See Me After Class(126)

“Look at them over there,” Stella says. “All smug, thinking they’re going to win. They have no idea we have a human computer with us.”

After we realized having four Division-1 athletes on a team isn’t the best idea—since they all go after the shuttlecock at the same time—we enlisted Keiko to help us. She’s been secretly studying the teams all tournament and calculating the rate of their trajectory . . . or something like that. I have no idea, except that she’s pinpointed all their weak spots and has instructed each player thoroughly on the Forest Heights team about where they’re allowed to hit the shuttlecock.

They’re ready.

“Are there any questions?” Keiko asks. “I will be quite displeased if I have to repeat myself.”

“We got it,” Romeo says, bouncing back and forth like a tennis player, racket in hand.

“We’re going to annihilate them,” Stella roars, lifting her racket to the air.

“And then celebrate with donuts,” Cora says next to me, taking pictures.

Everyone cheers and heads to their positions.

Greer turns to me, cups my cheek, and says, “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, babe.” I kiss her on the lips and look her in the eyes. “I love you.”

She smiles and replies, “I love you.” Then she leans in and whispers in my ear, “If we win, I’m sucking you so hard tonight.”

I whisper back, “When we win, you’re revisiting the kitchen island.”

Her cheeks redden and she pulls away. She gives me a quick wave, and I shoot her a wink as I watch her jog off to the court, her hair swishing behind her.

“God, you’re infatuated, aren’t you?” Cora asks.

“The proper term would be bewitched, Coraline. Utterly bewitched.”



THE END





Keep reading for a link to an EXTENDED EPILOGUE about Arlo and Greer’s future and for an excerpt from my baseball romance The Dugout which also features Gunner and Romeo.





Excerpt - The Dugout





Prologue





CARSON





Everyone knows me as the easygoing, fun-loving guy without a care in the world. You know who I’m talking about, right?

The guy who cheers when a couple kisses, who says stupid shit like YIPPEE when he’s excited, the guy who has no shame in shimmying his bare, bright white ass to his friends just to make them laugh.

I’m also the guy who is magically smart, can lead an entire bar to harmoniously sing any Taylor Swift song, lucks out in everything he does, and has impeccable taste in clothing—despite wearing a baseball hoodie every Monday. A dude must make himself feel better when the Monday blues hit and a hoodie does just that.

But have you guessed it? Do you see where this is going?

I’m not that guy anymore.

Nope.

Easygoing and fun-loving? Not anymore. I spit venom at whoever dares to be in my presence. You know the old man who throws endless piles of shoes at the street youths as they walk by? That’s me, minus the incontinence problem and mothball smell.

My days of singing Taylor Swift with a crowd are over. Instead—if I even make it to a bar—I bury myself in a corner and sneer. Oh boy, do I fucking sneer. I sneer at anything and anyone that even attempts to look at my face.

That impeccable fashion sense I was boasting about? Gone. I think I’ve been wearing the same pair of athletic shorts for a month—not really—but maybe it’s a little true.

And the guy who lucks out in everything he does? Ha, my luck was cut short at the beginning of the season thanks to the square ass, dirty dick named Kirk Babcock, also known as Kirk BADcock by my team.

What did this Badcock do, you ask?

If you’re thinking he poked me with said bad cock, you need to get your mind out of the gutter.

What he did was even worse than winging his willy around on the baseball field.

So bad that you might need to brace yourself . . .

**FLAILS ARMS**

He committed a sin against all baseball etiquette.

The cardinal sin.

The biggest sin of all sins.

Are you sitting? I don’t want you to faint from the blasphemy I’m about to share.

Deep breaths, everyone . . .

He . . . damn it, he slid late . . . at practice.

Gasp, I know.

I told you it was bad . . . my balls are shriveling up into my taint just thinking about it.

The dumbass freshman, who had too much juice in his junk, decided to book it to second during a practice game while Holt and I were fleshing out a double play. The dingleberry slid into second base two seconds too late.

Why is this a problem?

For those of you who might not be in the know—don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you—back in 2016, the gods of baseball developed a new rule; all players sliding into second must hit the ground first before touching the bag to avoid injuring the opposing players.

Layman’s terms: don’t be a dickhead and hurt people.

Apparently, Badcock didn’t get that memo, because the little turd nugget charged second base like an out-of-control steam train . . . just as I slid my foot across the base for the out. His dirty slide took my leg out, twisting me in the process, and tossed me to the ground.