The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

He’s huge, gangly, and his hair is too long. His face looks beat up, and his nose is bent at the bridge.

Not cute.

Not at all.

Agitated, he bounces in his sneakers on the balls of his feet a few times before pulling that black hood up and over his head, looking like an MMA fighter itching for a brawl.

He’s pissed off and ranting into thin air, which makes him look kind of crazy.

Donovan is right: I probably would give the guy a ride if he was better looking.

But he’s not.

So I won’t.

“I’m sure he’ll figure out how to get himself home,” I conclude, stuffing sausage into my mouth. “He looks industrious.”

It’s not far to campus; he can walk.

“No, he doesn’t.” Donovan laughs. “He looks like he counts with nine fingers.”

Bitchy as it makes me, I join in. “He really does look dumb.”

“So, no ride home then?”

I emit an unladylike snort. “Not for him—I mean, unless he wants to trot beside us.”

No way would I ever give a guy like that a ride in my car.

Rhett

“Come on, Rabideaux, we do that to everyone.” Gunderson scoffs. “You can’t stay pissed at us the entire weekend.”

He’s standing next to me holding a white towel and a water bottle, extending his arm with the offerings while I do squats with three hundred pounds of weight.

I ignore him, panting from the exertion of the weights over my shoulders.

“Dude, come on. It was a prank.”

Knees still bent into position, I stop, narrowing my eyes up at him. “Oh yeah?” The sarcasm is heavy. “They did it to you?”

He shifts uncomfortably, lowering his arms while I continue with my reps. “Well, no…but I’m just the team manager.”

Really? That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him phrase it so casually, like his role on the team is no big deal. Normally it’s, “Show me some respect, I’m the manager,” or “Team manager, but you can call me Little Coach.”

Dumbass.

Lowering the bar in my hand to the ground, I set it down gently, turn toward the row of guys working the machines along the wall, and shout, “Daniels.” Zeke Daniels, one of our team captains, looks up from the treadmill. “Did the team take you for dinner and stick you with the bill?”

A slow grin spreads across his face, those cold eyes rolling in my direction. Sweat covers his forehead, chest, and armpits. “Fuck no.”

He’s not the kind of guy you screw with.

Leaving my spot at the squatting rack, I move to the bench press, Gunderson trailing after me like a puppy dog. It’s getting on my last nerve. “Gunderson, if you’re not going to actually spot me, stop talkin’ or get the fuck away from me and find me someone who will.”

He laughs it off. “Come on man, you need to let it go. It was harmless fun.”

I sit my ass on the bench, straddling it. “Harmless fun? That shit cost me four hundred dollars, you fuck. My parents are gonna flip their shit when they get the credit card bill.”

“New Guy—”

“No. Fuck you,” I grit out.

I point to Sebastian Osborne. “And fuck you.”

Then to Pat Pitwell, the one guy on the team you can always count on to do the right thing, “And fuck you for not stopping them.”

The room is silent. “Fuck all of you.”

“It was a joke!” someone shouts from the back of the room. “Don’t be a pussy, New Guy.”

“Four hundred dollars, assholes,” I repeat. “Do y’all see me laughing? I’m not laughing.”

Gunderson tries to put his arm around me, but I shrug him off. “Come on, let us take you out. We’ll buy you a drink to make up for it.”

Is he fucking kidding me? “It’s going to take more than a few drinks at the damn bar to make up for that kind of shit.”

“Like what?”

I consider it for a few seconds, playing hardball. “Take it off my rent this month and I’ll never bring it up again.”

Gunderson’s lips purse; he glances over his shoulder toward Johnson, who takes my place at the squatting bar with its three hundred pounds.

I watch him for a few heartbeats; I have way more finesse than he does with those weights.

Gunderson whines. “That’s not fair. That’s like me having to pay two hundred dollars of your rent.”

Blank stare.

“That’s exactly what it is.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” I laugh. “Are you hearing yourself? I just lost four hundred dollars—you know what, never mind. I’ve had it with you assholes. I’ll pack up my shit and move out.”

I rise, snatch the towel out of his hands, and present him with my back, wiping the perspiration off my forehead and chest.

Gunderson sighs from behind me. “Fine. I’ll talk to Johnson.” He pauses. “Sooo…you coming out with us tonight or what?”

Does this guy never let up? And why are they drinking so much during the weekend—I never did that while wrestling for Louisiana. We’re only allowed to go out one night a week—one—and tonight is not that night.

I turn toward him, arching an eyebrow. “Dude, it’s a Sunday.”

“So?”

You know that saying There’s no arguing with stupid? That’s what’s happening right now—I can see by the expression on his face that there is no winning this argument.

I challenge him again. “You buyin’ my drinks?”

The expression on his face is priceless. “What the hell! Now I have to pay your rent and buy you drinks?”

My head tips back and I laugh, pulling out the heavy artillery. “It’s that or I move out. Take your pick.”

“Blackmail? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

I can see the wheels churning and burning inside that thick skull of his, and I know he’s waiting for me to jump up and start shouting, just kidding!

It ain’t happening.

Seconds pass and Gunderson holds his ground.

I hold mine.

He narrows his eyes.

Flares his nostrils.

Purses his lips like a goddamn girl before relenting.

“Fine, but we’re going to a house party instead.”

Cheap asshole.

Rhett

Girls.

They’re everywhere.

Pretty girls.

Unattractive girls.

Tall girls and short girls.

So fucking many of them I don’t know which direction to look first. When my eyes settle on a short blonde with big boobs, I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet, letting my back hit the wall behind me to study her from the outskirts of the room.

When she saunters past, my thirsty eyes drink her in from head to toe; with her long wavy hair and petite frame, I appreciate the view from the top of my beer bottle. The cut of her tight shirt. The smile plastered on her heavily made-up face as she settles into her girl pack of friends, draping a bare arm over a brunette with legs a mile long and a skirt twice as short.

Coyly glances over her shoulder.

Catches my eye.

Winks.

I straighten my spine when she does a body scan slowly up and down my physique. Takes in the wide berth of my shoulders, the firm pecs beneath my tight gray shirt. My thick neck. The bridge of my nose that’s been broken twice.

Bruised left eye.

Stitched-up eyebrow.

Then…

The light in her eyes dims, interest fading as quickly as it came. I don’t bother smiling at her; what would be the point? Instead, I cast my gaze elsewhere before she further dismisses me by turning away.

No big deal; I’m used to it.

The fact that I’m not good-looking is hardly a secret.

It hardly matters to these girls that I’m in the best shape of my life; that I’m toned and cut. That I train relentlessly and am in peak physical condition.

That I’m a really nice fucking guy.

That I’m not a douchebag.

That I could fuck all night given the chance. Given the right girl.

They don’t care about any of it; they want someone who looks like they just stepped off the cover of a magazine—someone like Sebastian Osborne or Zeke Daniels, two prize douchebags chicks go fucking wild over. Oz Osborne with his pretty face and perverted mouth, and Zeke Daniels with his dark, moody stare.