“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.
Not even close.
I’m out with Alexandra and her two best friends, Gretchen and Kari, and we most certainly aren’t anywhere classy; in fact, the place is a dive.
It also happens to be the home of a fraternity fundraiser—a bar and a frat party all in one place, imagine that.
For the third time tonight, I give Alex a nudge, tugging on her sleeve and leaning in, peering into her plastic beer cup. It must be bottomless since it never seems to be empty.
“Come on, Alex, it’s getting late. You said we weren’t going to stay long.”
“I know, but Johnathan’s been behind the bar for an hour, and he’s almost done with his shift. I want to see him before we go.”
John is the president of the Sigs, one of the university’s largest fraternities. The biggest partiers. The deepest pockets.
The worst reputations.
My cousin has been fucking him behind her boyfriend’s back for weeks. “Alex, I’m sure John won’t know if you leave a bit early. He will live—you both will.”
“I’m his ride home.” She flips that long black hair over a bare shoulder. “Sober driver.”
“What! You promised him a ride home?”
“That’s not all I promised him.” Her laugh is flirty and borderline obnoxious.
“Are you shitting me right now? What does Dylan think of that?”
Her bottom lip juts out. “Who cares? And why do you care? I’m sorry Laurel, I’m not leaving. If you want to go, go.”
“It’s freezing outside!”
The temperature is glacial and I’m already freezing my ass off in tight black capri leggings and a mid-drift top, no jacket, half-boot heels.
What the hell was I thinking coming out dressed like this?
Oh, that’s right—I was hoping Rhett would change his mind and come out once the team rolled back into town.
My cousin rakes her stony eyes up and down my outfit. The tight black top might be long-sleeved, but it’s paper thin and flimsy.
“Laurel,” she scoffs, irritated. “It’s not my fault you didn’t bring a jacket.” When she crosses her arms, I know we’re done with the discussion, so I can do one of three things: stay, walk home, or call someone to come get me.
I rack my brain—Donovan is on a date with some new guy he met last weekend at a student senate retreat, and Lana picked up an extra shift at the banquet hall she waitresses at. There’s a wedding tonight and she didn’t want to pass up the tips.
“Well?”
I wave her off. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure it out.”
This isn’t the first time she’s chosen a guy over her friends, and it won’t be the last; Alex makes a habit of putting beaus before bows.
Despite the date rape talk we always have before stepping out for a party—or any night where there’s alcohol being served—no one leaves alone. We come together, we leave together.
That is, unless she wants to hook up.
Then? All bets are off.
I narrow my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll figure it out.”
Her smile is satisfied, the spoiled brat. “Text me when you get home so I know you got there safe.”
“Because if I’m not, you’re going to come riding to my rescue?”
She scrunches her face up, insulted. “Of course I would!”
“Then why are you letting me leave here? Alone?”
“God Laurel, then stay. Don’t be such a bitch about it.”
I throw my hands up. “I’m done. I’m going.” Giving my head an exasperated shake, I walk away dreaming up a thousand snarky tidbits I’m going to tell my mother in the morning when I call home.
“Okay. Be safe!” she calls out. “And text me when you get home!”
Right. Like that’s going to happen.
Outside, I find a corner, brace myself against the brick wall. Unlock my phone and scroll through the contacts, trying not to fool myself.
There is only one person I want picking me up, and he’s at home, probably in bed, unwilling to come out and spend some time getting to know me.
I nibble on the inside of my cheek, uncertain. What if he doesn’t answer?
But what if he does?
“Screw it.” The words rise on a puff of breath, the weather so cold my bravado turns to steam.
Rhett’s name lights up my screen, the counter ticking at the top.
One second.
Three.
Eight.
“Hello?”
“Rhett?” I hear rustling, like he’s in bed and unwrapping himself from a mess of sheets. For a brief second, I imagine he must be shirtless, barefoot, and only wearing boxer briefs, his hard body tangled in nothing but blankets—