The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

I take my eyes off Rhett long enough to give her a reassuring smile. “Better now, I think?”

She analyzes my expression closely. “You are referring to the four-hundred-dollar restaurant bill?”

Shit. How much has he told her about that? About all the other incidents?

The look on my face—and my hesitation—has Wendy studying me closely. “If there was more, you’d tell me?”

I nod slowly. “There have been a few other little things.”

I can’t lie. Can’t.

This is his mother.

“Like what?”

“They, um…vandalized his car.”

“What do you mean vandalized his car?”

“They, uh…” I clear my throat, itching to stretch out my collar. “Covered it in grease and wrapped it in, um, plastic wrap.”

“Who is they?” Wendy’s eyes are dangerous slits, sliding to the other men warming up beside Rhett.

“We don’t know. Some sorority girls, I think? I was with him so he didn’t have to drive the Jeep home, but…he was really upset about it.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “What did Coach Donnelly do about it?”

I swallow. “He, uh, made them do a team-building exercise at a cabin in the woods. It’s been much better since.”

“Hmm.” She pulls her brown gaze off her son. “He seems happy. I’m disappointed he felt like he couldn’t tell us.”

I don’t know what else to say but, “You know how guys are.”

“Well, he’s always been stubborn.” Her head dips. “It’s hard having him so far away. I worry. A mother should know her son is being taken care of.”

My arms slide around her shoulders and pull her in. “I’m taking care of him. He has me.”

“I can’t get over the fact that my baby has a girlfriend. He’s never had one.” She pauses. “He wouldn’t want me tellin’ you that.”

“I don’t think he considers me his girlfriend yet, but…I think we might be moving in that direction—I mean, I hope we are.” Shut up, Laurel. Stop talking. “I really like him.”

Her eyes soften with my words, eyes scanning for him again. Her gaze roams up, over the student section, and I know the instant her eyes land on a poster board sign that says: DOES RETT STILL NEED 2 GET LAID?

And another: RETT ANSWER MY TEXTS & I’LL BLOW YOU & UR “MIND”

If I thought Wendy’s eyes were narrowed before, they’re nothing compared to the daggers she’s shooting across the gym floor now. “Are girls always this forward? Why would a young woman offer to have sex with my son?”

My lips clamp shut.

“Do you see that?” She’s pointing now, jabbing her husband in the arm. “Charlie, are you seein’ this? Look.” Jabs him again. “Look.”

Mr. Rabideaux squints, glancing briefly around the stadium seating. Goes back to ignoring us, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees to better take in the action.

And that face Rhett is making now, as he waits to start his match? It’s the same look he makes when he’s concentrating on something I’m saying—or when he’s putting his big hands on my body. He’s making that same intense face now, under the bright lights of the center mat.

Stretching on the balls of his feet, working his hamstrings.

Stalwart focused.

Beside me, “What is wrong with those girls?” She nudges me, truly worked up. “Is it always like this?”

I answer as honestly as I can without ratting myself out. “Well, I’ve only been to one other match, and there were signs like that, yes.”

“Why would they do that? ‘Get Rett Laid’? Of all the things.”

She huffs, agitated, crossing her arms. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. Squirming.

“Yes.”

“Does it bother him?”

“I don’t know if he notices. He hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t asked.”

“Honestly.” Huff. “Where do these girls get the nerve? How are they allowed in with those signs?”

If my face isn’t flaming as hot as my hair, I would be shocked. It must be; the blush burning me up from head to toe has the temperature in my body skyrocketing. “I don’t know ma’am.”

I gulp. Guilty.

Sweating.

It’s horrible.

I can’t outwardly admit I was one of those girls. A girl that called her kindhearted son out of the blue, because of a poster hanging on campus, to mock him. To tease him because I thought he wasn’t that good-looking.

Granted, I didn’t show up in public waving a sign promising blow jobs and sex, but I did text him, proposition him in a roundabout way.

Nagged until he relented, talked, and flirted with me.

I’m a terrible person, with no better morals than those young women, or my cousin Alex.

My eyes shift to Rhett, who removes his warm-up clothes one article at a time. Watch as he pulls the pants down his hips, steps out of them, the word Iowa in bold yellow emblazoned on his dense left thigh.

God, how could I have ever thought he wasn’t attractive when now, he’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen? It breaks my vain heart knowing how I acted—like an asshole.

I’m not out of his league; he’s out of mine.

I swallow the hard lump of emotions in my throat, adapting a forward pose, just like his father, waiting for Rhett to step center ring, under the lights, his pale skin already glistening from perspiration.

He reaches to adjust the spandex of his singlet, tugging the fabric out of his crotch, fiddling with the leg holes. Shakes one leg then the other. Each arm. Pivots head from side to side.

His opponent is a big guy, virtually identical in stature down to the serious expression, neither acknowledging the crowd when the announcer broadcasts their names, their stats.

Rhett Rabideaux, transfer from LSU. Winningest wrestler in the past three years at both Louisiana and Iowa. All-American. Two-time NCAA champion in his weight class. Six foot. One ninety. Hometown: Bossier City, Louisiana. Proud parents, Wendy and Charlie Rabideaux.

I suck in a breath when the wrestlers take their positions, anxious.

Rhett and I have known each other only a matter of weeks and the amount of pride I’m feeling at this moment is insurmountable. Indescribable.

I want to puke I’m so nervous.

His mom notices my bouncing knee, grips my hand, squeezing. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

“He’s amazing.” I sound breathy and wistful, even to my own ears, captivated by her half-naked son.

I feel her stare a few long heartbeats as she takes my measure. Gauges my sincerity.

Smiles. We hold hands when the ref blows the whistle, signaling the start. Wendy clutches my forearm as Rhett and Eli Nelson grapple, bent at the waist, heads lowered, both wrestlers dipping low.

“You want to stay low when you’re wrestling someone who can shoot hard doubles from their knees,” his mom says by way of explanation, as if I have a clue.

I obviously have no idea what she’s talking about.

The boys are quick, fast on their feet. Rhett’s head drops, pushing into his opponent’s midsection until they’re both barreling toward the white outer circle. Eli fights it, but slides out of bounds.

“That’s called a push-out,” Wendy says. “Rhett gets one point.”

“One? That’s it? He should get five for that!”

Rhett and Eli immediately enter more grappling, pulling on each other’s heads. “I don’t know how I feel about this,” I admit. “He’s not going to get hurt, is he?”

“Not likely. He hasn’t really had any major injuries in the past few years besides cuts.”

The whistle blows, and both guys stand, walking to their respective corners for coaching, water.

Then just like that, the whistle blows and they’re at it again, Rhett with three points, Nelson with one. It’s fast, much quicker than I thought matches were going to be, both men determined to get the upper hand. Agile and swift. Legs hooked, Rhett has his around Eli’s waist, shoulders pressed into the mats, near the white, out of bounds.