being.
But this—the fresh air, the conversation, the vibe of the town, everyone so warm and friendly—it makes me feel invigorated and refreshed.
It makes Lakeside feel like home.
After the bleachers have mostly emptied out, I make my way down the steps and walk toward the school where my car is parked in the lot outside the gym.
~ ~ ~
Dean
There’s a singular satisfaction in winning a football game. It’s better than playing a pounding tune to a charged-up crowd and more satisfying than solving the most impossible math problem. It’s the payoff of months of bone-crunching work and mental preparation, and it’s every bit of a rush as a coach as it was as a player. Victory and pride and adrenaline floods your blood stream, making you feel invincible, driving you to celebrate—to drink, dance, fuck long and wild and all night long.
After Garrett gives the team the short-form congratulatory speech and warns them not to be idiots at whatever postgame parties they’re going to, the players clear out of the locker room, and I walk out to my car with my duffel back slung over my shoulder. It’s just starting to drizzle and a cool, misty haze hangs in the air.
“Nice game, Coach,” a parent calls.
“Good win tonight, Walker,” someone else says.
I nod and lift my hand to the faceless voices. Then, I pop my trunk, put my bag in the back and close it.
And then I see her. A woman, walking alone across the parking lot a few dozen yards away. Her face is shadowed, but the blond locks that spiral down her back shimmer like a beacon under the halo of the street lights. Her limbs are lithe and long and there’s something about her—about the way she moves, the swing of her arms and the sway of her hips, that makes my heart punch against my ribs and my cock twitch.
The damp air fogs on my glasses, so I rip them off my face, wiping the lenses on my shirt. When I put them back on, she’s already climbing into a pickup truck and closing the driver side door.
And that weird surging feeling—the same one from the grocery store—streaks up my spine and shoves at my shoulders. To move. To sprint the hell over there. To tap on her window and see her face . . . to see if it’s her.
Right.
Cause that’s not too creepy or anything.
Holy shit, I’m losing it.
I shake my head and watch as the red eyes of the truck’s break lights blink, then back out and pull away.
For most guys, any problems we have in life can be traced back to one source—our dicks. Mine’s no exception. It’s all his fault. The bastard’s become finicky. Choosy. Totally pathetic.
Lainey is still the last woman I had sex with.
It’s been months—the longest drought since the night I lost my virginity to Samantha Perkins in the bathroom the night of her senior prom when I was a freshman. There’ve been offers—there always are—Pam Smeason when she came home to visit her parents next door, the receptionist at the car wash, the backup bartender at Houlahan’s with the pouty lips and fantastic rack.
But my dick wouldn’t even raise his head to take a look. Asshole. He’s obsessed with a ghost. A memory.
Even when I jerk off—which has been, like, three squares a day—that bolt of desire doesn’t strike until I think of Lainey. Imagine her sounds from that night—her scent, the clasp of her snug, wet pussy or how gorgeous she looked with her mouth full of my cock.
That last one does it every time.
Screw this—I’m taking matters into my own hands. Or . . . out of my own hand.
We won the game, I’m feeling the rush of sweet, sweet victory—so tonight my dick better get with the program. We’re celebrating. We’re going out and picking up a hot-as-hell woman who can’t wait to rip my clothes off. If past is prologue, finding her won’t take long. Then I’m taking her home and screwing her until I forget my own name.
And more importantly—until I forget Lainey’s.
~ ~ ~
Teachers are a funny breed. We’re social creatures—teaching is a social art—but excluding soldiers in the same foxhole, I don’t think there’s another profession on earth that bonds coworkers together so strongly. Teachers become each other’s support systems, their social network, their closest friends—even if they’re the type of personalities that wouldn’t normally mesh if you didn’t work in the same building.
Also—and this is universal—get a few drinks in