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 sorry.”
“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…”
Jesus. I cannot catch a break.
“Credit card, I guess.”
I pull out my phone and unlock the credit card app, handing the device over to the waitress.
She looks at it, confused. “Do you have an actual credit card? I have to swipe it—I don’t think I’ll be able to scan this. We’re pretty old-school here.”
I sigh loudly, digging my wallet out of my back pocket, and slap the card in her waiting, open palm, prepared to take it up the ass—metaphorically speaking, of course.
Stacy smiles cheerfully. “Thanks! Be right back!”
Yeah, no fucking problem! I’ll just wait right here because I’m not a fucking prick!
And just like that, four hundred thirty dollars and fifty-seven cents I don’t have goes down the toilet—and let’s not forget about my parents, who are going to kill me, especially after I fought them so hard to transfer to Iowa.
After my payment goes through and I sign for the charge, I walk outside with a receipt almost twelve inches long and try to tuck the damn thing in my back pocket.
Gratuity was included since it was such a large party.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Unload all my frustration in the parking lot, cursing up a motherfucking blue streak loud enough to wake my dead grandmother and scaring the shit out of an old couple walking inside. The woman clutches her little red purse to her chest while her husband ushers her inside, both of them staring like I’ve lost my damn mind.
“Motherfucker!” I yell, punching the air with my fists. “Motherfucking assholes!” I kick the curb then let out another string of curses when the concrete stubs my toe. “Fuck. Fuck. Putain de merde. Fuck my life!”
The expletives roll off my tongue like a tidal wave but do nothing to ease the rolling storm inside me. I tally off one shitty demerit after the other: at the end of today, I will owe my parents four hundred dollars—tick. I’m getting hazed by my goddamn teammates—tick. I’m at a college in the middle of nowhere—tick. I don’t know a single soul except for the assholes that just dicked me—tick.
They also left me without a ride.
Tick. Tock.
I yank the phone back out of my pocket to shoot my idiot roommates a text.
Me: Get your asses back here and pick me up.
Gunderson: LOL have you calmed down yet?
Me: Come back and find out.
Gunderson: Not if you’re going to start a fight.
Me: Just tell me one thing—whose idea was it?
Gunderson: I’m not going to say.
Me: Then I can only assume it was yours.
Gunderson: It wasn’t. Dude, trust me.
Me: Why don’t I believe you?
Gunderson: Why would I pull that shit when I have to LIVE with you?
Me: Well you did LET THEM FUCKING LEAVE ME HERE.
Gunderson: Yeah, because the last thing I need is the team doing the same shit to ME.
Me: Thanks a lot asshole
Gunderson: Anytime man. Let me put my pants back on. Be there to pick you up in ten.
Laurel
“Hey, did you see those guys?”
I’m sitting at a diner going over the syllabus for English Lit, making sure I’m not missing any bullet points for this paper I’m supposed to be writing; I can’t afford to lose any gimme points.
Leaning back in the vinyl booth, I set down my highlighter and lift my head, raising a brow at my roommate, Donovan.
“What guys?”
“If you tell me you haven’t noticed, I’m going to call you a liar.” He laughs, spooning a chunk of waffle into his mouth. Whipped cream sticks to his bottom lip, and he licks it before taking another bite. “Lord knows I have.”
“I’m not here to find a date.”
“Right, but sometimes dates find you. Guys can’t help but trip all over themselves over you.” He winks, shoving more waffle into his mouth. “That is one hunky group of heterosexual males if I ever did see one.”
“Aww, poor Donovan,” I tease. “Drooling over a group of straight guys.”
“Story of my life.” He pushes a dramatic sigh out of pouty lips, twirling the straw in his cup of water. “But that’s not going to stop me from ogling.”
“You don’t even try.”
“Preach.” He pauses to shove more food in his mouth. “Oh damn girl, shit is about to get real.”
My head is still bent, highlighter flying in bright strokes across my syllabus. My roommate commentates like a sports broadcaster, giving a full play-by-play of the events happening on the other side of the room.
“There they go folks, ten—no, twelve strapping lads, bolting out the door. Bringing up the rear is number seven, a slow starter with impeccable thighs. Brown hair, this champ is an all-star, but can’t stay on his feet.”
