The Learning Hours(3)

“I’m not here to find a date.”

“Right, but sometimes dates find you. Guys can’t help but trip all over themselves over you.” He winks, shoving more waffle into his mouth. “That is one hunky group of heterosexual males if I ever did see one.”

“Aww, poor Donovan,” I tease. “Drooling over a group of straight guys.”

“Story of my life.” He pushes a dramatic sigh out of pouty lips, twirling the straw in his cup of water. “But that’s not going to stop me from ogling.”

“You don’t even try.”

“Preach.” He pauses to shove more food in his mouth. “Oh damn girl, shit is about to get real.”

My head is still bent, highlighter flying in bright strokes across my syllabus. My roommate commentates like a sports broadcaster, giving a full play-by-play of the events happening on the other side of the room.

“There they go folks, ten—no, twelve strapping lads, bolting out the door. Bringing up the rear is number seven, a slow starter with impeccable thighs. Brown hair, this champ is an all-star, but can’t stay on his feet.”

I glance up, amused. Watch as some guy in a red shirt trips in the doorway, stumbling into the entryway. Caterwauls at the gumball machine. Slams into the parking lot.

“There they go, ladies and gentlemen, and I bet by the way they’re bailing, they either owe the tax man or they didn’t pay their bill. Which one could it be…”

I crane my neck, glancing across the now empty diner, out the window, to the parking lot, where the large guys—all athletes—are piling like circus clowns into three cars. They peel out, leaving nothing but dust.

My red brows rise. “Dine and dash?”

“Oh yeah, totally.”

I tap the yellow highlighter cap on my chin. “I’ve never seen anyone actually do that.”

“Really? You’ve never ditched out on paying a bill?”

I stare at him, disbelieving. “Are you serious? No! Have you?”

“Once.” He laughs. “Okay, twice, but I was young and stupid and didn’t have any money. I also stole the menu and utensils.” Chuckle. “So dumb.”

I can’t argue with that, so I concentrate on my meal before it gets cold: short stack of pancakes, breakfast links, hash browns, and iced tea, extra ice.

I peel open a pat of butter wrapped in gold foil, stick it between a layer of pancakes, and wait for it to melt.

“Shit.” Donovan’s fork is poised above his plate. “Now what’s happening?”

I twist in the booth, flipping my long russet hair over a shoulder before resting my arm against the back of the seat. Together, my roommate and I watch as a guy comes out of the bathroom at the far end of the restaurant.

Scans the room, hands on his hips.

Tall and yet somehow stalky, he stuffs his hands in the pocket of an Iowa Wrestling hoodie as he surveys the room, severe brows bent in a frown. Approaches the tables cautiously, halting when the cute little waitress approaches him with a tap to the bicep. Holds out what is obviously the bill, hands gesturing around the room. Points toward the windows and the parking lot where his friends have disappeared.

“Holy shit.” Donovan chokes on his waffle, swallowing a difficult gulp. “Do you think those jocks left that dude with the tab?”

“Oh, it definitely looks like they did.”

“What a bag of dicks.” His eyes have a hint of sparkle, most likely at the mention of dick. “I’m pretty sure that was the wrestling team.”

“How do you figure?”

Donovan does a quick onceover of the guy, dragging his bright blue eyes up and down the guy’s built frame. His head is bent as he scrawls his signature onto a receipt and shoves it back at the waitress, scowling.

Stalks to the door and pushes through it before standing outside. Glancing around, the goliath surveys the parking lot with his hands on his hips—looks left, looks right.

“Well, for starters, almost all those dudes were wearing some form of Iowa Wrestling garb.”

“Garb, Donovan?”

“Shhh, don’t interrupt my musings.”

“In that case, please don’t let me stop you—proceed.”

“That’s it. Those were my musings.”

I roll my eyes, attention shifting to the parking lot. The muted sounds of cursing tickle my ears; I strain to hear them. The words might be muffled by the double-paned windows, but from where I sit, I can read the words on his lips perfectly: “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck my life.”

Amused, I chuckle to myself, hiding the smile behind a water glass. God, I am such a jerk sometimes.

The guy takes a deep breath. Balls his fists at his sides.

