The Coaching Hours

by Sara Ney

  Dad’s meaty arms cross. “He’s a good wrestler, but no one has ever accused him of being smart.”

  I make my way down the steps, yoga pants a little too long and dragging along the carpet, oversized sweatshirt engulfing my entire frame. I envelop my father in a hug, inhaling the familiar smell of him: the gym, sweat, and the same cologne he’s worn since I was little.

  He pats my back awkwardly, not comfortable with displays of affection. “You’re not going out tonight?”

  “Not until later, Dad—no one goes to a party this early. I have a few contract law flashcards to make. Torts and malfeasance don’t learn themselves, you know.”

  His gaze sweeps my face, analyzing my expression. “You start apartment hunting yet?”

  “Apartment or house?” I can’t keep the optimistic inflection out of my tone.

  Dad’s head lolls from side to side, a low “Ehhh,” rising from his throat. “We’ll see about a house. I’d prefer you in something more secure, somewhere with locks and gates and guards.”

  “They don’t have those here, Daddy.” I don’t call him that often, but for whatever reason, the word just seemed to fit, felt right. “My last apartment had a wooden fire escape and a couch with a giant hole in the middle. The springs would stab us in the ass if we sat down too fast.”

  He hefts a heavy sigh. “How did I not know this?”

  “Because I never said anything when I sent you a copy of the lease. I wanted you to sign it, not tell me I couldn’t live there.”

  “I would have forbidden you to live there.”

  “I know!” I rise to my tiptoes, giving him a loud peck on the cheek. “I’m going to hibernate before I go out, maybe take a shower.” Plant another kiss on his weathered face. “Thanks for taking care of Eric Johnson.”

  “I’ve got my eye on him.”

  My eyes narrow. “Trust me, so do I.”

  Anabelle

  I am going to a party tonight, and I am going to drink those assholes out of my system. I’m going to forget their idiotic plan and what the douchebags were planning for me.

  One.

  Drink.

  At.

  A.

  Time.

  Why does it bother me so much that a bunch of half-grown men would make a stupid bet involving me? They don’t even know me, couldn’t identify me in a lineup. I could have been any girl on campus—or the planet, for that matter—and they still would have done it.

  So why did it make me cry?

  Why did it piss me off so bad I’m at this dumb party getting wasted so I can forget about it for one night?

  Because it was humiliating. Hearing yourself talked about like that, in such a derogatory way, by complete strangers? Terrible. Not climbing down off that elliptical machine and defending myself is something I’ll regret for a long time, even though the two guys talking about me were defending me.

  Well, not defending me, but they didn’t condone Eric and Rex’s behavior, either, and to me, that’s enough for now. In a way, that makes them semi-decent guys who probably didn’t deserve me going psycho on their asses.

  Another reason I’m out tonight is my new friend Madison. I met her today in one of my classes when she pulled up a seat during the one lab I have this semester to complete my science gen-ed credit, and we hit it off. Apparently, every Friday night she and her friends hit Jock Row—the off-campus party scene comprising student athlete housing—to chase jocks, hook up, and get drunk.

  Which Madison has yet to do.

  She’s remained somewhat sober until this point while I’ve admittedly been tipping them back faster than a frat boy. I’m pretty sure whatever’s in her red cup isn’t running out as fast as mine.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to switch over to water or something?” she asks when I stare down into my empty cup. “I did.”

  “It was ten bucks for this thing and I’m getting my money’s worth.”

  “I mean…beer downtown is cheaper,” she points out. “And it doesn’t have all that foam.”

  True.

  “But look how cute I am with a foam mustache.” I lick it, laughing. “Where do you even find water in a place like this?”

  It’s packed, the only visible liquid beverage in the form of the keg or a shot.

  Madison takes a drink of her beer. “I went rooting through the fridge, they had it stocked. Also, it was unlocked, so that was convenient.”

  “They lock their fridge?”

  “I guess?”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Ya think?”

  “What’s the deal with this place? Don’t people usually party on Greek Row?”

  “Yeah, but a few years ago the alumni donors started buying up houses for the student athletes, fixing them up really nice, and it just became another place to go. It’s basically a meat market on the weekends because, guys.”

  “My dad says meat market!” I giggle.

  “Didn’t you say he works for the university?”

  “He’s the head wrestling coach.”

  “Wow. So you’re like a big flashing target.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are guys lining up to date you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I mean, wrestling is a huge sport in Iowa. Those guys are treated like royalty around here. You would think once word got out that the coach’s daughter goes here…”

  I chug miserably at Madison’s innocent reminder of why I’m here in the first place—drinking my woes away.

  “Oh, word got out all right.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Some blowhards”—I hiccup—“on the team decided to have a little fun with it and made a disgusting bet about who could sleep with me first.”

  “Shut up, no way!”

  “Way. My dad told everyone on the team to stay away from me—like, first of all, thanks Dad. Secondly, it’s some guys who have already been in trouble for this kind of thing.”

  My new friend is fascinated now. “No way.”

