The Coaching Hours

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.

“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.