Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(9)

“Where’s my offensive line? That’s not a line—you’re like Swiss cheese!”

I had great hands and quick feet—I could catch anything. That fact didn’t just make me a football player, a wide receiver—around here, it made me a star. Anyone who tells you growing up a football God in a small town isn’t fuck-all awesome is either clueless or lying to you. It’s like that expression “money can’t buy happiness”—it’s entirely possible that it can’t—but it sure as shit makes being happy a hell of a lot easier.

“Nice, that’s how it’s done, Lucas. Good job.” Garrett Daniels—head coach of the Lakeside Lions, and my best friend, claps his hands. Then he calls downfield to the rest of the team. “All right, let’s go! Bring it in!”

Garrett got sucked in by the teaching tick after his NFL quarterback prospects were shattered in a college game—along with his knee. He mourned the loss, then brushed himself off and came up with a new life plan. In addition to being able to coach the best sport ever, he gets a real kick out of teaching—from making history come alive for his students. His words, not mine.

“Twenty-minute break,” Daniels tells the sweating gaggle of teenage boys that huddle around us. “Hydrate, get some shade, then we’ll run drills for another hour and call it a day.”

It was different for me. I had no illusions about being a Stand and Deliver, Dead Poets Society-esque, Mr. Keating shaper of young minds—that’s not my style. But the pay is decent, the benefits are good, and the hours are a cakewalk. The summers off allow me to tour with the band I’ve been playing drums in since I was a kid, and being the football team’s offensive coordinator lets me enjoy the smell of the grass and the feel of the pigskin in my hands. There’s no downside.

Teaching lets me live life exactly how I want—uncomplicated, easy.

I like easy. Sue me.

“You just get back today?” Jerry Dorfman, former jarhead, current guidance counselor and defensive assistant coach asks me, as the players stream off toward the water cooler.

“Last night.”

I tour the Jersey shore with Amber Sound from June til August, slipping back into town just in time for preseason practice.

“So . . . how was it?” Jerry nudges me with his elbow.

“Good. It was a good summer.”

“Don’t give me good—give me details. I’m married now. I have to get laid vicariously through you.”

Don’t let him fool you—Jerry wasn’t getting laid before he was married, either.

Last spring he tied the knot with Donna Merkle, Lakeside’s megafeminist art teacher. And, I’m saying this as a guy—when he’s not on the clock or dealing with a kid—Jerry’s a pig. The whole faculty and student body are still pondering the mystery of how the two of them happened.

“What’s the matter—Merkle holding out on you?” I ask.

“Hell no.” He runs his hand down his “Dad-bod”. “My wife can’t resist this fine piece of male specimen. But . . . there’s no harm in hearing about your adventures in punani-land.”

Punani-land? And the guy wonders why he’s not getting any.

“Yeah, Coach.” Mark Adams, the fresh-faced team trainer and newbie gym teacher, agrees. “When I went here, we all knew you got more ass than a toilet seat.” He makes the Wayne’s World “we’re not worthy” gesture. “Teach me your mighty player ways.”

I’m not that much of a player. Not anymore.

Back in high school, in my twenties—sure—that was another story.

These days, I’m all about keeping it straightforward, casual, good. I think friends with benefits is the greatest invention of the twenty-first century. I don’t lie or do headgames, and I don’t do relationships—there’s nothing easy about them.

But that’s the thing about small towns—who you used to be sticks forever—even if you’re not really that person anymore. Although there are worse things to be than the town player. And, I don’t want to disappoint the fans.

So, I smirk. “Well, there was this one girl.”

Jerry rubs his hands together and Adams pumps his fist. Garrett’s there too, but he stopped giving a damn about my sex life decades ago.

“Was she hot?”

My eyes roll closed in awe.

“Smokin’ hot.”

With endless legs that felt incredible squeezing my waist, a pussy that tasted as sweet as cotton-fucking-candy, silky honey-gold hair that looked real pretty wrapped around my hand, and these big, innocent, sparkling hazel eyes that could rip your heart out.

And her laugh . . . it was long and light—the kind of sound that pulls you in, makes you want to laugh with her.

Lainey.

Last name—unknown. Number—unknown.

With that thought comes the sharp kick of frustration that nails me right in the gut. Because if I’d been more than half awake, or sober, I would’ve asked for her number.

Goddamn it.

Typically, in the summers one bite of the apple is enough for me—there’s a lot of fruit on the trees. But I definitely would’ve gone back for another taste of her.

“Was she a freak in the sheets?” Adams asks.

“I bet she was a deep-throater,” Jerry adds. “Nothing’s more glorious than a woman without a gag reflex.”