Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(70)

He shrugs.

“We all chipped in,” Nancy tells me. “All your classes.”

“And the football team too,” DJ says.

Nancy nods. “We remembered when you’d bring Snoopy to school sometimes.”

“And to practice,” DJ adds.

“And we knew it wasn’t right that you didn’t have a dog anymore,” Skylar says.

“And we wanted to do something for you,” Nancy finishes.

I choke out a laugh, shaking my head. “I can’t believe you guys bought me a dog. Thank you, for real, this is . . . it’s incredible. It means the world to me.”

“What are you going to name him?” DJ asks, grinning broadly.

“Good question.” I look down at the little guy in my arms—already asleep again. Then I get the best idea ever.

I jerk my head towards the door. “Let’s go. Class trip. Way before any of your times, Miss Carpenter named Snoopy. Seems only right that she comes up with something for this bad boy too.”

I throw my jacket over the puppy, in case Miss McCarthy is patrolling the halls, and lead my class down to the auditorium. Callie stands up from the front row, crossing her delicate arms, somehow looking even hotter now than when we left my house this morning.

“Coach Daniels. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I lift the jacket, revealing the bundle of adorable in my arms. And any illusion of professionalism goes out the window.

“Oh my God!” She coos and squeals. “Who is this?”

I hand the little guy over and gesture to my class.

“A present from the kids.”

She meets my eyes and her face goes soft. Because she knows—she knows what this means to me. She knows me, through and through.

“What should we call him?” I ask Callie.

And for a second, when our eyes meet, it’s like we’re the only two people in the room.

She gazes at the puppy, her forehead scrunching, thinking it over. Then she looks back at me.

“Woodstock. With this beautiful yellow coat . . . definitely Woodstock. And we can call him Woody for short.”

I laugh, nodding.

“You pick the best names. It’s perfect. Woody—awesome.”

“Can I hold him?” Nancy asks.

I nod, and Callie hands him over. The kids swell in around Nancy as she sits down, drifting far enough away from us for Callie to whisper so they can’t hear, “I really, really want to kiss you right now.”

And I smirk, because—fuck yeah.

I point at Nancy, using my coaching voice—the one that’s always followed. “Keep an eye on Woody. There’s an issue Miss Carpenter and I have to deal with backstage.”

If they’re quick enough to pick up on what we’re doing, they don’t show it. I lead Callie up the side stage steps, and brush the heavy curtain aside. We step behind it and then, just in case, I tug her into a dark little alcove to the right of the stage. It’s like this place was designed for making out—those naughty theater people.

I lean back against the wall, lifting my hands, gazing down at my girl.

“Have at me, babe. I’m all yours.”

Callie reaches up, tugging at my shirt, bringing my mouth closer to hers. “Yeah . . . you really are.”

Then she presses those sweet lips against mine and kisses the hell out of me.





Chapter Twenty-One


Garrett





On the first Friday night in May, I’m wearing my gray suit, leaning against the wall outside my downstairs hall bathroom. I hear the water running inside, then silence. And a few seconds later, Callie comes out.

Her skin is a mixture of pale white and green—like mint chocolate chip ice cream, minus the chips.

“Did you puke?”

The question brings a little pink to her cheeks.

“Yeah. But just the one time.” She tucks a tiny pouch, with a miniature toothbrush and toothpaste inside, into her purse.

Athletes have rituals before games. Callie has a ritual before a performance—she pukes up a lung. She always did, even back in high school. And apparently that ritual now extends to her students performing too.

Because tonight is the opening night of Little Shop of Horrors by the newly christened Lakeside Players Group, at Lakeside High School.

In spite of the recent heave-ho-hurl, Callie looks stunning in a cream-colored skirt and jacket, with her hair pulled back in a low, loose bun that manages to be elegant and sexy as fuck. It makes me want to bite her neck, suck on it . . . preferably while she’s riding me.

But—the happy times will have to wait until later. It’s almost show time.

I call Woody into his crate and he trots in happily.

“Be good, Wood—we’ll be home in a little while.”

He attacks the rubber goose chew toy Callie got for him last week, with a vengeance. The pain of losing Snoopy still lingers—we kept his ashes and they sit in a simple silver urn on the fireplace mantle. But like the grief of all losses, time and good memories make it easier to bear.

I hold out my hand to Callie and she slides hers into it. Then I kiss her cheek.

“Let’s go, sweetheart. Time for you to break a leg.”



~



A few weeks ago, David Burke’s plea deal was finalized. Me and Callie and Jerry Dorfman wrote letters to the prosecutor on his behalf. And they were literary masterpieces if I do say so myself, because the prosecutor agreed to let David plead as a youthful offender. If he stays out of trouble for the next two years, completes his probation and community service, his record will be expunged.