The Failing Hours

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 faker 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.