The Coaching Hours

My lips part and I feel my head tilt as I study him. I let out a little puff of, “Whoa.”

“He has a girlfriend—and even if he didn’t, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near him.”

My shoulders fall because damn he’s good-looking.

“Which reminds me—you might meet him at a dinner Linda and I are taking you to. Probably his girlfriend, too.”

I peel my eyes away…barely. “What dinner?”

“It’s the Big Brothers program I’ve had a hand in sponsoring the last few years. Daniels is a mentor for one of the boys, along with a few of my other wrestlers. Anyway, there’s an annual fundraising dinner at the end of February. Dinner, dancing, a silent auction. Linda and I enjoy it, make it a date night.”

“Date night?”

Dad does that thing where he narrows his eyes ever so slightly to gauge a person’s reaction—and no matter how much I school my expression, I know he sees the excitement in my eyes at the mention of a date.

“I told you, you’re not allowed to date any of these assholes.”

“Which assholes? You’ve warned me off practically everyone.”

“The wrestlers. It just doesn’t cotton.” Dad’s southern roots are showing. “I don’t need you tangled up with anyone on the team. It won’t end well.”

“Won’t end well for who?”

“Them.” He picks at a yellow sticky pad, scribbles something on it, and slaps the square of paper onto his computer monitor. “Besides, you know I’ve already told each and every damn one of them to stay away from you.”

“Some of them aren’t the best listeners,” I quip under my breath with a laugh.

My father doesn’t find it the least bit funny, unflinching in his chair. “Who?”

A tiny shake of my head. “No one.”

“Has one of them already come on to you?”

“No Dad. I was just making a joke.”

“Anabelle Juliet.”

“Oh brother, here we go with the middle name.”

“I’m not shitting around here Annie. Half them boys wouldn’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”

I smirk. “What about the other half?” Those are the ones I care about.

He levels me with an unamused stare. “Were you this much of a smartass with your mother?”

“Yes, kind of.” It’s one of the reasons Mom and I fought when I was a teenager. She couldn’t stand my mouth or my sense of humor, said I reminded her too much of my dad. Since when is that a bad thing? I’d always smart back.

“The other half don’t have time for dating, Anabelle. The other half are winning national championships and don’t need the distractions.”

Ahhh, there it is. “So you’re the one who doesn’t want the guys dating.”

He scoffs. “Anabelle, not a single coach in the history of the NCAA wants their athletes dating.”

I laugh, tipping my head back because he says it so matter-of-factly, like it should be obvious. “I get that Dad, but you can’t control everything they do.”

“No, but I can stop them from dating my daughter.”

“What if I end up liking one of them?”

“That’s not going to happen.” His tone dares me to argue with him.

So I do.

“Seriously Dad, what if I meet one and they are just so hot and funny and captivating I couldn’t possibly resist him?”

His fingers steeple again. “Lucky for me, those boys are already off the market. Is that what you kids call it? The meat market?”

“Worst metaphor, but sure.” I shrug. “We’ll go with meat market.”

“I’m not kidding about this.”

“I know that, Dad.”

“Good.” He makes a show of shuffling some papers to let me know we’re done with this conversation. “Besides, I don’t know why you’d want to date a wrestler to begin with—their ears are all funny.”

“Are you making a joke?”

“Yes. Was that not funny?”

“Not really, because I think those funny ears are kind of cute sometimes.” I’m giving him a hard time and he knows it. I rise from my seat and reach over, giving his earlobes a little wiggle. “Look at my daddy’s cute little ears.”

He swats at me, grouchy. “Stop it, people are looking.”

I give him an eye roll worthy of my teenage self. “No one is looking.”

Not if you don’t count the wrestler shuffling around the locker room. Zeke Daniels catches my eye and scowls, immediately presenting me with his broad back as he changes into a gym shirt. The entire expanse of it is covered with a black tattoo that looks like a rising phoenix. Stark against his skin, hard lines with a dark mood.

Mysterious and hard and angry, just as he appears to be.

“Is he always broody like that? Or is it just me?”

“Daniels?” My dad cranes his neck again, peering through the glass. Grunts dismissively. “He’s always like that.”

“Why?”

“Suspect it has something to do with his upbringing. He doesn’t get along with his parents.”

“Ahh.”

Neither of us speak after that, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am. That a person’s parents shape the person they become, whether they want them to or not. I mean, look at me—I have two perfectly normal parents who happen to be divorced, and in a way, it kind of did a number on me.

I moved halfway across the country to seek my dad’s approval, to atone for my mother leaving him. I’ve taken enough high school psych classes to know this behavior stems from my past and has everything to do with my family dynamic.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Dad is saying, “but he’s really come a long way. He was such a goddamn prick last year, I almost had to suspend him.”

I study Zeke through the glass, gaze roaming up and down his body, ogling. Really Anabelle, in front of your father?

Ugh.

“Suspend him? Why?”

“Piss-poor attitude—pardon my French.”

“He doesn’t look all that terrible.”

Dad hmphs. “Looks can be deceiving, and I suspect his girlfriend has a lot to do with it.”

“Have you met her?”

I watch as Zeke sits on the bench, back to us, lacing up a pair of black wrestling shoes and sliding a tank top over his head. Such a pity, covering his broad back.

“Once, at the Big Brothers fundraiser. I’m guessing by now, that blonde has him wrapped around her little finger.”

Blonde? Typical.

Guys like that always go for the blondes.

“Tiny slip of a thing, not much to her. Has a stutter.”

Say what? “A stutter?”

“You know, a speech impediment.”

“I know what a stutter is, Dad.” My brows go up, curious. “That guy is dating a girl with a speech impediment?”

“He is.”

I can’t peel my eyes off him now, curiosity getting the best of me as I second-guess my initial valuation of him.

“What’s she like?”

“Who, Violet?”

“Is that her name?”

“Yes.” Dad steeples his fingers once again. “She volunteers a lot. Babysits. Small and quiet, I guess. I wouldn’t have paired the two of them together in a million years, but I guess we can’t choose who we fall in love with.”

I can’t decide if that’s a dig at Zeke or at Violet’s choice in romantic partners.

“Anyway, I have to hand it to the boy—he works his ass off for the team.”

I would say so—he’s an hour and a half early for practice, already wrapping his wrists. Tilting his head from side to side, headgear dangling from around his wrist.

“Enough about him. We need to get your living situation squared away.”

I breathe a sigh, relieved he’s ready to talk about it. “Yes. Thank you, Dad.”

“If you want to live on your own, I have nothing to say against it, but I don’t want you in a shithole.”