The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(36)

“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.”