“When you come up with a better idea, let us know. Until then, you’re Quasimodo. Also, we noticed you don’t wear enough cologne. No one has suggested you stink, but—”
“That’s ee-fucking-nough,” I growl. “Get the fuck away from me.” Fuming, I push the ear buds back into my ears, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me the fuck alone.
A sheet of paper flutters into my lap not two seconds later, and I grab it. Fist it into a ball. Toss it to the floor. It sits there an entire twenty-three seconds before I sigh, bending at the waste and scooping it back up.
I hate litter.
The list is entitled How to Be a Bigger Douchebag, and I scan it, disgusted.
Insult your friends more to be funny. No one likes someone who’s too nice, especially women.
Brag.
Give yourself a nickname.
Text other women during your dates. This will make you look desirable to the opposite sex.
Wear more cologne.
When asking a girl out, don’t just ask—tell her she’s going out with you.
Wait at least three hours before texting her back.
The list is one dumbass suggestion after the next, and I have to seriously wonder if they think I’m a fucking moron. Honestly, is that their impression of me, or are they genuinely just a fuckful of douchebags?
I shove the wadded-up list into my backpack as we pull into the stadium parking lot, the weight of this whole transfer pushing down on my shoulders. They may be wide, but they can only carry so much, and this month has been a shit storm I can’t find my way out of.
My phone pings.
Hey there…
Laurel.
I smile, replying before I have to stand to collect my things.
Hey. What’s up?
It’s basic and impersonal, but I still haven’t figured out why this girl insists on befriending me. Why she’s still texting, why she flirts with me. Why she brought me warm cookies I’m almost positive she baked herself.
I’m genuinely confused.
Confused as fuck.
She could have dropped the pretense of liking me the second I put two and two together at that party and realized who she was.
Laurel: You up for going out tonight? A few of us are downtown, somewhere nice. Want to meet us out and swap beer for wine?
Wine instead of beer? Who is this chick?
Me: I should probably stay in.
Laurel: Tired?
Me: Something like that.
Laurel: Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.
Me: Thanks for the invitation.
Laurel: :)
“Now who were you on the phone with?” My other irritating roommate is on his tiptoes, trying to see over my shoulder as we make our way to the exit. I wish he’d climb down out of my ass already.
“Laurel.” Like it’s even any of his business.
Eric nudges me in the spine with his elbow. “Dude, for real?”
I glower. “Yeah, for real.”
He shuffles behind me, lugging his duffle.
We walk in succession, each of us with our head down, tired, filing off the bus single file like we do week after week during the season.
“I have to see this chick—Gunderson said she’s smoking hot.” He’s riding my tail, bag literally bumping into my thighs. “Is that true?”
“Uh…” I hesitate. “I guess.”
“Gunderson said she has red hair—how red we talking here?”
“I don’t fucking know, Eric. Red.”
“So, you’re dating a fire crotch?”
Jesus Christ, for the fifth time, “I’m not datin’ her... and don’t call her fuckin’ fire crotch.”
He scoffs. “If you put a little effort into it, you could be slicing that pie. He said you’re giving her blue balls.”
“Should I bathe in cheap cologne, act like a dick, and give myself a pet name to lure her in?”
“Nickname—there’s a difference.” He bangs into me again with his bag.
“Would you shut up?”
We’re still bickering when a firm hand grasps my forearm.
“Rabideaux.”
That voice. The use of just my last name.
Shit.
I turn to see Coach, grimace when he pulls at the brim of his Iowa wrestling ball cap, hard eyes focused, mouth set into a firm line. “You have a minute?”
“Uh…” Fuck. “Yeah, of course.”
He sees the glance I shoot Gunderson and Eric, leveling my roommates with a narrowed stare.
“Meeting in my office. Twenty minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
We watch as Coach walks off, head bent, talking with the director of wrestling operations and our strength and conditioning coach, heading back toward the stadium, where their offices are housed.
“Dude, what’s that about?” Gunderson asks.
“No idea.”
But I have an inkling.
A hard knot forms in the pit of my stomach, squeezing from the inside, tightening with every step I take toward the building, every step I take that’s farther in the opposite direction of my Jeep.
I guesstimate it takes eight minutes to reach Coach’s office. Twelve more for him to flag me inside. Another to close the door, settle into a seat, and wait for him to speak.
“So.” He begins, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of him. “Tell me how it’s going.”
He drops his hands to the desktop, plucking a sticky note off the surface, pinning it between his fingers, bright yellow with something scrawled on it that I can’t read. Coach flicks it with his middle finger, tapping the yellow square back and forth, back and forth.
I stare at that small sheet of paper, trying to read the words written there in marker, the bold, black letters across the middle. It’s a name and a phone number, I discern that much.
“It’s going great,” I lie.
“Is that so?” He leans back, adopting a contemplative expression. “Want to tell me why we would have gotten a call from your father if everything is so goddamn great, Rabideaux?”
He leans forward and the wooden chair beneath him protests with a loud, creaking squeak.
“I don’t know what my dad would have said to y’all, but I can promise you I’m handlin’ it, sir.”
We sit in uncomfortable silence while he contemplates his next words.
“You know, son, we as a coaching staff, along with the university, have a strict zero tolerance policy against hazing, so I’m going to need a few names.”
My lips purse. “You know I’m not gonna do that sir, with all due respect.”
“I figured as much.” He eyes me with a frown. “You kids and your misplaced sense of loyalty never cease to fucking amaze me.” Pause. “Tell you what I’m going to do: I’ll be talking to your team captains about our little problem before it escalates.”
“It’s not a problem, sir.”
He chuckles sardonically. “How much was the bill you had to pay?”
My lips press together. Fuck.
I don’t know why he’s asking the question; I’m sure my dad already gave him the answer. “Four hundred and change.”
“And that’s not a problem for you? You running a charity for hungry, malnourished wrestlers we didn’t know about?”
“No sir.”
“Your father is not pleased, Rabideaux. He’s fucking pissed, and I personally do not enjoy getting my ass chewed out by angry parents. I have a duty to your families to prevent this sort of bullshit.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“You’re also aware that you, along with your teammates, signed an honor code?”
“Yes sir.”
“Can’t do much without specific names.” He pauses again. “Course, I could just suspend everyone.”
Fuck.
“Sir…”
“Let me give this problem some thought.”
“I understand.”
“I’ll be watching, Rabideaux.”
I nod.
“Now get the fuck out of my office, and close the door behind you.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice.
Laurel
We don’t go to a wine bar.