“Like with feelings and bullshit?”

I smack him then shove him off the bed. “Donovan!”

He stands, heading for the doorway. “I’ll let you have your privacy but you better pony up the details next time. No games with him. Guys hate that shit.”

“Okay, promise.”

Palming my phone, I thumb through our last chain of messages.

Tap out a quick text.

Hey there…

Rhett

“Who were you talking to?” Gunderson asks, throwing his lanky body into the seat behind me. He invades my personal space, resting his knobby elbows on my headrest, peering over the seat and into my space. “You look all dreamy-eyed and shit.”

We’re on a bus on our way back from Pennsylvania after one of Iowa’s biggest overall victories of the season: defeating top-seeded Penn State.

I’d just ended a call with my dad when Gunderson plopped down—the call where I broke the news of the four-hundred-dollar Pancake House tab to my parents.

“Were you talking to Laurel? Are you seeing her tonight?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stay out of my business, but instead, I say, “No. It was my dad.” I crane my neck so I can look him in the eye. “I had to explain about the four-hundred-dollar credit card charge.”

“Oops, my bad.” My roommate cringes. “How’d that go?”

“Terrible.”

“Does he not give a shit that you just beat Penn? I mean, it’s Penn fucking State.”

“Not really, not when it comes to money he doesn’t have.” I narrow my eyes into slits. “The whole conversation was fuckin’ shitty.”

Shitty is an understatement. My parents—my father in particular—were so fucking pissed, the entire call was mostly him sputtering with anger. He’s mad, understandably so.

“I wondered when you were going to call,” my dad said by way of greeting when I called them after my win.

“You saw it already?”

“Yes Rhett,” he said sarcastically. “I saw it already. We check your credit card statement and your brothers’ a few times a week. I’ve been waitin’ several days for you to call and enlighten me.”

There was a dead silence on the line as I found the words to explain myself. “There were fifteen of us and we went to eat as a team and—”

“They stuck you with the bill,” he interrupted, not a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Yeah.”

My old man snorted into the receiver of his phone. “This wouldn’t have happened if—”

“If I hadn’t transferred? Yeah, I know.” Because my parents never miss an opportunity to remind me about their disappointment that I’m at Iowa.

“You’ll be workin’ it off this summer I’m going to assume.”

“I won’t have to. My roommates are splittin’ my half of the rent to make up for the money.”

“That isn’t the goddamn point, Rhett.”

“But Dad—”

“And I’m callin’ your coach. This is hazing and it’s bullshit, do you realize that? Your mother is beside herself with worry. What else have they done to you?”

I slouched into my seat on the bus, lowering my voice. “Dad—”

“What kind of operation are they running over there?” he demanded, raising his voice.

“Dad—”

“Don’t Dad me, Rhett. I’m callin’ your coach. This kind of bullshit would never have been tolerated at LSU.”

Nothing I say will change his mind because I left a great school to be part of the hailed NCAA championship wrestling team for better opportunities, more exposure, and more scholarship money—and my parents are never going to let me live it down.

I try to wipe the entire conversation from my mind, attempt to ignore the sound of my father’s fuming, disappointed voice in my head.

Gunderson stares down at me over the seat.

“Let me put it this way: it’s a good thing I’m so far away and can’t go home for break. My dad would kill me.”

“Look, that sucks. I get it.” Gunderson hesitates a beat, leans farther over into my seat, eyes darting around the bus like he’s trying to be sly. “But switching gears, some of the guys have been talking…”

Jesus Christ, here we go.

I wait him out.

“We’ve been talking about all your girl problems and want to help.”

“My girl problems?” I don’t have girl problems…do I? “I don’t have girl problems—the only problems I have are you butting into my business.”

“Just hear us out before you get premenstrual, okay? We have a few things to say—wrote them down, matter of fact.”

I glance around, catch several of the guys casually watching with interest, quickly averting their gazes when they notice me scanning the bus.

I narrow my eyes.

“So you’re the village idiot they’ve nominated to relay the message?”

He grins, satisfied I understand. “Exactly. As the team manager, I might be the messenger, but I didn’t come up with this awesome shit on my own.”

A sheet of paper appears in my line of vision, Gunderson smoothing out the wrinkles on the headrest, clearing his throat and giving someone toward the back of the bus a quick nod. He receives his signal to begin.

His voice goes up an octave and clears his throat as if he’s about to deliver an inaugural address. “We have a few rules we think will help get you laid. Since you brought Whatsherface home the other night, you’ve been kind of bitchy.” He looks down at the paper, then back at me, grinning. “That part was improsized.”

“You mean improvised?”

Gunderson rolls his eyes. “That’s what I said.”

You can’t argue with stupid, so I keep my trap shut.

“First off, you’re too nice. Not a single one of us has ever heard you insult a member of this team, or insinuate that you’re sleeping with someone’s mother or sister. That’s not normal.”

In the background, one of the guys coughs out, “Pussy.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but girls are attracted to assholes. Just look at Daniels and Osborne if you don’t believe me—two of the biggest pricks dating two of the loveliest girls. Coincidence? I think not.”

“Did you just call James and Violet lovely?” comes a shout from the back of the bus.

“Shut up Pitwell, I’m handling this.” Gunderson cups a hand around his mouth like a megaphone, bellowing down the center aisle of the bus. “I have the floor here—you all had your chance.” The paper in his hands gets raised to his face. He clears his throat dramatically.

“As I was saying, try insulting us more to be funny, especially around women, and brag.” He catches someone’s eye and winks. “You have stats better than Daniels, why don’t you talk about it?”

“Yeah dude, what the fuck?”

I eyeball Gunderson skeptically. “Are you purposely trying to turn me into a douchebag?”

“Yes. You’re way too fucking nice. Maybe it is time to douche that shit up a bit.”

“Wow. You guys must think I’m really fucking dumb, huh?”

Behind me, someone huffs. “New Guy, stop acting butt hurt and listen to what he’s saying.”

Gunderson rolls his eyes, irritated at continually being interrupted. “Thanks Davis, but I can handle this.”

He returns his attention back to me—unfortunately. “Which brings me to the point: your nickname.”

“I don’t have a nickname.”

“Exactly. That’s why you need one. New Guy is only going to cut it first semester, then you won’t be new anymore. It’ll just sound idiotic.”

“Uh…”

“Ozzy. Zeke. Boner. Pit. See? We all have nicknames, so don’t be a little bitch about it. We voted, and we think you should be called Quasimodo because you’re so damn ugly.”

I throw him two hard middle fingers. “Fuck. You.”