by Sara Ney
How to Date a Douchebag
The Learning Hours
Copyright © 2017 by Sara Ney
Cover Design by Okay Creations
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the authors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Thank you, Internet, for providing the inspiration for the dating quotes at the beginning of each chapter. They’re all based on real conversations, pick-up lines, come-ons, and texts between actual people.
To Elliot,
the unlucky bastard who doesn’t get his own book.
#ItsNotElliot
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Rex Gunderson
University of Iowa’s Team Manager
Rhett Rabideaux is one ugly son of a bitch.
Solid as a brick shithouse, I watch him squat over the practice mat, hands braced for balance, his stance unwavering as Zeke Daniels grapples for a hold on him.
Rabideaux is one of the few on our team that can beat Daniels at his own sport.
Raising the whistle to my lips, I ready myself to blow, to end their practice sparring round, which has turned into a pissing match.
As the new guy on the team—a transfer from Louisiana—Rabideaux is still proving himself, despite his impressive record. Nearly unbeatable, his stats are worthy of the two-time NCAA champion he is, and they’re the reason he was recruited away from his university.
Iowa’s coaches wanted him. Courted him.
Signed him.
I don’t know what promises Coach made to the kid—tutors, more scholarship money, his mug on campus billboards—but it was attractive enough to lure him from the safety of one scholarship for another—and bring him to the lion’s den of his rival.
And into my house.
Rhett Rabideaux is my new roommate.
He stands six feet tall as he shakes Daniels’ hand with one swift pump. They step away from each other, backs turned, no victor—and no love lost between them, either.
I grab a few towels, holding one out for the new guy.
He snaps it out of my hand, dragging it down his perspiring face. Down the slightly crooked nose that’s been broken one too many times. Over his bruised left eye. Over the stitched-up eyebrow, a gash from having his face pressed too hard into the mat at practice last week.
The dude is a mess.
A giant, sweaty mess.
Nonetheless… “New Guy, you coming out with us tonight?”
He pauses, mammoth paws still. “Where y’all goin’?”
I shrug. “I don’t know—out. To the bars. Does it matter?” It’s not like he knows any of the bars in town, jeez. He has to go where we go or he sits home on his ass, alone.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Word of advice New Guy: when someone extends their hand, you take it.”
I’m not going to beg the dude to come out with us, but occasionally, he’s fun to have around, and it’s nice having fresh blood around the field house.
Rhett mulls my words over. “Who’s going?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know, a bunch of us guys.”
“A sausage-fest you mean?”
“Fuck off.”
“So that’s a yes?” He laughs.
“Me, Pittwell, Johnson. Maybe Daniels and Osborne.” Although to be honest, those two are so pussy-whipped, it’s not likely. They’ll be home tonight, curled up on the couch watching chick flicks, their arms elbow deep inside their girlfriend’s pants, or snuggling, or whatever the hell it is they do.
I keep the fact that they’re probably not coming out tonight to myself.
Lucky bastards, getting laid instead.
“So, you coming or what? You can’t stay holed up at the house all weekend—your dick is going to shrivel up if you don’t get laid.”
He arches a battered eyebrow. “Who said it’s my aim to get laid?”
Aim to get laid? Who the fuck talks like that?
I hold up my hand to stop any weirder shit from coming out of his pie hole. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Whatever.” He walks away, tossing his sweaty white towel into the linen cart as he passes it and snatching a clean one from the rack on his way into the locker room.
I trail along after him.
He stops at his locker, stripping down. He shucks his shorts, peels off his shirt, and tosses a glance over his shoulder. “If I go along tonight, are you going to lay off? You’re driving me fuckin’ nuts.”
Wraps the terrycloth towel around his hips.
“No, I’m not going to lay off. I’m trying to show you the ropes, teach you a thing or two.”
“You?” He laughs. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me. What the hell am I going to learn from you?”
“Well, for starters, you’re way too nice. Girls always go for assholes. With a face like that, you’ve got to work harder to make them want your dick.”
His lip curls unattractively. “Gee, thanks.”
I follow him to the showers.
Zeke Daniels stands under a spray of water, steam rising around him as he washes his black hair. He scowls when he sees me, turning to face the tiled shower wall, presenting us with his massive barrier of a back.
His tattoo—a rising phoenix surrounded by geographical locations—glares moodily at me, too.
“Daniels, tell the new guy here girls like dating douchebags.” The asshole ignores me, but I laugh it off—he’s always joking around, that guy. “Would you at least tell him he’s too nice to women?”
