Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(34)

“. . . and I know some of you think that I let my ego get in the way—that Lipinski’s not here because of some pissing contest between the two of us.”

I shake my head.

“It wasn’t like that. Pride’s a good thing—it makes you work hard, strive to be better . . . but I would sacrifice my pride for any one of you. I would bend and I would break, in a heartbeat, if I thought it’d make us a better team, a stronger team.”

I point at Lipinski’s locker. “Brandon’s not here because he chose not to be here. It was his choice. He wasn’t thinking of you and he sure as shit wasn’t thinking of the team when he made it. And that’s on him. It’s easy to work hard, to be proud when things are going your way . . . when all the pieces fall into place in front of you. But the true test of a man—of a team—is what happens when those unexpected hits come. When you get your teeth knocked out and you’re down on your knees . . . are you gonna stay down and whine that it wasn’t supposed to be this way? Or are you gonna stand up, with your head high, dig deep and move forward? Pull together all your intensity, all your strength, and get it fucking done—push the ball down that field.”

I watch their gazes intensify and their heads nod as the words penetrate. I step towards Parker and tap his shoulder. “Parker made a choice too. And it wasn’t easy. We’ve asked a lot of him—a shit-ton of responsibility is riding on his shoulders. But he stepped up for you, for this school, for this team!”

My voice rises and my players get to their feet. “So, we’re gonna go out there, together, and play our fucking hearts out—together. You’ll make me proud and you’ll make yourselves proud and we’ll leave it all on the field—because that’s who we are! That’s what we do!”

“Hell yeah!” someone yells.

And then they all start yelling, stomping their feet and clapping their hands—fired up, like gladiators in the bowels of the Colosseum.

Wilson yells, “Who are we?”

And the answer bounces off the walls and rattles the lockers.

“Lions!”

“Who are we?” Bertucci bellows.

“Lions!”

“God damn right you are!” I point towards the locker room door that leads out to the field. “Now go be fucking heroes.”



~



They end up being heroes, all right. The kind of heroes who get slaughtered—300, Spartacus kind of heroes. It’s a bloodbath.

Ninety percent of football is mental, and with the shake-up in our team’s leadership, their heads are messed up. Parker Thompson only had two completions and even our defense played like dog shit.

I hate losing. It leaves a black, twisting feeling in my gut—an awful mix of frustration and embarrassment. Coach Saber used to tell us, “Losers lose and say—I can’t do it. Winners lose—and figure out what they did wrong, so they can do better the next time.”

It’s a principle I try to live by . . . but it still blows.

The next day, Saturday afternoon, I lie on the couch with the shades drawn, the lights off, and Snoopy curled in a depressed puddle of fur around my feet.

He hates losing too.

There’s a knock at the door and I know immediately it’s not a member of my family—they know better than to disturb me in my period of mourning. I drag myself to the door and open it . . . to find Callie on my front step, graceful and glowing, looking like a ray of sunshine made flesh.

I sent her a text when I got home from the game last night—and it wasn’t even dirty. I’m ashamed.

“Hey!” Her glossy, strawberry lips smile.

Callie was always beautiful, she doesn’t know how to be anything else, but there’s something extra now—a boldness, a womanly confidence that turns me right the hell on. Even in my sad, loser bubble—my cock perks up. He has all kinds of ideas on how sweet Callie could comfort us, each one filthier than the last.

I lean down, pecking her lips hello.

“Hey.”

She runs her hand over the stubble on my jaw. “How are you doing?”

She’s wearing snug jeans that hug her hips, high brown boots, a burgundy V-neck sweater that shows off her creamy neck, and her blond bouncy hair is held back by a thick black headband—giving her a sexy, Mod-Squad, ’60s kind of look.

“Fine.”

Yes, I grumble. And I’m probably pouting too.

She bobs her head, nodding. “Riiight.”

Callie looks down at Snoopy. “He’s still doing the post-loss pouting thing, huh? I figured as much.”

I leave the door open for her, turn around, and walk back into my living room—face-planting back onto my trusty couch. He’ll never let me down.

I can’t see her, but I feel it when Callie follows me into the room.

“So, apparently my parents never bothered to replace the mattress in my bedroom . . . ever. And it’s only going to take one more night for the springs to actually puncture my spine.”

I grunt in response.

“Colleen is with them now, and while I’m sure you have lots of sulking to do, I thought maybe you’d want to leave the pit of despair for a few hours and . . . come shopping with me? It’ll cheer you up.”

I roll over. “Wait, let me check.”