The Failing Hours(20)

I nod. “We have to hit the coat check first, but yeah. I’m going to need to be piss-ass drunk to make it through tonight,” I joke crudely.

Coach shakes his head back and forth. “Daniels, the correct answer I’m looking for here is No sir, especially if you’re driving this young lady home tonight.”

Mother. Fucker. Is he here just to lord over me? Because he’s off to a good start.

“No sir,” I grumble, sounding a whole lot like a goddamn pussy.

“Good decision.” He smacks me on the bicep, pleased. “My wife Linda and I are seated at table twelve if you kids are open to joining us.”

“Th-That’s,” Violet stutters, then pauses. Takes a deep breath. “That’s very kind of you to offer, Coach. I’m sure we’d love that, thank you.”

We’d. We.

I’m not a religious person, but when Violet prettily accepts for both of us, I swear to God Coach smirks with satisfaction.

“Yeah, Coach. Thanks.”

He smacks me on arm, taking a sip of his drink—probably to rub it in. “Good. Check your coats and grab something to wet your whistle. Find us when you get settled.” The old fucker grins at Violet. “Young lady, it was nice meeting you.”

I watch him walk away, whatever uncharitable thought I have interrupted by Violet clearing her throat.

“Should we check our coats? Or…did you want to put them at the table?”

“Check them. I want to avoid that table as long as I possibly can, no offense.”

She nods, though I doubt she understands.

She has no idea that Coach is forcing me to volunteer with the Big Brothers Mentor Program—veritably blackmailing me. Has no idea I’m on the verge of losing my spot on the team because of my bad attitude. Has no idea that the wrestling team is the only family I have, and Jesus Christ do I sound like a whining little fuck.

I trail behind Violet as she gets in line for the coat check. She peels down the zipper on her black jacket, slowly shrugging it off her narrow shoulders.

Her bare, narrow shoulders.

I’m immediately drawn to the pale skin, her exposed collarbone like smooth porcelain. Her dress is dark plum and holds tight to what few curves she has, a rich velvet, ending mid-thigh.

I realize I’m staring when she smoothes a hand down the front and looks up at me, worried. “Is this okay? I wore it when I was in a friend’s wedding last summer. I-It’s the only thing I had that was dressy enough.”

Like I care that she had to re-wear a dress. Do chicks actually give a crap about stuff like that?

“It’s good.”

And it is. She looks gorgeous.

I slide off my suit coat, take Violet’s jacket, and hand them both over to the stalky high school kid behind the counter for a claim ticket. His eyes widen, surprised. Excited.

I realize he must follow university wrestling, must know who I am and be a fan.

See, the university does this whole huge marketing blitz in the fall to advertise their student athletes. Since wrestling is a powerhouse and a draw to the school, large banners hang on the field house, stadium, and gymnasium. They’re basically the size of billboards.

And whose face do you think is plastered on one of them, live and in color?

That’s right, yours truly, looking like the goddamn champion I am.

The kid plays it cool. “What’s up, you checking your coats?”

“Two please.”

“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Are you Zeke Daniels?” He’s still holding our coats, no attempts to hang them.

“Yeah.”

Violet watches the whole exchange, a thoughtful expression sliding across her angelic face. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going through her mind: that I’m being a cocksucker and should be nice to the kid, should offer to sign something so he doesn’t have to ask.

Probably not in those exact words.

And she’d be right. I should just offer because I know that’s what he wants. But guess what? I’m not in the damn mood and don’t fucking feel like signing anything.

“I…” The kid hesitates. “I, uh, have a poster in back if you, uh, could you sign it? I have a Sharpie, too.”

“You have a poster in back?” That’s creepy and weird.

“I knew Coach D was going to be here—he comes every year—and my buddy Scott heard you were a volunteer at the center. I was hoping you’d be here. Can I grab it for you to sign?”

Violet lays a palm on my forearm, and I can’t help but glance down and stare at it a few seconds, completely thrown off by her gentle touch. “Isn’t it wonderful that he’s so excited to meet you, Zeke?”

