The Coaching Hours
Page 7
“Hey! Why’d you take my drink!” As loud as she manages to protest, her head dips, brown hair falling in a long sheet—can’t even hold her neck up.
“I’m thinking you’ve had enough for one night, huh? Trust me, you won’t remember any of this in the morning, and maybe you’ll even thank me later.”
Loud sigh.
I lean down, dipping low so she can hear me. “When we’re in the car, you’re going to have to give me your address so I can take you home, okay? Think you can do that?”
Her limp head shakes back and forth. “No way. My father will kill me.”
My brows furrow. Great, a belligerent drunk—just what I need.
“I’m sure your dad will be glad you made it out of here without getting yourself assaulted.”
I brace my knees, bending to scoop her up, tossing her over my shoulder like a sack of flour—not that I have any fucking clue what a sack of flour feels like, but I imagine it’s lighter than she is.
She’s pure dead weight.
“Come on party girl, you can argue with me in the car.”
Getting her into my car is relatively easy—way too easy considering the fact that I’m a virtual stranger and it took little convincing to get her to come with me.
I make a mental note to lecture her on safety when she’s sober.
But first, I have to get her home.
“What’s your address?” I stall at the stop sign, waiting for directions. “Can you tell me?”
“Yes.” A jerky nod. “I don’t remember.”
“How do you not remember your address?”
“I have it written down somewhere…I think.”
“Okay.” I wait patiently as she digs through her bag.
“But not in this purse.” Her shoulders slump, dejected.
“Hey, it’s okay. The address isn’t really that important. Don’t worry about it.” I give her a sidelong glance, hand on the gearshift, waiting for directions. “Think really hard. Which side of campus do you live on? Near the stadium, or by the student union?”
“Oh, definitely farther than that.”
“But which side?”
“Ugh, stop asking me questions! It’s making my head hurt.” Her head falls back against the headrest. “I’m starving. Will you stop at McDonald’s? I’m hungry.”
Now she’s whining. Perfect.
“I really need you to focus—can you look out the window and show me which way to go?” Her head lifts but sways in my direction. “Do you recognize this corner? The admin building is right along this sidewalk.”
“I don’t think this is the right way.”
“So maybe over by the cafeteria?”
That’s completely on the other side of campus.
“Yeah, try that.”
I hang a right, frustrated by all the stop signs and crosswalks, the streets filled with students walking to and from parties, the majority of them inebriated.
A loud sigh fills my car. “Mmm, it smells nice in here.”
“Thanks.”
“You have a really nice profile. I like the bridge of your nose.”
Oh Jesus.
“Was that a weird thing to say? I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat uncomfortably, pointing across her torso, out the window. “Does this street look familiar to you at all?”
We’ve made it halfway around campus, passing various landmarks along the way, none of which she recognizes as being near her street.
“I think the other way.”
“Are you serious right now? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’m so hungry!”
“Donnelly, I really need you to focus. I know it’s hard right now but I have to get you home.”
Her head hits the seatback with a thud and she moans. “Do you have any French fries? God, I want salt.”
I frown, sweat breaking out on my brow. “You need to focus and help me out here. We’ve been driving around the block for fifteen fucking minutes.”
She pats me on the shoulder, squeezing once. Twice. “Thank you, that’s so sweet.” Closes her eyes.
I pray for patience. “Do not fall asleep on me.”
“Mmkay.” Her head lulls, pert little mouth falling open.
Shit.
“Seriously. I am not equipped to deal with this, Donnelly.”
Not right now.
Not tonight.
At the next set of lights, I glance over to study her under the streetlamps, dozing lightly, a small smile playing at her lips.
Dark hair. Red lips. Bare shoulders.
So pretty.
I can’t take her back to the party, and there’s no way I can take her to her house now that I have no goddamn clue where she lives.
Basically, I’m fucked.
Stuck with her.
My car hits a pothole and she chooses that moment to groan.
“Please don’t barf in my car,” I beg.
Her arm reaches out in an attempt to give mine another reassuring pat. Too heavy to execute the action, it flops down on the center console with a thud.
“Mmkay.” Her pretty head rolls toward me, eyelids cracking open. She gives me a wobbly smile. “I won’t barf in your truck.”
It’s a car—a black Mustang, to be exact—not a truck, and I’m entirely convinced she’s going to vomit at any moment, big doe eyes sliding closed, dark lashes fluttering against her smooth cheeks.
Damn. Even passed-out drunk, she’s really fucking attractive.
I hang a left, trying not to notice her appearance.
Drive two blocks. Turn right. Pull up in front of the one-room rental I moved into at the end of last semester once my roommate Zeke moved his girlfriend into my old place since he owns it.
Education.
Career.
Those are my priorities.
Gone are the days where I piss away my nights partying, though I certainly enjoy hanging out with my friends on the weekends, enjoy playing pick-up soccer when I have the time.
My rental house is small, painted a disgusting shade of yellow, in the center of the block. Grass overgrown, siding and trim in desperate need of repair, but that’s not my problem, it’s my landlord’s, and he doesn’t give two shits about the exterior of the house.
