The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(38)

He’s enjoying Zeke’s discomfort.

“I agree; getting them some tickets would be nice. Where does he attend school?”

Zeke shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, I didn’t ask.”

Coach sits back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest and taking Zeke’s measure. I notice he does that a lot—observes and calculates before responding to anything.

There is nothing impulsive about Coach.

Both men continuously fiddle with their neckties. Zeke has loosened his three times since we sat down. His coach? Twice.

“Hmm,” the man says, scratching the stubble on his chin. “It would have been nice to get the name of his school—we could invite the whole team to a meet.”

“W-Why can’t you?” I interrupt with a stutter.

Crap!

“Brandon is r-right over there. Why don’t you just walk back over there and ask him where he goes to school?”

The kid is literally fifty feet away, watching our table like a hawk, like Zeke and Coach are demigods. In his circle, they probably are.

“Just go do it,” I whisper, impatiently hissing through my lips.

Zeke stares me down. Practically growls my name. “Violet.”

It’s obvious he doesn’t want to get up from the chair; he hates any kind of conversation. Hates talking to people.

Out of the corner of my eye, Coach watches us, eyes volleying back and forth between Zeke and me as our pseudo power struggle develops.

Zeke regards me warily. I see the conflict warring within him—not wanting to give in, but knowing he damn well should walk back over to Brandon and find out where he goes to school.

“Ugh,” he rumbles loudly, pushing away from the table, shoving back his chair. “Christ!”

He sets it to rights before stalking toward the coat check on the other side of the room and I watch him zigzag through the crowd until he disappears, back toward the entrance of the hall.

I smile softly to myself, gloating down at my lap, not daring to look around the table.

No one has said a word.

I raise my head, watching the crowd for Zeke.

“So. Violet.” Coach catches my eye, taking a long sip from his water glass, his wife Linda smiling warmly from across the table. Blonde, tan, and younger than I would have expected, she’s been nothing but kind since we sat down. “That was interesting.”

My blonde brows rise but I don’t trust myself to speak and not stutter. Oh? My brows do the talking for me.

“He’s one stubborn son of a bitch.” Another drink of water. “I’m surprised he offered that kid tickets.”

I nod. “I was surprised myself.” Tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “He, um, didn’t want to come alone tonight.”

I don’t know why I’m telling these people this.

Coach barks out a laugh. “He didn’t want to come at all.” He studies me like he’s been studying his wrestler all night, long and hard and critically, eyes blazing as intensely as Zeke’s always are. “I doubt the only reason he invited you was so he didn’t have to come alone. I doubt that very much.”

Linda elbows him in the ribcage.

He takes that opportunity to purse his lips, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the white linen tablecloth. “He’s complicated.”

I nod. Yes he is.

“But, I suspect, so are you.”

I nod. Yes I am.

Coach nods slowly, glancing up behind me.

Zeke has returned to the table, his massive frame yanking out a chair and plopping down in his seat, repositioning himself several times to get comfortable.

“Kennedy Williams High,” he begrudgingly tells us. “He’s a junior. There are eight kids on the team and not enough money for anything.” His arms cross, grumbling. Always grumbling. “We should be having this fundraiser for his team, not—”

He stops himself.

“What were you about to say, Mr. Daniels?” his coach asks. “First you want to give the kid free tickets to one of our meets and now you want to fundraise for him? My, my, a bleeding heart now, are we?”

He’s determined to raise Zeke’s ire.

It works.

Obviously.

I mean, it’s not hard to do. All a person has to do is sniff in his general direction and it pisses him off.

Poor thing; he’s so high-strung.

“Tell you what,” Coach says after a few awkwardly silent moments. “I’ll get your kid tickets for two home matches for his entire team.” He pauses. “Then I want you to give them a tour of the locker rooms afterward, introduce them to our team. Can you do that?”

“I’m not babysitting a group of teenagers.”

Coach squints. Leans back. Nods.

“All right. Suit yourself.”

He goes back to eating from the vegetable tray on our table, crunching loudly on a carrot and smiling. Knowing there is no way Zeke is going to—

“Fine,” Zeke spits out, taking the bait. “Jesus.”

I nibble my bottom lip, biting back a secret smile.

“So, I’m curious, do you have a boyfriend, Violet?” Linda asks. She’s cutting up a tomato and bent on making small talk. Setting down her knife, she rests her chin in her hands, a pleasant expression on her face, like she genuinely wants to know if I have a boyfriend.