by Sara Ney
However, when he turns his attention on Violet?
His entire demeanor changes. Relaxes.
Softens.
“Want to introduce me to your beautiful date, Mr. Daniels?”
Nope.
I nod in her general direction. “Coach, this is Violet.”
She blushes, nervously tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ears. Her shiny rhinestone earrings sparkle.
I wonder if she’ll stutter when she has the chance to speak.
Coach grins down at her, his hulky physique towering over her. He casts a disappointed glance in my direction, mouth set into a hard line.
“Now, now,” he chastises. “I know you were raised better than that, Mr. Daniels. Why don’t you introduce her again? This time show some respect, eh?” He winks at Violet.
Fucking dickhead.
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to turn on my heels and crash back through the door we just strolled through to get in here. I’d do it too—I’d fucking bolt, with little thought to Violet’s ability to keep pace.
I suck in a breath, tempted to loosen this fucking tie around my neck and yank it off completely. It’s choking the shit out of me.
“Coach, this my tutor, Violet.” Dammit, why the hell did I say that? Even I know I sounded like a fucking asshole, especially after the whole thing at my house with my roommates.
I take another drag of air, dialing down the angry a notch, and start over.
“Coach, this is my friend Violet, from school. Violet, this is Iowa’s wrestling coach.”
“Good to meet you, Mister…” Violet’s inflection rises at the end, waiting for him to supply his name.
“Just Coach will do fine, young lady.” He smiles. My brows go up—this is the first fucking time I’ve ever seen the bastard smile.
I note that when Violet extends her hand, Coach gives it a gentle but firm shake.
He likes her.
Well, at least I did something right by bringing her.
“You kids heading to the bar for drinks?”
The bar? Now that’s the shit I’m talking about.
“You’re not drinking tonight, are you Mr. Daniels?”
I nod. “We have to hit the coat check first, but yeah. I’m going to need to be piss-ass drunk to make it through tonight,” I joke crudely.
Coach shakes his head back and forth. “Daniels, the correct answer I’m looking for here is No sir, especially if you’re driving this young lady home tonight.”
Mother. Fucker. Is he here just to lord over me? Because he’s off to a good start.
“No sir,” I grumble, sounding a whole lot like a goddamn pussy.
“Good decision.” He smacks me on the bicep, pleased. “My wife Linda and I are seated at table twelve if you kids are open to joining us.”
“Th-That’s,” Violet stutters, then pauses. Takes a deep breath. “That’s very kind of you to offer, Coach. I’m sure we’d love that, thank you.”
We’d. We.
I’m not a religious person, but when Violet prettily accepts for both of us, I swear to God Coach smirks with satisfaction.
“Yeah, Coach. Thanks.”
He smacks me on arm, taking a sip of his drink—probably to rub it in. “Good. Check your coats and grab something to wet your whistle. Find us when you get settled.” The old fucker grins at Violet. “Young lady, it was nice meeting you.”
I watch him walk away, whatever uncharitable thought I have interrupted by Violet clearing her throat.
“Should we check our coats? Or…did you want to put them at the table?”
“Check them. I want to avoid that table as long as I possibly can, no offense.”
She nods, though I doubt she understands.
She has no idea that Coach is forcing me to volunteer with the Big Brothers Mentor Program—veritably blackmailing me. Has no idea I’m on the verge of losing my spot on the team because of my bad attitude. Has no idea that the wrestling team is the only family I have, and Jesus Christ do I sound like a whining little fuck.
I trail behind Violet as she gets in line for the coat check. She peels down the zipper on her black jacket, slowly shrugging it off her narrow shoulders.
Her bare, narrow shoulders.
I’m immediately drawn to the pale skin, her exposed collarbone like smooth porcelain. Her dress is dark plum and holds tight to what few curves she has, a rich velvet, ending mid-thigh.
I realize I’m staring when she smoothes a hand down the front and looks up at me, worried. “Is this okay? I wore it when I was in a friend’s wedding last summer. I-It’s the only thing I had that was dressy enough.”
Like I care that she had to re-wear a dress. Do chicks actually give a crap about stuff like that?
“It’s good.”
And it is. She looks gorgeous.
I slide off my suit coat, take Violet’s jacket, and hand them both over to the stalky high school kid behind the counter for a claim ticket. His eyes widen, surprised. Excited.
I realize he must follow university wrestling, must know who I am and be a fan.
See, the university does this whole huge marketing blitz in the fall to advertise their student athletes. Since wrestling is a powerhouse and a draw to the school, large banners hang on the field house, stadium, and gymnasium. They’re basically the size of billboards.
And whose face do you think is plastered on one of them, live and in color?
That’s right, yours truly, looking like the goddamn champion I am.
The kid plays it cool. “What’s up, you checking your coats?”
“Two please.”
“Uh.” He clears his throat. “Are you Zeke Daniels?” He’s still holding our coats, no attempts to hang them.
“Yeah.”
