The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(84)

Strong, powerful, and larger than life, he moves into the center of the ring. Grips his opponent’s hand to shake it. His pouty lips are set in a grim line, eyes bearing down on the wrestler from Purdue.

I’ve seen that look of determination in person. That formidable, unsmiling face. Felt his potency firsthand.

The announcer begins his commentary; the two wrestlers circle and lower their levels, blocking each other. Zeke’s opponent—a junior named Hassan—circles away, removing his hands so Zeke can’t get control of them.

Both wrestlers are grappling, bodies hunched, hands extended, both immobile for only a split second before Zeke makes his move. Striking fast.

He flies into action, grabbing Hassan by the inner thighs, hauling him up. Lifting. Hefting him up and over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Hassan is suspended in the air while Zeke gets into position to drop him to the mat so he’s flat on his back.

Zeke’s biceps and thighs ripple. Glisten.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, he’s going to drop him and break the poor kid’s back!

I can’t watch. I’m horrified.

I hold my breath, covering my gasp with the palm of my hand. Release it when Zeke slowly lowers his torso and adversary with steady, skilled precision to the mat without hurting him or losing control. Unbelievable strength.

The tattoo on his back strains with every shift, every calculated movement of his muscular, tight body. Sweat dampens his furrowed brow. His black hair. Perspiration beads on his back and chest.

Within seconds, he has Hassan pinned to that blue mat.

Seconds.

I stare, eyes wide when the referee counts out the win. Pounds the mat. Watch when both wrestlers rise to their feet, the referee taking Zeke’s wrist and raising it above his head, declaring him the victor of that match.

His chest heaves from the exertion he made look so effortless.

I’m trying to reconcile this sweating, aggressive Adonis with the one who’s been so gentle with me. Tender. Loving and kind with me in bed—not like the one in front of me now, hefting a two-hundred-pound human in the air like he’s weightless.

In front of an entire stadium full of spectators. In front of a nation of people.

My mouth gapes, and I lean toward my monitor, enthralled.

He is larger than life, this boy.

This man.





Zeke: It’s me. You have time to talk?

Violet: Yes.

Zeke: How was your week?

Violet: Okay. Yours?

Zeke: I’ve had better—I miss you Violet. I really fucking miss you.

Violet: It’s only been a few days.

Zeke: It doesn’t matter. I feel sick to my fucking stomach every time I think about this whole damn mess.

Violet: I honestly still don’t know what to say about it, Zeke.

Zeke: Did you at least get my letter?

Violet: Yes, I got your letter.

Zeke: What did you think?

Violet: I think it was your truth, and I know it took a lot of effort for you to say all those things Zeke: I hear a but coming.

Violet: But actions speak louder than words, Zeke.

Zeke: Then help me Violet. I don’t know what I’m doing.

Violet: I know you don’t. I wish I knew what to say. I wish you hadn’t…made me feel what I felt, good and bad. In a matter of weeks, you’ve managed to make me feel both.

Zeke: Pix, please. I am sitting on a bus in the middle of fucking nowhere, unable to do anything but text you, and it’s going to take at least another two hours before I’m home. So PLEASE just don’t tell me no. Not yet.

Violet: Are you sure you’re not feeling this way because you’re not getting what you want? Is it because you care, or because you’re being stubborn?

Zeke: Probably both, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I care a lot—more than I’ve ever cared about ANYTHING. I can’t even believe I’m having a conversation like this. Do you realize that? This is insane. I’m texting about my FEELINGS.

Violet: It’s nice.

Zeke: It’s nice? That’s all you have to say? Because I’m skittish as hell and kind of want to puke my guts out.

Violet: YES ZEKE. That’s all I have to say. Because it’s really nice to hear, and maybe someday you’ll get to the point when you can SHOW it.

Zeke: I know I deserve that.

Violet: I hear a but coming.

Zeke: But it still fucking sucks.

Violet: They’re just words, right?

Zeke: No. They’re not just words and we both know it, and I’m sorry I didn’t realize it until now.

Violet: Can I tell you something?

Zeke: Of course.

Violet: I watched your match against Hassan tonight on ESPN.

Zeke: You did???? Wow. Seriously? I’m typing so fast right now, LOL

Violet: Yeah. I googled it and hunted down the channel.

Zeke: Well—what did you think???

Violet: I thought it was amazing—YOU were amazing. Everything about it was incredible. You’re so strong. I am so in awe of you.

Zeke: No one is more in awe of someone than I am of you, Violet. And no one is stronger. And when I get home and you’re ready, I’m going to come see you. There’s so much shit I want to say that makes being on this bus a fucking nightmare.

Violet: Hey Zeke?

Zeke: Yeah?