I watch as his wide, hulky shoulders hunch over his phone, tapping furiously on the screen. Then he shouts some more, arms flailing, fists punching the thin air. He really should calm down—the whole red-in-the-face thing is not a good look for him.

“Think we should we offer him a ride? It looks like they left him here, too.”

Donovan looks so hopeful, I start laughing. “Oh my God, no! Look at how pissed off he is—there’s no way I’m letting him ride in a car with us. He could be a rager.”

Donovan quirks a manicured brow. “Relax. He’s not going to murder us.”

I cut a sliver of pancake, pop the buttery goodness into my mouth. Chew. Swallow. “Yeah, no. Not giving him a ride.”

“You are such a bitch.” He laughs, going back to his waffle. “You know you’d totally give that guy a ride home if he was hot.”

My neck moves of its own accord, and I find myself staring at the kid through the window, at the narrow hips and out-of-style jeans riding a little too high on his waist. The baggy sweatshirt. The shaggy hair he keeps brushing out of his eyes, the angry slashes he calls eyebrows.

He’s huge, gangly, and his hair is too long. His face looks beat up, and his nose is bent at the bridge.

Not cute.

Not at all.

Agitated, he bounces in his sneakers on the balls of his feet a few times before pulling that black hood up and over his head, looking like an MMA fighter itching for a brawl.

He’s pissed off and ranting into thin air, which makes him look kind of crazy.

Donovan is right: I probably would give the guy a ride if he was better looking.

But he’s not.

So I won’t.

“I’m sure he’ll figure out how to get himself home,” I conclude, stuffing sausage into my mouth. “He looks industrious.”

It’s not far to campus; he can walk.

“No, he doesn’t.” Donovan laughs. “He looks like he counts with nine fingers.”

Bitchy as it makes me, I join in. “He really does look dumb.”

“So, no ride home then?”

I emit an unladylike snort. “Not for him—I mean, unless he wants to trot beside us.”

No way would I ever give a guy like that a ride in my car.





Rhett





“Come on, Rabideaux, we do that to everyone.” Gunderson scoffs. “You can’t stay pissed at us the entire weekend.”

He’s standing next to me holding a white towel and a water bottle, extending his arm with the offerings while I do squats with three hundred pounds of weight.

I ignore him, panting from the exertion of the weights over my shoulders.

“Dude, come on. It was a prank.”

Knees still bent into position, I stop, narrowing my eyes up at him. “Oh yeah?” The sarcasm is heavy. “They did it to you?”

He shifts uncomfortably, lowering his arms while I continue with my reps. “Well, no…but I’m just the team manager.”

Really? That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him phrase it so casually, like his role on the team is no big deal. Normally it’s, “Show me some respect, I’m the manager,” or “Team manager, but you can call me Little Coach.”

Dumbass.

Lowering the bar in my hand to the ground, I set it down gently, turn toward the row of guys working the machines along the wall, and shout, “Daniels.” Zeke Daniels, one of our team captains, looks up from the treadmill. “Did the team take you for dinner and stick you with the bill?”

A slow grin spreads across his face, those cold eyes rolling in my direction. Sweat covers his forehead, chest, and armpits. “Fuck no.”

He’s not the kind of guy you screw with.

Leaving my spot at the squatting rack, I move to the bench press, Gunderson trailing after me like a puppy dog. It’s getting on my last nerve. “Gunderson, if you’re not going to actually spot me, stop talkin’ or get the fuck away from me and find me someone who will.”

He laughs it off. “Come on man, you need to let it go. It was harmless fun.”

I sit my ass on the bench, straddling it. “Harmless fun? That shit cost me four hundred dollars, you fuck. My parents are gonna flip their shit when they get the credit card bill.”

“New Guy—”

“No. Fuck you,” I grit out.

I point to Sebastian Osborne. “And fuck you.”

Then to Pat Pitwell, the one guy on the team you can always count on to do the right thing, “And fuck you for not stopping them.”

The room is silent. “Fuck all of you.”

“It was a joke!” someone shouts from the back of the room. “Don’t be a pussy, New Guy.”

“Four hundred dollars, assholes,” I repeat. “Do y’all see me laughing? I’m not laughing.”