The Failing Hours

“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?”