The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(32)

“You owe me one.”

Removing his black baseball cap, he sets it on the table in front of him, running his fingers through his dark hair. The black slashes above his platinum eyes furrow in concentration.

“It was shitty. I knew as soon as I fucking let you leave it was wrong. Obviously I can’t handle having girls in my house without acting like a jerkoff. I’m sorry.”

I reach across the table and pat his hand. “There now, was that so hard?”

“Yes,” he grumbles.

“Bet it made you feel better, didn’t it?”

He refuses to answer, instead replacing his hat. Squeezes the brim and slouches down in his chair.

“So this fundraiser—anything I need to know?”

“Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know…are we meeting anyone there? Are any of your friends going?”

“My friends wouldn’t be caught dead in that place.”

I laugh. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true.” They can’t all be hard asses with unyielding edges—like him.

“You’re probably right,” he concedes, disgruntled. “My roommate has turned into such a fucking pansy since he started dating his girlfriend. He’d totally go.”

I smile. “So it’s just going to be us?”

Zeke frowns. “No. My wrestling coach is going to be there with his wife, and probably a few other people in the program. Apparently Coach loves this kind of shit—who knew?”

“Why…” I have to clear my throat then, a stutter on the tip of my tongue. “Why is he making you go?”

There has to be something he’s not telling me.

“Because he’s a dick.”

Another laugh threatens to spill out, and he shoots me a look.

“Someone’s in a giggly mood today.”

“Sorry.”

His eyes bore into me, lips twitching. “I’m not.”





Zeke

For the first time in a few weeks, I don’t drag Kyle to the kiddie park. Instead, I drag him to one across town—one with a skate park, a baseball diamond, and a basketball court.

“Hey kid. You any good at basketball?” I spy a basketball halfway across the old, fenced-in court.

There hasn’t been a lot of upkeep at this place; the asphalt top needs resurfacing, and weeds grow like wild grass between the cracks. The court boundary lines need a fresh coat of paint, and don’t get me started on the chain-link fencing that’s seen better days.

Still, it’s deserted, and as luck would have it, an old, faded basketball sits abandoned in one of the four corners.

I forgot to bring one.

Kyle shrugs his skinny shoulders. “We play it at school in gym class.”

“You any good?”

Another shrug. “I’m pretty good. I can run circles around Tommy Bauer, so…” Another shrug.

“Wanna throw around some hoops? This park looks like it could use some action.”

“Sure. I guess.”

“Trot on over there and fetch that ball. I’m going to set my shit down on the bench.” I look him up and down. “Want me to take your jacket so it’s not in the way?”

“Sure. I guess.” Off comes the gray, threadbare zip-up hoodie.

I really need to get this kid a new fucking sweatshirt, and obviously nothing but an Iowa wrestling hoodie will do. I make a mental note to grab one from the supply room where we get our sponsored apparel and shit. If they don’t have kids sizes, I’ll just grab him a men’s small.

Kyle’s lanky frame jogs back with the ball, holding it in his arms.

“You’re supposed to be dribbling that thing,” I joke.

“I’m saving up my energy for when I whoop your butt,” he shoots back.

Little smartass.

He’s a few feet away when he trips, and my steely gaze hits his feet. Those gray and read sneakers, worn to shit.

Back up to his face.

His big blue eyes are trained on me, and I force a grin.

“Want to make this interesting?”

He tilts his head. “What does that mean?”

A loud laugh escapes my throat, starting in my gut. “It’s just an expression; it basically means, want to gamble on the game.”

“Oh.”

I can tell by his face he still doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about.

“Betting is something I do with my friends. You wanna take a gamble? Winner takes all, loser pays up.”

I snatch the ball out of his hands and dribble it once, continuing as he plops down on a park bench.

“A bet is something people do for fun. Like, let’s say I bet you I can beat you to the fence. If we race and I win, you have to give me a soda.”

His whole face lights up with understanding. “Oh yeah! A bet! We do that all the time at school!”

Cool.

“So, want to make a bet with me?”

“What kind?”

“I bet you can’t make more baskets than me.”

“Why are you betting me that? I’m just a kid.”

Slowly, Kyle rises from the bench and walks toward me, stopping to bend and tie his shoddy, worn sneakers. I ogle them for the umpteenth time while he ties the laces.