Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(42)

I nod my head. “Damn skippy.”

DJ sits up, wiping his eyes. “I gotta get her back, Coach. I love her, for real. I know we’re young, but . . . she’s the one . . . the only one for me . . . you know what I mean?”

I think about green eyes, soft lips, and sweet laughter. I think about the voice I could listen to forever—how I’m captivated by every thought and wish and idea in her fascinating mind. I think about the feel of her arms clinging to me, wanting me—strong and delicate, fire and lace—and the scent of roses and vanilla.

Oh yeah . . . I know exactly what he means.

“Okay, then here’s what you’re going to do . . .”

He huddles down, the same look on his face as when I’m breaking down a play.

“First, you kick ass tonight on the field—show her you’re a winner. Girls like winners. Then you’re gonna admit you acted like a jackass, and tell her you’re sorry. Because that’s what real men do when they fuck up—they own it.”

“A grand gesture may be in order,” Dean suggests, leaning against the wall near the door.

DJ’s face scrunches in deep thought. “What kind of gesture? How?”

Jesus, have these kids never seen a John Hughes movie? It’s times like this I worry about the future of our youth.

“Do something big, something she won’t expect—dedicate a song to her or a Facebook post or one of those Snapgram story things—whatever the hell you kids do now.”

“You get extra points if it involves begging and humiliation,” Dean adds.

I put my arm around his shoulder. “And then . . . maybe Rhonda gives you a second chance. You earn another shot.”

He wipes his nose. “What if she doesn’t? What if I really lost her?”

I pat his back. “It’ll hurt like a hell, I’m not going to lie. But you’ll get through it. You’ll know you gave it your all and that your relationship with her was a moment in your life that you’ll never forget. You learn from it, let it make you better. And maybe, down the road, you’ll meet someone else and that’s how it’s supposed to go. Or maybe, one day if it’s really meant to be . . . you’ll get another chance with her. And if that happens . . .”

Even if it’s twenty years later . . .

“You make damn sure you don’t screw up again.”



~



Friday night-home games are always big in Lakeside—and not just because the parents of the players and students are in attendance. The whole frigging town shows up. My parents are here, my brothers, Callie’s here with her parents and her sister too. I saw Callie outside my office before the game.

She let me cop a feel for good luck.

And then, I took the field with my team.

No matter how old I am—fourteen or thirty-four—football games all sound the same. The crunch of the pads, the grunts, the war cry, the vicious shit-talking that would reduce grown men to tears, the drumbeats of the band, the chants of the cheerleaders, and shouts of the crowd. They look the same—the glare of the lights, the smoke of our breath, the streaks of dark mud on white uniforms. They smell the same—grass and dirt, popcorn and hot dogs, adrenaline and victory almost within reach.

But not every game feels the same. Actually, every single one feels different.

Tonight, there’s something extra going on—an electricity in the air that feels like life is about to change. A pressure pushing down on my shoulders and a current of excitement sparking through my veins.

We’re playing North Essex High School. Their defense is top-notch, but tonight my boys are kicking ass and taking names. They’re monsters—unstoppable—all their fucks surrendered in the last three losses, with no more left to give. Nothing and no one is getting past them. By the fourth quarter, with only twenty seconds left on the clock, the scoreboard is still 0 to 0. It’s the best game we’ve played all year. The ball is ours and if we don’t lock it down with a field goal or touchdown now, we go into overtime.

“Yes! Nice hit, Dumbrowski!” I clap my hands as the players jog off the field. “Good hustle.”

Parker sprints off the bench to me as the offense moves onto the field. But before I open my mouth to give him the play, he calls it himself.

“Wishbone forty-two.”

Well, what do you know.

“That’s right. Good call.” I smack his helmet encouragingly. “You look different tonight, kid—did you grow last night or something?”

He snorts, lifting a shoulder and grinning shyly. “I don’t know.”

He does look different, but it’s not because he grew. It’s the way he’s carrying himself, the way he walks. Hard work and focus will do that to you. Parker stands straighter, head higher, with a solid surety to his steps. Our extra practices have started paying off—being entrusted as the starting quarterback of a varsity team that has your back is starting to take effect.

There’s an air around him that wasn’t there before—Parker Thompson knows where he’s going, and more importantly, he knows exactly how he’s getting there.

“No? What’d you eat for breakfast this morning?”

He shrugs again. “Cereal . . . I think.”

For some kids, direction is all they need. Someone to help them focus, to bring their talents to the forefront. Like a pencil—the lead’s already there inside, it just needs to be sharpened.