The upside? It’s mine until I graduate.
The rent is so affordable it makes having a piece-of-shit landlord worth the hassle of having to fix things on my own. I can do whatever I want, whenever the fuck I want, without answering to anyone.
I cut the engine and unbuckle, turning my torso toward a girl whose name I do not know. She’s slumped in my passenger seat, and I still know nothing about her, except that her father is the wrestling coach here—a man who’s respected and revered across the nation and the entire NCAA.
A girl who was dumped on by a few of his idiotic wrestlers without a lick of any goddamn sense.
Bunch of fuckers.
A snore escapes her lips when I reach to unbuckle her seat belt, a snore that tells me she’s in no condition to walk herself to my front door.
Wasting no time, I climb out of my car and jog to the passenger side. Pause. Hike up my short sidewalk in a few long strides, yanking open the screen and unlocking the door. Push through it, propping it with the nearest heavy object—a twenty-pound weight—satisfied it’s open wide enough so I won’t bang her head when I carry her limp body through.
Quickly, I jaunt back to her slumbering figure; the young woman doesn’t stir at the sound of the door easing open.
Not even when I slide my hands behind her back, skimming one arm under her ass to hoist her. She’s lighter than she looks, but still heavier than a sack of flour.
Ha.
Awesome. I’m so delirious I’m making stupid fucking jokes to myself.
Jesus, Elliot, get a grip.
I heave, raising her up, sliding her out of my car, which isn’t an easy task. Maneuvering her without knocking her head on the metal doorframe of my car is damn
near impossible. It’s a miracle I don’t give her a concussion.
Kicking the door shut with the bottom of my foot, I lift her, shifting so I have a steady grip.
I’ve never carried anyone in my arms before—drunk or sober—but here I am, carrying a veritable stranger across the threshold of my shoddy college rental.
Walking straight to my bedroom, I don’t have the chance to straighten my covers, choosing to lay her as gently as possible in the center of my bed. I set about removing her shoes, little black boots with a gold zipper up the side.
Her feet are dainty, like her hands, and when I peel off her socks, I notice her toenails are a shocking shade of blue.
She wiggles them then, as if she knows I’m looking, rolling to her side. Her shirt hikes up, revealing a flat, pale stomach.
Innie belly button.
Easing my comforter from under her slim frame, I pull it up and over her body, blue sheets still trapped beneath her. She stirs, hands clasped beneath her chin like one of those angel figurines my mom used to collect, looking innocent and sweet, not drunk and incoherent.
Snuggles deeper into my mattress and pillows.
Sighs.
Groans.
Leaving her on my bed, I flip the light off, backing into the hallway with a quick glance over my shoulder. Grab the garbage can from the bathroom and place it next to the bed.
Pull the door closed behind me but leave it slightly ajar. I flick the bathroom light on in case she wakes in the middle of the night.
Shit.
What if she does wake up in the middle of the night and freaks the fuck out because she has no idea where she is? What if she wakes up then wakes me up?
What if she barfs in my bed?
That would be my worst nightmare, but I’m so tired I don’t have the energy to think about it anymore. Being a good Samaritan is fucking exhausting.
I settle my ass on the couch, pulling off one shoe at a time, then my socks. Yank on a hoodie I tossed on the coffee table earlier because where the hell is my snuggle blanket?
Oh, there it is.
Disgruntled, I snatch up one of the couch cushions to use as a pillow, grabbing the one throw blanket I have and tossing it over my legs. It’s gray, and approximately the size of a postage stamp—it barely covers anything. Cursing into the cold air, bad insulation, and sky-high monthly electric bills that keep my heating needs unmet, I hunker deeper into my Iowa hoodie.
I’m too tall for this shit.
For this couch.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide in the bleakness, grateful for my sweatshirt, scrap of blankie, and pitch-black living room. Still…knowing there’s someone else in my bedroom that I made myself responsible for has me awake, mind reeling.
For whatever reason, this girl has ended up in my path three times in one week, and I lie there wondering about the odds of that before flopping over, rolling to stare in the general direction of the television.
I blow out a frustrated puff of air, too large and long to get comfortable on this fucking sofa; it’s lumpy and dumb and I’m going to be awake all damn night, I just know it.
In fact, I’m already scheduling myself a Saturday afternoon nap. That thought mollifies me somewhat as I lie motionless for what feels like an eternity.
Anabelle
Am I dying?
I must be.
I press a palm to my forehead, feeling for a temperature. Pat my cheeks, feeling the burn. Oh God. I feel like utter shit, stars dancing behind my closed eyelids.
The spins.
The headache.
The nausea.
My hand flies to my stomach, then to my mouth when I try to move, rolling to the side of the bed. I reach my arm over the side, feeling blindly until my fingers find a bucket.
Thank God.
Wait, who put this here?
I flop back on my back, dizzy.
Don’t puke, don’t puke—you are not going to puke. Get it together, Anabelle. You are a grown woman.
