“What the fuck are you doing just standing here?”

Zeke Daniels is an alum, a champion himself who comes back to help the coaching staff during meets at home every now and again—and he’s glaring at me, disgusted.

“I’m distracted.”

“Distracted enough to get your ass handed to you in thirty minutes by a guy who wants the pin more than you do?”

Yes. “No. No, I’m good. I’ll shake it off. I just…”

Not one for beating around the bush, Zeke sighs impatiently, knowing instinctively I have a personal problem but not wanting to address it. He doesn’t give a shit, but he has a job to do—and that job is to fix my head and get me in the game.

He’s blunt. “What the fuck is the problem?”

“Nothing. We’re good.”

“You look like you’re about to puke all over those pretty little shoes of yours.” He runs a tan hand through his black hair. “Is this about some woman? Did some chick get into your fucking head? Spit it out, we’re losing daylight.”

Yes. “No.”

He doesn’t believe me. “Jesus Christ, don’t lie to me. You’re running out of time before they blow the whistle. If it’s not a girl and your dick hasn’t fallen off, why are you standing there looking like someone pissed in your bowl of Cheerios?”

This guy is brutal, no time wasted on peppering his speech with flowery sentiment. Zeke Daniels isn’t into mollycoddling, and he certainly isn’t going to start with me.

Fuck.

“It’s a girl.”

“No shit, Sherlock. What’s the fucking problem?”

“I met her on LoveU, pretending to be JB, sent him on a date with her, she hated him, set her on a double date with me, we had chemistry, got her number, took her out this weekend, she found out I was lying, now she hates me.”

I word vomit all that out in one breath then inhale sharply, sucking a healthy dose of air back into my lungs.

Zeke stares.

Blinks once.

Twice.

“So. You catfished her.”

“No—that’s not at all what I was doing!”

He looks bored already. “But basically that’s what you were doing.”

“Catfishing is when you use fake pictures and pretend to be someone you’re not,” I argue.

His dark, thick brows rise. “Isn’t that what you were doing?”

“No, because JB is real, and they are his pictures and he is the one who went to meet these girls.”

“So Skylar was talking to you, and went to meet with JB, while talking to you, then you continued pursuing her as you, but using JB’s account. Did I get that right?”

“Yes.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

I was catfishing her. A little bit, sort of.

Wow. I’m not as smart as I thought I was.

Lips parted, Zeke shakes his head slowly. “Seriously. What the fuck is wrong with you guys?”

My shoulders drop, head bent. “I don’t know.”

“I take it she’s not talking to you?”

“No. She hates me.” I sound pathetic.

“That’s a bit harsh—it’s not like you can cheat on her if you’re not actually dating.” I wasn’t expecting any words of solidarity from him. “Bet she called you a liar and all that garbage? Man, chicks are so full of drama.”

“Violet isn’t full of drama.” His fiancé of one year is the softest-spoken woman I’ve ever met, and the only one who could tame a beast like Daniels.

“That’s because Violet is a goddamn saint.” His voice is gruff, filled with pride, eyes softening at the mention of her name. “I shit on her once or twice back when we started dating, and with a woman like that, it’s hard to bounce back. Any girl who knows her worth is going to fucking stick it to you and stick it to you hard. You have to be smarter than they are.” Zeke looks me up and down. “Which you are not.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I know that, fucker. I was being sarcastic.

I don’t say that shit out loud though, because he’d kick my ass, and I’d have to let him.

“So what do I do?” I’m in serious need of help, sound like I’m desperate, and will take advice anywhere I can get it—even if it’s from the biggest asshole this wrestling team has ever had on it.

“Let me think about it. I’ll have to text Violet—she’ll know what to do.” He gives me a confident nod, pleased that he’s on his way to solving my dilemma, then his hand returns to my shoulder, squeezing. He speaks slowly like he’s talking to a child. “Kindly remove your head from your own ass so we don’t have to do it surgically, take your fucking warm-up pants off, and pound out your goddamn stretches like you’re supposed to be doing.” He claps my back. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I’ll circle back around.”

I watch him saunter away, head bent, tapping away at his phone. Wonder what he’s telling his girlfriend about the situation and hope they can help me untangle this mess.

Bending at the waist, I push off the standard-issue black and yellow warm-up pants we wear before our matches and then I’m standing in nothing but my tight black singlet. I yank up the straps and adjust them, pulling the nylon fabric out of my ass crack.

I pop a squat on the mat, bending at the knees, then lower myself into a sitting position. Bend at the waist until I’m able to grip the balls of my feet in my fingers. Stretching my calves, kneading at the muscles of my hamstrings, the burn from the pull a painful reminder that I’ve been slacking lately.

My mind wanders.

What am I going to do?

Normally, I wouldn’t care. I’d tune the issue with Skylar out like I do with everything else and move on. It was never my intention to date in the first place, so why this one? Why this girl?

By all accounts, she’s more reserved. A bit anti-social. Beautiful in a subtle way, kind and funny and good. My mind wanders again, down the front of her blouse, mentally counting the buttons there—five—then mentally slipping them out of their fabric until her shirt is parted down the middle.

Skylar had smooth, gorgeous cleavage I tried not to gape at while we were at the table, and it took a heroic effort to keep my eyes up. Pale skin. Freckles between her breasts and across the bridge of her perfect nose.

Pink cheeks and even pinker lips.

There wasn’t a moment she wasn’t smiling.

At me.

Blue eyes lit up right up until the moment I returned from the bathroom and ruined the entire date by being a colossal idiot.

I unfurl myself from the floor, rise to my full height, and pull back on one leg, working my calves for a second time. Arms. Back. Move my head in slow circles to loosen my neck, all the while preoccupied with my thoughts of Skylar, her tits, her voice.

My lies.

Was I catfishing her?

That’s not what I considered what JB and I were doing to be; in my mind, I was utilizing a skill he doesn’t possess—making idle conversation with beautiful strangers to learn more about them.

I have it in spades.

JB sucks at it.

What JB lacks in social graces, he makes up for with his face, strength, and body. Deep voice, megawatt smile, dimple in his cheek.