The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

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.

“No, she doesn’t,” Zeke answers for me, adjusting in his seat, wide shoulders brushing my slight ones.

I scowl, shifting my weight away. “H-How do you know?”

I’m capable of answering for myself.

For a moment, I wonder if he’s embarrassed that I stutter.

What if he doesn’t want me talking at all? I stare at the polished silverware and the water glass dripping with condensation.

Raise my head.

Coach, Linda, and the rest of our table watch me, expectantly.

I force a smile and shrug. “He’s right. I don’t.”

“Well, no loss there,” Linda jokes. “You’re probably better off without one—the older they get, the harder they are to train.”

“Hey!” Coach bellows jovially. “What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t a man catch a break?” He laughs, the rest of the table laughing along with him.

Linda gives him a tap on the arm. “You know I’m just teasing.” Turns her attention back to me. “I should have had you sit over here with me so we could talk more. We have a nephew your age who’s single, and gorgeous as he is funny.”

Oh god, could this get any worse.

“She doesn’t really have time for dating,” Zeke responds.

“Yes I do.”

“You do?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Of course I-I have time to date.”

Crook my finger to draw him in close—close enough that no one can overhear. Close enough that I can smell his aftershave…see the blue flecks in the corner of his stormy eyes…the new growth of five o’clock shadow at his jawline.

His nearness unnerves me. Jeez he smells heavenly. “You’re being kind of overbearing.”

He opens his mouth. “I am?”

“Can you dial it d-down?”

He pulls away to look at me. Draws himself back in to murmur, “I didn’t realize I was being a dick.”