I peel my eyelids open, slowly blinking back the sun that’s shining through a window that is most definitely not mine.
Where the hell am I?
This isn’t the ceiling in my bedroom at Dad’s house.
These ugly beige walls aren’t pink.
These navy blue sheets that smell like cologne? Definitely not mine.
I pull them up my chest, to my nose, giving them another whiff and concluding: this bedding unquestionably belongs to a male. Aftershave or woodsy shower gel, it matters not—these sheets smell fan-freaking-tastic.
I’m inhaling the fabric, breathing in the wonderful scent of some nameless, faceless guy, when I notice a lingering figure leaning against the doorjamb, white ceramic mug in his massive paws.
He has a lazy grin on his face, a warm, friendly smile with zero hint of any sexual connotation.
I peer over the hem of the sheet, wanting to curl up into a ball and die, but for entirely different reasons.
I know him.
From the library.
Shit, shit, double shit.
“Morning.” His voice has that low, bottomless, just-woken-up sound men have that I adore, so gravelly you want to climb inside it. He has a morning voice so good it’s giving my drunk self actual shivers.
“Um, morning?” I, on the other hand, sound like a frog, croaking out my pitiful greeting.
“How ya feelin’?” He’s wearing a cutoff navy T-shirt and gray sweats, and I’m hung-over but not freaking blind. My eyes, bless them, travel south to where his pants hang low on his hips, appreciating the view the entire way down.
Down his legs, to his bare feet.
“Hi,” I croak. “Good morning.”
Jesus Anabelle, you already said that! This couldn’t be more awkward.
“Sorry, I already said that.” I press two fingers to my throbbing temples. “I’m a little out of sorts.”
That’s putting it mildly, an exaggerated understatement.
“I’m never drinking again.”
I don’t know why the sight of him standing there is affecting me so much, but his hard, toned arms and slick skin do something to my already muddled, alcohol-soaked brain. Being in his house—hung-over in his house while he stands there drinking coffee, freshly showered and squeaky clean—makes me feel disgusting.
Embarrassed.
I can see from here that his green eyes are assessing me as I sit in the middle of his bed. They’re alert and aware as if he’s had plenty of sleep.
“You had a rough night.” He states it as a fact, and I search his tone for judgment.
There doesn’t seem to be any.
“I did, and I—did I sleep here? Duh, obviously I slept here.” I laugh nervously then groan. Oh God, my head. “Is this your house?”
“It is.” He shifts on his heels, and my eyes roam once again to his bare feet. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought you here last night, but I couldn’t get you to tell me your address.”
My lips barely move as I whisper an appalled, “I am so sorry.”
“And not to sound like a fucking stalker, but once I recognized you and saw how drunk you were getting, there was no way in hell I was leaving you at that party.”
“Why?”
“You couldn’t even stand up, and sorry to be so blunt, but you shouldn’t have been drinking so much—it was a dumb thing to do.”
No doubt I was wallowing in my sorrows. The humiliation from having those wrestlers talking about me and making bets behind my back is embarrassing enough; getting so drunk I don’t remember this guy bringing me home is almost worse.
Anything could have happened last night. Terrible, bad things.
“So you brought me home?”
He sips from that white mug, and I wonder what’s inside. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t really have any other choice. You weren’t able to tell me where to go and then you passed out when I wouldn’t take you to McDonald’s for French fries.”
“Oh my God.”
“How did you sleep?” said strange guy asks, fiddling with the handle of the mug, which says, Day drinking from a mug to keep things professional.
Oh the irony.
Despite my throbbing head, the quote makes me smile. I lift a hand, fingering my temple, massaging the tender flesh there, wincing.
“I slept great, thank you. Like the dead.”
“Good. I didn’t quite know where to put you.”
“How did I get in here?”
“I carried you.”
Well this just gets better and better with every passing moment, doesn’t it?
My eyes fly to his arms—toned and taut, not overly bulky. Perfect. He’s not a meathead, but he’s in great shape, and I blush at the smooth tanned skin of his upper arms. His biceps.
Seriously, they are some of the most beautiful arms I’ve seen in my entire life, though maybe I’m still drunk from last night.
I have observed a lot of arms from visiting my dad, have admired a lot of bare torsos. I’ve appreciated the sight of guys traipsing around in nothing but thin, polyester wrestling singlets, and those leave nothing to the imagination.
The guy clears his throat when he catches me eyeing him, lifting the white mug to his lips and taking another sip, breaking the eye contact.
Man, he is so cute.
A blush that matches mine spreads across his cheeks.
He clears his throat again, straightening to his full height. He’s tall, probably around six one, just reaching the top of the doorframe.
“Um, I hate to bother you, but do you happen to have any ibuprofen I can take? My head is killing me.” I groan out loud this time, wanting to burrow back under his covers.
“Sure, in the bathroom.” He offers me a pleasant smile just as my eyes land on the small gray garbage can next to the bed. Thank God I didn’t have to barf in it or this morning would have gone from bad to worse.