She smiles, eyebrows rising a fraction…gives her head an encouraging little nod up and down until I hear myself saying, “Yes?”

The kid does a fist pump. “I’ve seen all your home games, and last week at Cornell?” His voice cracks with excitement. “Holy shit man, that pin on JJ Beldon was sick! Seriously sick. My friends and I lost our minds.”

Violet nudges my arm gently with a smile on her face.

“Thanks?”

She pats my arm and—

Wait just one damn minute.

Is she…is Violet coaching me on how to be nice?

Her hand is still on my sleeve and I look down into her pretty, upturned face. Down at her bold, dark lips. Her huge eyes and long lashes. All that pale blonde hair.

She’s a damn wet dream.

Fuck me.

“Yeah, get your poster, kid. I’ll sign your shit.”

I’ve never seen a kid move as fast as this one does, leaving our coats on the counter and sprinting through the back room, disappearing through a door.

“This is really nice of you,” Violet says when he’s gone.

The little faker thinks she can pull one over on me? I don’t think so. “You’re not fooling me with those innocent eyes and sexy lips. I know what you just did there.”

“You do?”

“Yeah—you manipulated me into signing his shit.”

Her chin goes up a notch. “I-I did no such thing.”

“Liar.”

She shoots me a sidelong glance, biting her lip. “Are you mad?”

“Nah. I was probably going to do it anyway.”

When the kid comes flying back through the door with his poster, Violet is the one who takes the Sharpie from him and places it in my hand.

“I’ll hold the poster while you sign it,” she encourages quietly. I grunt, but like a good little solider, do as I’m told.

“Uh, what’s your name?” I ask the kid, relenting.

“Brandon.”

“You a wrestler?”

“Yeah. I can’t afford tickets to come watch you guys in person, but I watch them all on YouTube after they’ve aired on cable.”

Damn. His family can’t afford tickets to come watch wrestling at the university? I thought they were only ten bucks or something. A pit of guilt forms in my stomach.

“Oh yeah? Every match, eh?” I ask him. “What’s our record?”

“Nine titles. You’ve won twenty-three of the last thirty-seven national championships, and you’re currently sitting at eighteen and oh for this season.” He grins proudly, rattling off our stats.

He flips his bangs.

I look at him good and hard then—he does indeed look like a wrestler: not too tall, with broad shoulders. Brandon’s shaggy hair probably gets in his eyes when he’s down on the mat, not good if you’re working up a sweat, and I wonder why no coach has ever told him to trim that shit up.

“You need a haircut,” I blurt out harshly.

I feel Violet stiffen at my direct frankness.

Brandon raises his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. “Uh…”

I roll my eyes at them both. “I guarantee if you cut it, you’ll be quicker when you’re down on the mats. Do you want to be great, or do you just want to be good?”

“I want to be a champion,” he boasts.

I sign his poster with a sloppy scrawl, handing it back to him. “Then trim your fucking hair.”

“Okay.” Brandon nods. “Okay, yeah. I will.”

“Good.” I look him up and down again. “I’ll work on getting some tickets for you and your friends to come to a few home games. Maybe you can come to a practice—no promises, but I’ll ask.”

Brandon’s eyes bug out of his damn skull like I’ve just handed him a golden pair of wrestling shoes. “Holy shit, dude, for real?”

He’s practically shouting.

“Don’t get all fucking crazy on me—calm down. It’s not a big a deal.”

But I know it’s a big deal to him—thanks to Kyle, I’ve seen what it’s like to not have dick growing up. To not have enough money for a ten-dollar ticket to come watch a sport you love.

It’s shitty. The kid shouldn’t have to miss out.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m calming down!”

“Calm down, or I swear to God…”

Violet laughs—laughs—the soft chuckle starting in her shoulders before working its way out of her soft, plum lips.

I scowl. “What are you laughing at?”

“You trying to be nice.”

“I’m not nice.”

“That’s why I said trying.”

Her eyes are wrinkled at the corners but her teasing isn’t mean—far from it. She’s truly enjoying herself, enjoying whatever this banter is between us.