Silence.
“You know how girls are, they like it when you—”
Zeke finally speaks, grunting. “Gunderson, leave him the fuck alone, for fuck’s sake.”
Jesus, so moody this guy. “You going out tonight, Daniels?”
&
nbsp; He grunts again, scrubbing his armpits. “Probably not.”
“Why? You watching The DUFF?”
His arms are raised above his head as he scrubs his hair, and he turns slightly to give me a narrowed side-eye. “Gunderson, why don’t you mind your own damn business?”
“Well, are you?”
“No, dumbass. I’m watching whatever the fuck I want to watch.”
Yeah right. He’s been home three weekends in a row, binging on movies with his girlfriend and playing house with the two kids they babysit.
He looks past me at Rhett and sneers. “Do yourself a favor Rabideaux, don’t let this idiot lead you around. You’re way too good to be associating yourself as his wingman.”
He shuts the water off, irritably throwing another glare in my direction. “If you’re not showering, Gunderson, climb down out of his ass and get the fuck out of here.”
Rhett
“Let’s toast to the new guy!”
Oz Osborne, a senior on the wrestling team, rises to stand at the table where the wrestling team is gathered—the entire team, packed into the dining room at some twenty-four-hour restaurant off campus for what they’re calling a ‘welcome to the team’ dinner after practice.
“Here, here! A toast,” someone else calls with a snicker.
Osborne raises his water glass in the air, shifting his body in my direction and speaking directly to me. “New Guy, we might question your life decisions based on your choice in roommates”—he shoots Rex Gunderson and Eric Johnson a grin—“and your ability to dress yourself but in true U of Iowa fashion, we officially welcome you to the team.”
He lifts his water glass higher. “Some of us had our reservations about having you”—he throws a quick glance toward Zeke Daniels, who immediately glowers—“but we’ve got your back.”
“And your front,” comes a shout.
“Until you start losing,” someone else adds under their breath.
Osborne chuckles and points to me. “He’s right. You start losing, we kick your motherfucking ass.”
More laughter. “Should we just toast to kicking his ass?”
“Everyone raise a glass to New Guy and make it quick. Daniels and I have to split—his little bro has a play at school or some shit.”
The room is filled with cheers and leers from my new, overly rambunctious teammates as they enthusiastically clink water, soda, and coffee cups over the linen-topped table, liquids sloshing onto the white tablecloths. An enormous amount of food clutters the long banquet table: pasta, hamburgers, appetizers, French fries, bottles of ketchup and mustard. A few of them ordered milkshakes and specialty coffee, and there’s also ice cream.
I curse under my breath; what a bunch of slobs. Look down at the ketchup near my fork and spoon. “Be right back,” I mutter to Gunderson, shoving my chair back and standing. “Gotta piss.”
He nods with a smirk, eyes darting around the table. “Take your time.”
I make short work of taking a leak, wash my hands, and stare myself down in the mirror. I note my downturned, unsmiling face. The bruises. The hair that could use a cut. The ears that have been crushed one too many times by my headgear throughout the past few years.
Bracing my hands against the counter, I lean in.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Rabideaux?” the reflection asks itself. “What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doin’ here?”
What the fuck possessed me to switch schools when I could have stayed in Louisiana? Finished out the season a champion, started a career instead of upsetting and disappointing my parents, uprooting myself, moving halfway across the country.
For what? More scholarship money? More expenses paid? To have a face nobody wants to see plastered on a university billboard?
Has it been worth it?
I take another hard look at myself, disgusted, before straightening.
“Bat-shit crazy is what you are.” I curse to myself one last time before tossing the paper towel in the trash.
Unlock and push through the steel bathroom door.
Head back to the table full of—
No one.
I come up short to a dining room of empty tables, save for a few surrounding booths and curious onlookers, families and other patrons eating—but no wrestlers.
The entire damn team is gone.
As I cautiously approach the table, our young waitress appears out of nowhere, notebook in hand, pencil stuck behind her ear, frazzled.
She grabs me by the shirtsleeve and, “Thank God you’re still here! Phew! I thought you’d all left!”
“What do you mean you thought we’d all left?” I glance toward the door. “Wait, did my friends leave?”
I almost choke on the word friends, the irony of the situation not lost on me. Friends wouldn’t pull this kind of shit, and I hardly know these guys.
“Yes, they ran out—I was literally about to freak out, thought for sure you guys were going to stiff me.” She prattles on, oblivious to my confusion.
