Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(43)

“Well, keep it up.” I clap my hands. “Come on, let’s go.”

Parker nods, his face scrunched and serious. He pops his mouthpiece in and slides his helmet on and yells to the offense as they jog onto the field, “Come on, guys, get on the ball!”

The players line up and the ball is hiked, but North Essex anticipates our play. The line holds and Parker adjusts, stepping back, dodging, scanning the field, searching for an opening. We’ve been a running game the last few weeks, so the coverage on our receivers is weak. I know what’s going to happen; I can practically see it before the chance comes . . . but more importantly, Parker can too.

Time stretches, the seconds drag, and everything moves in slow motion. It’s like I’m seeing the field through Parker’s eyes—every route, every angle. And then it all clicks, snaps hard into place.

“Wait, wait for it . . .” I whisper as the players push and clash.

Down field, DJ cuts left at the thirty-yard line, breaking free of the cornerback who’s right on his heels.

“Now.” My voice is low and urgent. My eyes dart from Parker to DJ and back again. “Come on, Parker, you got this. Throw it.”

He looks left, steps back, pumps his arm, reaches back, and throws.

And god damn, it’s pretty.

The ball spirals through the air, high and long and straight, before arching down . . . right into DJ King’s hands.

There’s a rush of sound—the cheers of crowd behind me—and my own blood roaring in my ears.

“Yes! Go, go, fucking run!”

I hop down the field, like an idiot—it’s a coach thing—waving my arms, telling DJ to run. But I don’t need to—he’s already hauling ass.

And just a few seconds later, he sprints into the end zone.

He spikes the ball and points at me. Christ, I love that kid. I point right back at him. And the ref raises his hands, just as the clock runs out, signaling a motherfucking touchdown for the Lions.

The first of our season . . . our first win. Hell yeah.

You’d think we just won the Super Bowl—that’s how it feels. The kids go nuts, rushing the field, hugging each other, bumping chests and smacking helmets.

DJ tears off his helmet, hops the fence, sprints up the stands to the announcer’s box. There’s the squeal of feedback, and then his breathless voice yells out of the speakers.

“I love you, Rhonda! I’m sorry I’m an asshole, but I love you, baby! That was for you!”

Dean appears at my right, pounding my shoulder. “That’s how we do it! Back in the saddle, D!”

And I smack his back. “Damn straight, man.”

I jog out to the field and shake Tim Daly’s hand, the North Essex High School coach. And as I turn around and jog back towards the bench, I spot Callie, on the other side of the fence, watching me.

She stands beside Mrs. Carpenter’s wheelchair. She’s wearing a black Lakeside football T-shirt under a puffy gray coat. She has a white knit cap over her blond hair that’s fuck-hot in a really cute kind of way. Her eyes are like two shiny emeralds beneath the bright field lights, and as she lifts her hand and waves to me, her pretty lips slide into a bursting, exhilarated kind of smile.

And just like that . . . I’m gone all over again.

I don’t stop jogging until I’m at the fence.

“Hey.”

Callie tilts her head. “Nice game, Coach.”

“Yeah . . . yeah, it was a good one.” I smile down at Callie’s mom. “Mrs. Carpenter, can I take Callie out tonight? You can have my cell phone, keep it right next to you, and call us if there’s any problems.”

If that doesn’t work, I’m prepared to offer my little brother a thousand dollars to babysit them for the night.

Mrs. Carpenter waves her hand. “We’ll be fine. You kids worry too much. Go have fun; have her home by lunchtime tomorrow.”

Just when I thought this night couldn’t get better—it blows better out of the frigging water.

“I can do that.” I nod.

That’s when the little bastards I coach decide to dump a cooler of Gatorade down my back. It’s cold, like a thousand icicles stabbing my spine at once, and I have a sense of how Caesar felt when he got taken out by his Senate. Et tu, shitheads? But I take it like a man. I push a wet hand through my hair and lick some of the liquid off my top lip.

I hook my thumb back over my shoulder, holding Callie’s gaze. “I gotta go do a football thing.” She laughs, nodding. “I’ll pick you up in a little while.”

And she waves, smiling. So beautiful it almost hurts to look at her.

“I’ll be waiting.”





Chapter Fourteen


Callie





Back in high school, after good football games—Garrett was always . . . well . . . horny. He was a teenage boy, so horny was pretty much the default setting—but after a big win, he was hotter, hungrier, more aggressive. I could practically smell the testosterone on his skin—which made me horny. I remember, when we’d make the requisite appearance at the after-party, how he’d keep me close, always touching me . . . his hand in mine, his thumb stroking my palm, his arm around my shoulder, rubbing my back. If I had to leave his side, his eyes would follow me around the room, over the rim of his cup of beer, like I was the only person who mattered. Like I was the heart, the center of his whole world.