  “Yes! And it’s been terrible the last couple of days, because it’s humiliating and the guys are all talking about it. I was bawling in the library yesterday after I found out.”

  “How’d you find out?”

  “I overheard it in the gym. I guess not everyone knows I workout in there. Keep your voice down at least!”

  Madison reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong. All you have to do is tell your dad and I’m sure he’ll take care of it. Guys like that don’t deserve to shit in our same zip code when they do crap like that.”

  My head dips, the last few healthy chugs of beer taking effect. “Ugh, I would, but I just moved here, and my dad and I are just getting to know each other again—no way could I tell him. I hate being dramatic. I’m his little girl.”

  “Right…” She drags the word out. “That’s why you obviously need to tell him. Dads want to take care of that shit for their kids, Anabelle, and these guys—who, by your own admission are repeat offenders—need to be taught a lesson.”

  “You sound like such a lawyer.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She grins. “Even though I’m studying nursing.”

  “I’m still not telling my dad. I want to handle it myself. I just need to figure out how.”

  “Okay, but do you really think getting trashed at a house party is a good way to handle it?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to come out!”

  “I know, but look at me!” Her hands flail up and down her torso. “I’m having a great time! I’m going to remember this entire night tomorrow!”

  “But you still can’t drive us home.” I scowl.

  She pouts. “True, but I’m not the designated driver.”

  That’s right—we came with her friends, who have gone completely MIA.

  “You know, we should probably go look for them.”

  I give her a wobbly, drunken nod. “You go. I’ll wait h
ere.”

  One.

  More.

  Drink.

  That’s it.

  Then I’ll leave with Madison and her friends.

  That’s all I need, to drink those assholes out of my system, to forget their idiot plan, the mortifying words, and what they were planning for me.

  One.

  Drink.

  At.

  A.

  Time.

  Elliot

  The last person I expect to see drinking on Jock Row tonight is Coach Donnelly’s daughter, but that’s just who I spot over the rim of my plastic cup as I tip it back to take a gulp.

  It’s been a long week, and the cold beer sliding down my throat is a welcome distraction.

  Donnelly’s presence has me doing a double take. I’m barely able to reconcile her with the girl I found crying in the library. That girl was upset and disheveled but confident, sad but still friendly.

  This one is piss-ass drunk.

  I continue watching her from my corner of the room, leaning nonchalantly against the makeshift bar at the far end. It’s crudely built but serves its purpose, lined with empty bottles that used to hold vodka and cheap liquor, painted black and gold, Iowa’s school colors.

  Coach Donnelly’s daughter is chugging from a red cup like a seasoned partygoer, the beer in her hand almost a permanent attachment on her mouth, her throat working to swallow, her hand wiping away dripping liquid, dribbling.

  Beer must have landed on her sweater, because she takes a second to glance down at her chest, narrowing her eyes.

  Takes an uncoordinated swipe at what must be a wet spot, tongue out in concentration as if the movement requires all her concentration.

  I wouldn’t have pegged her for a sloppy drunk.

  But I suppose her intoxication makes sense, given that she’s out trying to make friends. Throw in the fact that she’s had a fairly shitty week…

  She doesn’t look the same; she looks sad and tired, and of course, she looks fucking drunk.

  It doesn’t matter that everyone else here is too.

  Somehow on her it just seems wrong.

  Out of character.

  I notice she’s here with a small group of girls, girls I recognize as frequent visitors to the house—another thing surprising me tonight. They’re partiers, out for a good time and to meet athletes. Having lived with two of the university’s champion wrestlers, I’ve seen enough jock chasers to meet my lifetime quota, and the girls Donnelly is with are a stereotype.

  Short skirts.

  Tight, midriff-bearing tops.

  High heels despite the casual nature of the party’s atmosphere.

  I glance over again to find Donnelly’s daughter standing by herself again; they’re not sticking together as a group. Drunk, lethargic, clumsy.

  So I watch.

  Like a fucking creeper. Not caring if it’s weird, I watch, setting down my own beer. Gesture to the dude serving behind the bar and request a water.

  Wonder what would happen if the guys here found out the drunk girl in the corner was the wrestling coach’s daughter. Wonder what that information would do to her reputation if they saw her like this.

  It really isn’t smart for her to be so reckless; Jock Row isn’t the place to come when you’re trying to hide from your troubles.

  This is where you come to be seen.

  When Coach’s daughter wavers on shaky legs, I’m at full attention, accidentally bumping the guy next to me, causing him to spill his beer. He plays baseball and lived in this house before they opened rooms to freshmen; too many bodies and he was out.

  “Dude, what the hell is your problem?”

  I ignore his salty glare.

  “Rowdy, see that brunette over there? I think I might need to take her home.”

  He claps me on the back. “Atta boy, Elli-nor! It’s about damn time you dipped your wick into someone from Iowa.”

  Rowdy’s crude reference to sex doesn’t faze me—my roommate Sebastian was a hundred times worse.

  “I meant because she needs help out of here, not so I can sleep with her.” I give him a shove.

