Stand me next to them in a lineup? I’m the last guy women notice.
The only thing remotely attractive about me is my teeth; my mom calls it my million-dollar smile because I’ve had so much dental work due to having so many teeth knocked out by a quick knee to the face or an errant elbow while wrestling.
Sucks to be me.
I haven’t gotten laid in ages, and the last thing I want is some drunken pity fuck, a castoff from a triad or the undesirable DUFF.
Gunderson sidles up beside me, shoving another beer into my empty hand. He clinks his amber bottleneck against mine, nudging me with his shoulder. “New Guy, you getting loose tonight?”
Getting loose? What the hell does that mean?
“Please stop calling me New Guy.”
“But that’s your name.”
“No, it’s not. Knock it off.”
“Well, I’m not calling you Rabideaux.”
I laugh when he scoffs out my last name. Rex Gunderson, the team’s manager and glorified water boy, is a couyon—a moron—with balls big enough to tell me my last name is dumb.
I bite at his bait. “Why won’t you call me Rabideaux?”
“Because holy formal. It sounds like a fucking butler’s name, and Rhett is worse. Makes you sound like you’re auditioning for some plantation, Civil War-level bullshit.”
He’s right, it does. Rhett Rabideaux—the whole name is a travesty.
“Thanks for mocking my name, asshole.”
“Admit it, it sounds douchey.”
“I’ll let Mama know you hate it next time I see her, thanks.”
“I didn’t say I hated it, just that it makes you sound like a puss.” He takes a swig of beer, eyeballing a group of girls huddled nearby, one of them surreptitiously glancing over her shoulder at him. “So you gonna let loose tonight or what? We only have one night out this week; you should spend it getting laid.”
Gunderson might be a fucking pain in everyone’s ass, but girls seem to love him. They eat up his pickup lines like filet mignon. The cocky attitude. The stupid expressions. The arrogance and bravado. They love it.
I take a drag of beer. “We went out Friday, remember? You know we’re in fuck tons of trouble if anyone posts anything online.”
He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got to start meeting people, dude. You can’t keep hanging out with just us. Put yourself out there, New Guy. Go see how friendly the girls in Iowa can be.” He lifts his bottle. “Those girls right there—the ones that keep looking over here—go say hi.”
I roll my eyes. “They’re not lookin’ at me; they’re lookin’ at you.”
Much as I hate to admit it, Gunderson is right; I haven’t put myself out there. I stay in my room all the fucking time, sticking to myself, here for one thing and one thing only:
Pin.
Win.
Graduate.
Fine, that’s three things. Anyway, it helps that Iowa is nothing but corn, fields, cornfields, and highway. Makes the ‘get in and get out’ that much easier. No attachments. No commitments here. Nothing but all work and no play—I haven’t even allowed myself friends from the wrestling team.
“New Guy.” Rex nudges me back to life. “If you’re going to get laid, you have to be more fucking assertive. You can’t be lazy.”
“Nah, I’m good standin’ right where I am.” Against tacky wallpaper in the back room of a crowded party.
Rex leans against it too, turning to face me. “If you’re going to insist on being a little bitch every time we go out, let me give you a little word of advice: stay away from Oz and Zeke.”
“Why?”
“Dude, they are way too good-looking. Trust me, no girl is going to give you the time of day if you’re standing next to either one of them.”
“I thought they had girlfriends?”
“They do. Actually, I think it only makes them more appealing to chicks.”
“Why is that bad?”
“Do you want girls to bang you or them?”
“I’m not having this conversation with you right now.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you gay?”
“No.”
“You can tell me if you are.” He holds up his palms. “No judgments.”
“I don’t feel comfortable hitting on women all the time, is all. No big deal.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah, why aren’t you comfortable hitting on women? What’s the deal? I know you’re not shy—I’ve seen you have conversations with the trainers and PTs.”
A few of whom are women…attractive women.
“I don’t want to bone every woman that talks to me, Gunderson.”
“I do.”
He says it with such a straight face that I bust out laughing.
The music blasting from the speakers makes it almost impossible for me to hear him ask, “Seriously though, you want my help or not?”
“God no!” I laugh again, slapping him on the back. “The last thing I need is your brand of help. Sorry Gunderson.”
“Come on man, think about it. I could be like your pimp, except without the exchange of money.”
Jesus Christ, that sounds horrifying.
“Do me a favor Rex.” He leans in with raised brows, interested, nice and close so he can hear me loud and clear. “Stay out of my personal business and stick to handing me clean towels.”
“Fuck you,” he sneers. “Besides, I don’t know if I can do that. I’m too deep in it.”
“Try harder.”
He emits a juvenile giggle. “You said harder.”
“What are you, five?”
“Sometimes.”
I prod the beer in his hand. “How many beers have you had tonight?”
He holds it in the air, squinting at it with one eye closed. “I don’t know, five? Six? Plus two Jägerbombs.”
“What the fuck, Gunderson? We have to be in the gym at five in the morning!”
“No, you have to be in the gym at five in the morning. I’m just there to hand you clean towels.” He holds up a palm to stop me from speaking. “Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ve got it covered; I bought a gallon of chocolate milk to help the hangover, so I should be good to go.”
“Do me a favor and stay away from my room. I don’t need you puking outside my door.”
Again.
Rex did not make it to the weight room the next morning for practice.
I guess I could have yanked him out of bed when he failed to make an appearance in the kitchen for our morning run, but I’m still reeling from being stiffed at the restaurant—though after four, five, six beers last night, both roommates gladly agreed to split my share of the rent for the month.
The nice thing for me to do would have been to wake him up knowing he was going to miss practice and most likely, his first class.
But I didn’t.
I grin, cutting across a patch of freshly mowed grass to the sidewalk that’s a direct path to my study group. Bookbag slung over my left shoulder, I emit a soft, relaxed whistle, glancing into the windows of the university’s student union coffee shop as I meander toward it.
Kick a stone into the freshly cut lawn.
I’m on my way to spend a few frustrating hours with two girls from my Political Strategies class who know less about fair trade agreements than I do. Best course of action and a minor consolation for this pounding headache? Chugging down a cup of the free coffee offered in the student union to clear my foggy head.
Monica and Kristy do little to get rid of the lingering aftereffects of my late night, asking question after question about foreign policy instead of searching for the answers themselves. It’s two hours spent explaining and re-explaining the logistics of agreements between a manufacturer and retailer on products trademarked outside the country.
Giving them one example after another, I eventually drew Monica a damn diagram of how the whole system works.
They just weren’t getting it, and I left feeling more like their tutor than their classmate.
Pulling the hood of my black Louisiana sweatshirt over my head, I sling my bag down my bicep, preparing to pull back the door to the corner coffee shop—more free caffeine before heading home because the cup I had before wasn’t strong enough to cure this headache, these throbbing temples.