Violet watches the whole exchange, a thoughtful expression sliding across her angelic face. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going through her mind: that I’m being a cocksucker and should be nice to the kid, should offer to sign something so he doesn’t have to ask.
Probably not in those exact words.
And she’d be right. I should just offer because I know that’s what he wants. But guess what? I’m not in the damn mood and don’t fucking feel like signing anything.
“I…” The kid hesitates. “I, uh, have a poster in back if you, uh, could you sign it? I have a Sharpie, too.”
“You have a poster in back?” That’s creepy and weird.
“I knew Coach D was going to be here—he comes every year—and my buddy Scott heard you were a volunteer at the center. I was hoping you’d be here. Can I grab it for you to sign?”
Violet lays a palm on my forearm, and I can’t help but glance down and stare at it a few seconds, completely thrown off by her gentle touch. “Isn’t it wonderful that he’s so excited to meet you, Zeke?”
She smiles, eyebrows rising a fraction…gives her head an encouraging little nod up and down until I hear myself saying, “Yes?”
The kid does a fist pump. “I’ve seen all your home games, and last week at Cornell?” His voice cracks with excitement. “Holy shit man, that pin on JJ Beldon was sick! Seriously sick. My friends and I lost our minds.”
Violet nudges my arm gently with a smile on her face.
“Thanks?”
She pats my arm and—
Wait just one damn minute.
Is she…is Violet coaching me on how to be nice?
Her hand is still on my sleeve and I look down into her pretty, upturned face. Down at her bold, dark lips. Her huge eyes and long lashes. All that pale blonde hair.
She’s a damn wet dream.
Fuck me.
“Yeah, get your poster, kid. I’ll sign your shit.”
I’ve never seen a kid move as fast as this one does, leaving our coats on the counter and sprinting through the back room, disappearing through a door.
“This is really nice of you,” Violet says when he’s gone.
The little fake
r thinks she can pull one over on me? I don’t think so. “You’re not fooling me with those innocent eyes and sexy lips. I know what you just did there.”
“You do?”
“Yeah—you manipulated me into signing his shit.”
Her chin goes up a notch. “I-I did no such thing.”
“Liar.”
She shoots me a sidelong glance, biting her lip. “Are you mad?”
“Nah. I was probably going to do it anyway.”
When the kid comes flying back through the door with his poster, Violet is the one who takes the Sharpie from him and places it in my hand.
“I’ll hold the poster while you sign it,” she encourages quietly. I grunt, but like a good little solider, do as I’m told.
“Uh, what’s your name?” I ask the kid, relenting.
“Brandon.”
“You a wrestler?”
“Yeah. I can’t afford tickets to come watch you guys in person, but I watch them all on YouTube after they’ve aired on cable.”
Damn. His family can’t afford tickets to come watch wrestling at the university? I thought they were only ten bucks or something. A pit of guilt forms in my stomach.
“Oh yeah? Every match, eh?” I ask him. “What’s our record?”
“Nine titles. You’ve won twenty-three of the last thirty-seven national championships, and you’re currently sitting at eighteen and oh for this season.” He grins proudly, rattling off our stats.
He flips his bangs.
I look at him good and hard then—he does indeed look like a wrestler: not too tall, with broad shoulders. Brandon’s shaggy hair probably gets in his eyes when he’s down on the mat, not good if you’re working up a sweat, and I wonder why no coach has ever told him to trim that shit up.
“You need a haircut,” I blurt out harshly.
I feel Violet stiffen at my direct frankness.
Brandon raises his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. “Uh…”
I roll my eyes at them both. “I guarantee if you cut it, you’ll be quicker when you’re down on the mats. Do you want to be great, or do you just want to be good?”
“I want to be a champion,” he boasts.
I sign his poster with a sloppy scrawl, handing it back to him. “Then trim your fucking hair.”
“Okay.” Brandon nods. “Okay, yeah. I will.”
“Good.” I look him up and down again. “I’ll work on getting some tickets for you and your friends to come to a few home games. Maybe you can come to a practice—no promises, but I’ll ask.”
Brandon’s eyes bug out of his damn skull like I’ve just handed him a golden pair of wrestling shoes. “Holy shit, dude, for real?”
He’s practically shouting.
“Don’t get all fucking crazy on me—calm down. It’s not a big a deal.”
But I know it’s a big deal to him—thanks to Kyle, I’ve seen what it’s like to not have dick growing up. To not have enough money for a ten-dollar ticket to come watch a sport you love.
It’s shitty. The kid shouldn’t have to miss out.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m calming down!”
“Calm down, or I swear to God…”
Violet laughs—laughs—the soft chuckle starting in her shoulders before working its way out of her soft, plum lips.
I scowl. “What are you laughing at?”
“You trying to be nice.”
“I’m not nice.”
“That’s why I said trying.”
Her eyes are wrinkled at the corners but her teasing isn’t mean—far from it. She’s truly enjoying herself, enjoying whatever this banter is between us.
Then, in the background, I hear the beginning of the band tuning up.
“Well, Brandon, it’s been real, but my date here and I are going to find our seats.”