I glance up, amused. Watch as some guy in a red shirt trips in the doorway, stumbling into the entryway. Caterwauls at the gumball machine. Slams into the parking lot.
“There they go, ladies and gentlemen, and I bet by the way they’re bailing, they either owe the tax man or they didn’t pay their bill. Which one could it be…”
I crane my neck, glancing across the now empty diner, out the window, to the parking lot, where the large guys—all athletes—are piling like circus clowns into three cars. They peel out, leaving nothing but dust.
My red brows rise. “Dine and dash?”
“Oh yeah, totally.”
I tap the yellow highlighter cap on my chin. “I’ve never seen anyone actually do that.”
“Really? You’ve never ditched out on paying a bill?”
I stare at him, disbelieving. “Are you serious? No! Have you?”
“Once.” He laughs. “Okay, twice, but I was young and stupid and didn’t have any money. I also stole the menu and utensils.” Chuckle. “So dumb.”
I can’t argue with that, so I concentrate on my meal before it gets cold: short stack of pancakes, breakfast links, hash browns, and iced tea, extra ice.
I peel open a pat of butter wrapped in gold foil, stick it between a layer of pancakes, and wait for it to melt.
“Shit.” Donovan’s fork is poised above his plate. “Now what’s happening?”
I twist in the booth, flipping my long russet hair over a shoulder before resting my arm against the back of the seat. Together, my roommate and I watch as a guy comes out of the bathroom at the far end of the restaurant.
Scans the room, hands on his hips.
Tall and yet somehow stalky, he stuffs his hands in the pocket of an Iowa Wrestling hoodie as he surveys the room, severe brows bent in a frown. Approaches the tables cautiously, halting when the cute little waitress approaches him with a tap to the bicep. Holds out what is obviously the bill, hands gesturing around the room. Points toward the windows and the parking lot where his friends have disappeared.
“Holy shit.” Donovan chokes on his waffle, swallowing a difficult gulp. “Do you think those jocks left that dude with the tab?”
“Oh, it definitely looks like they did.”
“What a bag of dicks.” His eyes have a hint of sparkle, most likely at the mention of dick. “I’m pretty sure that was the wrestling team.”
“How do you figure?”
Donovan does a quick onceover of the guy, dragging his bright blue eyes up and down the guy’s built frame. His head is bent as he scrawls his signature onto a receipt and shoves it back at the waitress, scowling.
Stalks to the door and pushes through it before standing outside. Glancing around, the goliath surveys the parking lot with his hands on his hips—looks left, looks right.
“Well, for starters, almost all those dudes were wearing some form of Iowa Wrestling garb.”
“Garb, Donovan?”
“Shhh, don’t interrupt my musings.”
“In that case, please don’t let me stop you—proceed.”
“That’s it. Those were my musings.”
I roll my eyes, attention shifting to the parking lot. The muted sounds of cursing tickle my ears; I strain to hear them. The words might be muffled by the double-paned windows, but from where I sit, I can read the words on his lips perfectly: “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck my life.”
Amused, I chuckle to myself, hiding the smile behind a water glass. God, I am such a jerk sometimes.
The guy takes a deep breath. Balls his fists at his sides.
I watch as his wide, hulky shoulders hunch over his phone, tapping furiously on the screen. Then he shouts some more, arms flailing, fists punching the thin air. He really should calm down—the whole red-in-the-face thing is not a good look for him.
“Think we should we offer him a ride? It looks like they left him here, too.”
Donovan looks so hopeful, I start laughing. “Oh my God, no! Look at how pissed off he is—there’s no way I’m letting him ride in a car with us. He could be a rager.”
Donovan quirks a manicured brow. “Relax. He’s not going to murder us.”
I cut a sliver of pancake, pop the buttery goodness into my mouth. Chew. Swallow. “Yeah, no. Not giving him a ride.”
“You are such a bitch.” He laughs, going back to his waffle. “You know you’d totally give that guy a ride home if he was hot.”
My neck moves of its own accord, and I find myself staring at the kid through the window, at the narrow hips and out-of-style jeans riding a little too high on his waist. The baggy sweatshirt. The shaggy hair he keeps brushing out of his eyes, the angry slashes he calls eyebrows.
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.