The Learning Hours

by Sara Ney

  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.

  Rhett

  Girls.

  They’re everywhere.
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  Pretty girls.

  Unattractive girls.

  Tall girls and short girls.

  So fucking many of them I don’t know which direction to look first. When my eyes settle on a short blonde with big boobs, I shift uncomfortably on the balls of my feet, letting my back hit the wall behind me to study her from the outskirts of the room.

  When she saunters past, my thirsty eyes drink her in from head to toe; with her long wavy hair and petite frame, I appreciate the view from the top of my beer bottle. The cut of her tight shirt. The smile plastered on her heavily made-up face as she settles into her girl pack of friends, draping a bare arm over a brunette with legs a mile long and a skirt twice as short.

  Coyly glances over her shoulder.

  Catches my eye.

  Winks.

  I straighten my spine when she does a body scan slowly up and down my physique. Takes in the wide berth of my shoulders, the firm pecs beneath my tight gray shirt. My thick neck. The bridge of my nose that’s been broken twice.

  Bruised left eye.

  Stitched-up eyebrow.

  Then…

  The light in her eyes dims, interest fading as quickly as it came. I don’t bother smiling at her; what would be the point? Instead, I cast my gaze elsewhere before she further dismisses me by turning away.

  No big deal; I’m used to it.

  The fact that I’m not good-looking is hardly a secret.

  It hardly matters to these girls that I’m in the best shape of my life; that I’m toned and cut. That I train relentlessly and am in peak physical condition.

  That I’m a really nice fucking guy.

  That I’m not a douchebag.

  That I could fuck all night given the chance. Given the right girl.

  They don’t care about any of it; they want someone who looks like they just stepped off the cover of a magazine—someone like Sebastian Osborne or Zeke Daniels, two prize douchebags chicks go fucking wild over. Oz Osborne with his pretty face and perverted mouth, and Zeke Daniels with his dark, moody stare.

  Stand me next to them in a lineup? I’m the last guy women notice.

  The only thing remotely attractive about me is my teeth; my mom calls it my million-dollar smile because I’ve had so much dental work due to having so many teeth knocked out by a quick knee to the face or an errant elbow while wrestling.