“So wait: what do you mean they ran out?” I need her to explain, in no uncertain terms.
“Well, um, I mean…yeah. They, uh, ran out.”
“I know what runnin’ out means, I wasn’t being literal.” My fingers get stabbed into my hair, and I feel it sticking up when I take them out. “Fuck.”
The young woman flinches.
“They seriously left me?” I clarify. “Are you sure they left?”
I refuse to believe they left me here; we’re supposed to be a goddamn team. I was counting on it.
That fucker Brandon Ryder drove me in his shitty, banged-up car, and I’d bet fifty bucks it’s no longer parked outside waiting to give me a lift back to the house I share with Gunderson and Eric.
The petite waitress taps me on the shoulder nervously. “Um, I hate to make the situation worse, but, um…I’m assuming since you’re still here, you’ll be the one paying?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Paying. For all the food.”
Did she say paying for all the food?
My head gives an involuntary shake. “What does that mean, all the food?”
“They didn’t pay. For, um, any of it.”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Are you okay, sir?” the waitress asks, taking a step back. “You keep repeating yourself. Are you having a stroke? Or like, maybe a seizure?”
“They didn’t pay?” I clench my fists. “Those fuckin’…”
Assholes. Those motherfucking assholes stiffed me with the goddamn bill.
“How much is it?” I brace myself for the total, calculating it at around one hundred, maybe two—two fifty, tops.
“Four hundred and—”
“What!” I shout. I know it’s loud, and the restaurant is full of people, but I don’t fucking care at the moment. Outraged and pissed doesn’t cover the feelings coursing through my blood right now. I want to punch something. “Why the hell would you just let them walk out of here?”
I know I’m shifting the blame, but I don’t care. I don’t care that this is not her fault. I need someone to blame, and she’s standing right in front of me, twisting her hands and looking guilty.
“Sir, they ran. I…”
“Shh, stop talkin’. Let me think for a minute.”
“I’m so nervous, sorry—we’ve never had anyone walk out on a bill this high before. Usually it’s like, way less than this. Sometimes people even take the salt and pepper shakers.”
Her eyes flicker to the stainless-steel door I assume is the kitchen, then to the cash wrap at the front of the restaurant where we waited for a table when we walked in. “I could go talk to my manager and explain the situation, but I’m worried she’ll call the cops.”
The cops?
Shit.
I shake my head, run another hand through my shaggy hair. “Forget it—someone has to pay or they’re going to fire you.” Because you let them get up and leave without fucking paying.
“I’m really s
orry.”
“So am I.”
“So…” She shuffles her feet, hands me the black billfold containing the bill and a ballpoint pen. “Everything is itemized.”
How convenient; of course it’s itemized. “For my convenience?”
Angry, I snatch the bill out of her hand, unfold it, peer down and study it.
Shake – 5
Soda – 10
Hamburger – 4
Cheeseburger – 2
Chicken sandwich – 1
Shrimp Alfredo with extra shrimp – 1
Side salad – 4
Soup – 3
Spaghetti – 1
Wings – 5
Onion rings – 1
Mozzarella sticks – 1
Fried pickles – 1
Bread basket – 1
Ice cream – 1
Pie – 9
Steak – 6
Who the fuck orders steak at a Pancake House?
I fold the bill back in half, resisting the urge to tear it into a million, tiny, motherfucking pieces.
“Were those guys your friends?” the little waitress interrupts. “Maybe they didn’t realize you were still here?”
I shoot her a look; is she couyon? Crazy? There’s no way she believes this was an accident, and I say out loud what we’re both thinking: “They’re hazing me.”
Shit. They are hazing me.
It not only violates the wrestling and athletic department’s policy, but also the university’s code of conduct. Actually, it also breaches several of the school policies, and there are so many things wrong with this whole scenario, it would take me all night to list them all. If our coaches found out, the team would probably be suspended.
The waitress—Stacy, her nametag says—bites her lip and stares up at me with naïve doe eyes. “It did seem strange when they all ran out of here so fast. One guy tripped on his shoelaces and fell down on the carpet.”
I wonder who that could have been, the dopes.
“Yeah, well, guess it serves me right for goin’ to the goddamn bathroom, huh?”
“How are you going to pay for this?” The waitress shifts uncomfortably on the balls of her feet before smoothing down her hair. “I feel so bad, but I have other tables to get to. If you don’t pay, I really am probably going to get fired…”
