The Coaching Hours by Sara Ney
4 Say You’ll Stay CROWNS
Although the men seem to get less and less douchier (is that word?) with each novel, the laughs don’t, and Sara Ney has certainly delivered another rom-com must read.
Elliott and Annabelle are both incredibly logical, sometimes frustratingly so as the novel progresses, and sweet. The development of their friendship into “friends-with-benefits” type of relationship is enjoyable. The bantering and flirting is all incredibly endearing. As the novel progresses, though, I became incredibly agitated by their choices, mainly because of how they feel. Their heads overrule their hearts, and while I got it, I didn’t want to. In the end, though, any type of douchebag-esque behaviors is completely eradicated.
The story didn’t take the path I thought with the addition of a secondary character, and true to his own description, he is like a fungus. I found myself really enjoying his character and all he brought to the story. So much so, that I hope he gets his own story. His acts and choices make him the impetus to most of the plot development in the story, and he provides the much needed comedic relief when times get hard for the characters. Even at the end, as we enjoy the HEA for the main characters, the fun is still going on for all involved.
The Coaching Hours might be the end of the douchebags, but there is more to come from this rom-com author, who I have come to love! I cannot wait to see what happens on Jock Row.
ARC received in exchange for an honest review
THERE ARE NO DOUCHEBAGS IN THIS STORY.
Well, there are, but they’re not who this story is about.
This story is about me—the coach’s daughter.
When I moved to Iowa to live with my dad, the university’s take-no-prisoners wrestling coach, I thought transferring would be easy as pie—living with my father would be temporary, and he’d make sure his douchebag wrestlers left me alone.
Wrong on both counts.
ASSHOLES ALWAYS COME OUT OF THE WOODWORK WHEN THE STAKES ARE HIGH.
A bet is placed, and I’m on the table. After one humiliating night and too much alcohol, I find the last nice guy on campus. And when he offers to rent me his spare bedroom, I go all in. It’s time for the nice guy to finish first.
Midnight chats and spilling my problems turn to lingering touches. Lingering touches turn to more.
And the ultimate good guy has the potential do more damage than any douchebags ever could.
Get your copy of The Coaching Hours today!
She perks up. “Wait, you’ve never had a back massage?”
“Well, what the hell? How can I, in good conscience, lie here letting you rub my back when you’ve never had anyone rub yours?” She scoots over, pointing to the mattress. “Lie on your stomach, I’ll do you first.”
I wave my hands in front of me in protest. The last thing I need is her warm hands roaming my body. “No, no, you don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you crazy? Back massages are the best—like, better than an orgasm. You’re first, so lie down.”
“And you call me the bossy one?”
“Quit stalling and get on the bed.”
Obediently, I climb to the middle of my bed in nothing but a pair of gym shorts, legs hanging off the side. Next to me, the mattress dips, Anabelle on her knees, approaching my side.
A finger glides down my spine. “It will be easier for me to do this if I’m sitting on you. Hope that’s okay.”
“Is that the approved method?”
“No, but my arms will get tired if I have to lean over you the whole time.”
“Do whatever then, I don’t care.”
I stiffen when Anabelle swings one leg over my body, straddling my ass. Warm palms at my lower back.
“You’re so tense. Try to relax,” she coos, making it worse. “Tilt your head to the side, that’s it.”
I hear the lotion bottle snap open. Click closed. My roommate’s palms rubbing together, warming it up. “Sorry, I don’t have any actual massage oil. This will have to do.”
When her hands make contact with my back, I almost groan it feels so fucking good. Warm. Smooth. Pressure in all the right places, pushing gently into my muscles.
Slower still, caressing along my shoulders, thumbs and fingers working together to soothe the burning on my right side.
“Doesn’t this feel great?” Her soft voice cuts into the silence. “You’re loosening up. That’s good.”
I feel her leaning as her hands move up and down my spine until they stop, hovering at the base of my neck. Thumbs stroking the skin below my hairline, back and forth.
Her torso dips, hands maneuvering my arms, placing them at my sides. Palms slide up and down my biceps.
For several minutes, she rubs my arms and shoulders. Then she skims down my ribcage unhurriedly, in no rush, making little humming sounds inside her throat.
I know I’m not imagining the feather-light way her hands drift down my spine. I remain still, letting her touch me, basking in it.
Remain still when her lips kiss the tender spot of my shoulder where it meets my neck, nose nuzzling behind my ear, her breasts rubbing against my back and what the fuck was that all about? What does she think she’s doing, trying to drive me insane?
About the Author:
Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte’s, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.
She lives with her husband, children, and her ridiculously large dog.