  “Everyone’s too drunk to be here, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “That one, that girl right there.” I turn his body toward Donnelly’s daughter. “Her.”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay, I see what you mean,” he concedes, nodding his head up and down, examining her from across the room. “She might be too shitfaced to stay. It can’t possibly end well. Wanna take her upstairs and put her in Rookie’s bed to sleep it off?”

  Terse shake of my head. “I should get her out of here, away from the alcohol.”

  Besides, since when is it safe to leave an incoherent drunk chick in an unlocked house full of intoxicated assholes? Last time I checked, the answer was never.

  “You want help getting her to the car, you let me know.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Should I let everyone know you’re offering babysitting services to complete strangers now, Elliot?”

  I laugh. “She’s not a complete stranger, not really—I kind of know her. She’s going through a rough time.”

  I don’t tell him she’s the wrestling coach’s daughter; that little factoid will stay a secret, at least for now.

  “You sure you weren’t a boy scout in a past life? Always helping people, doing nice shit for the elderly and such. How many badges do you have on your vest at home?”

  “I’m not always helping people, lay off.” Jeez, why do I sound so defensive?

  His brawny shoulders heft in a shrug. “Whatever, suit yourself. You’ll find me in this exact spot, holding up the bar if you need me.” He takes a swig of beer. “I have one more month until spring training starts and my life starts sucking major balls.”

  Balls. “Was that a baseball pun?”

  “You’re funny Elli-nor. Remind me to laugh at that later.”

  I walk away, squeezing through the crowd, shouldering people every now and again, sights focused on one thing.

  The girl.

  Who is totally sloshed and in need of rescuing. No doubt she’ll be nursing a hangover in the morning, and based on how she’s slamming down beer or whatever it is in that cup, she’s nursing some pretty damn hard feelings.

  I know she’s miserable.

  I know she’s new here.

  What I don’t know is her first name or where she lives, but I’m going to help her anyway.

  I make my way toward her through the thick crowd, the house getting more congested by the hour. I curse these weekly parties but still show up.

  Thank fucking Christ I don’t live here.

  I get slapped on the back in greeting every five feet; it takes an entire ten minutes for me to cross a twenty-foot room. Everyone thinks they know me. Everyone wants to be my friend because of who my roommates were. Zeke Daniels and Sebastian “Oz” Osborne, two of the most celebrated student athletes on campus, both of whom have graduated and moved on.

  They moved in with their girlfriends while I, on the other hand, am still working on my degree, working toward grad school. Having declared a major late in the game, I fell behind, putting me a year behind.

  How those assholes managed to play a sport and graduate on time is beyond me.

  I keep pushing forward, excusing myself the entire way, annoying some people, bumping into others.

  “Donnelly.”

  Her smile is lopsided when she lifts her neck to look up at me, eyelids droopy. “Oh! It’s you!”

  “Yup. It’s me.”

  “Library guy, why are you always coming to say hello when I look shitty?” Her mouth turns down in an exaggerated frown. “It’s rude.”

  “You don’t look shitty.” You look drunk.

  She lifts a hand to her dark brown hair self-consciously. It falls in messy waves over her shoulders. “I don’t?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Ugh,” she groans, pressing a forefinger to her lips. “Don’t tell anyone,
but I’m drunk.”

  My smile is wry, my arms crossed. “You don’t say.”

  “Yes, really really drunk.” Back against the wall, she slumps, white off-the-shoulder top sagging to one side, threatening to lower indecently as the fabric catches then drags along the wall.

  “Don’t you think you should stop drinking if it’s making you feel like crap?”

  She ignores my question, instead lodging complaints. “My head feels ugh and I know I’m going to have the spins when I get home.” The heel of her hand presses to her forehead and she moans. “Do you have any chocolate milk?”

  “Chocolate milk?”

  “Yeah, it’s good for a hangover,” she slurs. “It’s hydrating and will help raise my blood sugar.”

  “I was not aware of that.”

  “My cousins drink a lot.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No, can’t you tell? I don’t know where all the beer came from.”

  “The keg. It came from the keg, and now I think it’s time for us to go.”

  “I don’t want to go because if I do, I’ll go to sleep, and if I sleep, I’ll get the spins, and I’m so scared of the spins.”

  “What are the spins?” Is this girl code for something?

  “Here, I’ll show you.” She demonstrates, twirling her hand in circles. “When the room goes round and round and round until you wanna puke.” Her head gives a remorseful shake. “It’s the worst.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Know what I think?” She’s slurring again, peering into her red cup with one eye squeezed shut. Even intoxicated, the gesture is endearing.

  “What do you think?”

  “Beers is gone.” Her cup gets thrust into the space between us. “Think I need another one.”

  “Pretty sure you’ve had enough.”

  Her lip juts out, pouting. “You’re no fun.”

  “Yeah, I get that all the time.”

  “Guys are dumb.”

  Can’t argue with that.

  “I don’t mean you,” she says hastily. “You’re nice and so cute.”

  I pause at that, hesitate.

  Take a step closer into her personal space—not to be creepy, but to remove the beer cup suspended from her fingers, setting it on a nearby windowsill.