“Oh shit!” the kid enthuses. “Sorry! I forgot you weren’t here for me.”
I flip him the peace sign as I take Violet by the elbow, steering her toward the dining room. “Deuces, Brando.”
“That was really nice of you,” she says when I release her arm, the heat from her bare skin still warming my palm.
“Whatever.”
“No, it was. His face lit up like a darn Christmas tree when you said you’d try to get him tickets to come see the team wrestle.”
“Darn Christmas tree? What does a darn Christmas tree look like?” I tease.
“You know what I mean.” She smacks me on the bicep, her hand resting there. Palm flattening on my upper arm. I look down at her hand, fingers long and delicate as they tap my arm while she talks.
A thin gold ring encircles her forefinger, and I stare at it for a beat. “He’s probably texting all his friends right now. Can you actually get tickets? I bet it would make his whole year.”
One more glance down at the hand she’s forgotten to remove, her feather-light touch doing some really weird, fucked up shit to my insides—things that have nothing to do with sex.
I almost cover her hand with mine. Almost.
Instead, I involuntarily give my bicep a quick flex.
Damn—her hand flies off my sleeve, the spot instantly cold.
“Uh, yeah, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll ask Coach tonight at dinner. If not, I’ll just bu—”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Buy some?” she supplies.
My lips form a tight, straight line.
She tips her head at me, confused. “You’d do that if Coach can’t get him tickets, wouldn’t you? You’d buy them?”
I reach up, loosening my necktie. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal.” My nostrils flare impatiently; I’m over this entire conversation. “They’re ten bucks.”
Her eyes—those freaking doe eyes—do this odd upturned thing, her lashes pitch black against her snowy white skin, fluttering and brushing against her eyelids.
They look huge.
They look euphoric. Like my generous deeds are her crack, like the kind words have the ability to make her high.
Violet’s lips twitch, a tiny dimple appearing in the corner of her mouth as they form the words, “Right. Okay.”
“Don’t make this more than it is,” I deadpan.
“I’m not,” she lies.
“Yes you are. Don’t romanticize me as someone who cares. Because I don’t.”
“I know, I’m not.”
I give her a sidelong glance as we weave our way through the throng amongst the banquet tables, my hand finding the small of her back as I guide her along.
My gaze trails down to her perky ass.
“Yes you fucking are,” I argue, fingertips lingering on the velvety material of her dress. “There’s nothing noble about me buying some strange kid tickets to watch a few wrestling matches.”
“Got it. No need to convince me.” Violet gives her hair a flip so it falls down her back like a waterfall.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” I maintain.
“I’m not arguing. You are.” Her lilty laugh floats toward me, cheerful, like she’s not afraid to make me mad by continuing to disagree.
Why can’t I let this subject go? “You’re being really unreasonable.”
We’ve reached the table and before she can do it herself, I locate a chair for her and pull it out. She peeks up at me from under her lashes, sweetly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I grumble.
Violet
I’m finally beginning to understand what makes him tick.
Zeke Daniels is an enigma, hard with sharp edges and a compassionate interior he keeps so well hidden, no one would believe it existed if they weren’t seeing it for themselves.
Well I’m seeing it now. I watch him at the table, listen as he begrudgingly beseeches his wrestling coach for a favor—not because he wants to, but because he promised Brandon he would try.
And he’s doing it; he’s actually following through.
“So, I didn’t guarantee him anything,” he’s saying. “But if I cou
ld get my hands on a few—some for his, uh, friends. That would be good.” His halted statements are amusing his coach, if the grin on his face is any indication.
He’s enjoying Zeke’s discomfort.
“I agree; getting them some tickets would be nice. Where does he attend school?”
Zeke shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, I didn’t ask.”
Coach sits back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest and taking Zeke’s measure. I notice he does that a lot—observes and calculates before responding to anything.
There is nothing impulsive about Coach.
Both men continuously fiddle with their neckties. Zeke has loosened his three times since we sat down. His coach? Twice.
“Hmm,” the man says, scratching the stubble on his chin. “It would have been nice to get the name of his school—we could invite the whole team to a meet.”
“W-Why can’t you?” I interrupt with a stutter.
Crap!
“Brandon is r-right over there. Why don’t you just walk back over there and ask him where he goes to school?”
The kid is literally fifty feet away, watching our table like a hawk, like Zeke and Coach are demigods. In his circle, they probably are.
“Just go do it,” I whisper, impatiently hissing through my lips.
Zeke stares me down. Practically growls my name. “Violet.”
It’s obvious he doesn’t want to get up from the chair; he hates any kind of conversation. Hates talking to people.
Out of the corner of my eye, Coach watches us, eyes volleying back and forth between Zeke and me as our pseudo power struggle develops.
Zeke regards me warily. I see the conflict warring within him—not wanting to give in, but knowing he damn well should walk back over to Brandon and find out where he goes to school.
“Ugh,” he rumbles loudly, pushing away from the table, shoving back his chair. “Christ!”
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.
