middle of the night?
That’s a stretch—it’s barely seven o’clock.
Eric can’t summon up a reply, so my dad fills the silence for him. “You better have the wrong goddamn address, son. If you’re here for the reason I think you’re here for, you better hop back in that piece-of-shit car you own and drive away. I don’t wanna see your face anywhere besides the goddamn gym, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And stop calling me sir. It’s grating on my last damn nerve.”
“Yes, sir.” He gulps. “Sorry, sir. Shit. All right. Sorry.”
My father huffs, aggravated. “You have three seconds to get off my goddamn porch.”
Through the upstairs window above the doorway, I watch him stumble backward across the lawn as my father slams the door and locks it. Slides the deadbolt in place. Stands, hands on his hips, peering through the sidelight windows as the junior wrestler turns tail and power walks across the yard. Jumps into his red, beat-up pickup truck and guns the engine.