~ ~ ~
The Lakeside Lions finish their season with an 8–4 record. It’s not states, and it’s not anywhere close to how I envisioned the season playing out—but all things considered, it’s not bad. I’m damn proud of my boys and I make sure to let them know it.
On the first Tuesday in December, I’m in my office, after school, going over tapes from the last game. On the desk, a text message pops up from Callie on my phone.
Callie: Come to the auditorium. I want to show you something.
I rise from my desk and text her back as I walk.
Me: A naked something?
Callie: Lol, no. Come through the side to the stage left loft—be stealthy.
Ah, the stage left loft. The legendary student body makeout spot. Our own little slice of seven minutes in heaven—Callie gave me our first blow job there. Though you never would’ve guessed it was her first time—even back then the girl had skills that could blow my frigging head off.
Me: Good times in that loft—we going for a redo?
I know she knows exactly what I’m referring to, when she texts back.
Callie: Not tonight . . . but maybe another time ;) Are you coming?
Me: Not at the moment—hopefully soon. But only after you come first.
I imagine that sweet blush rising on her cheeks, as she shakes her head at her phone.
Callie: You have a one-track mind.
Me: No, I have a three-track mind. Your mouth, your ass, and that pretty, pretty pussy—are always on it.
I walk down the side hallway, outside the theater, and quietly go through the side door that leads backstage. The overhead lights are on and there’s some student chatter happening out front. I climb the black, metal ladder to the loft, where Callie is waiting.
She offers her hand as I climb the last of the way up, smiling softly.
“Hey.”
She’s wearing a black formfitting turtleneck today, sleek black skirt, and high black boots—gorgeous.
“What’s up?” I whisper.
There’s a black sofa along the back wall of the loft. The concrete walls are also painted black, with tons of graffiti left by students through the years, in chalk and white marker. It’s a quiet, private space—with probably more body fluid on that old couch than I ever want to fucking contemplate.
Callie leads me by the hand to the railing that overlooks the stage below.
“David and Layla are working on their big song. They’ve been practicing so hard.”
In the last few weeks, Callie’s really hit her stride teaching-wise. She’s a natural, and I’m so proud of her.
Soft piano notes float up around us, and she turns her eyes to the stage below.
David and Layla are center stage. He starts first, singing as Seymour, offering Layla his hand and telling her to wipe off her mascara—singing about how things were bad, but now everything is going to be okay. Layla gazes up at him, like he’s her hero, and the music climbs and her stunning voice rises. They sound good together—stronger and softer, complementing voices.
“Look at them, Garrett. Aren’t they amazing?”
But all I can look at is her. The way her hair shines and her face glows in the halo of the stage lights, her pink lips parted and her eyes wide and full of wonder and awe.
She takes my breath away.
I slide my hand across her back, covering her hip, tucking her against me.
“They’re amazing, Callie . . . because that’s what you are. You made them that way.”
She lets out a little sigh, wraps her arms around my waist, and rests her head on my bicep, and we watch her students sing.
Some guys would worry that they could be falling too hard and fast for a woman they’ve technically only been dating a few months. But not me. Because I know the irrefutable truth.
It’s too late—I already fell, a long time ago.
~ ~ ~
Callie can’t come over to my place that night—her mom is hell-bent on bringing all the holiday decorations up from the basement and getting the house set for Christmas. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but tonight, I’m antsy about it. Just . . . hungry for her. Maybe it’s the realization that she’s just across town, so close, when for so many years, I’d think of her but she was far out of my reach. Or maybe it’s the last, cute text she sends about decorating:
Callie: Looks like I’m the elf for the night.
And doesn’t that get me thinking hot, deviant thoughts about sexy, Christmas themed outfits—thigh-high white stockings, red velvet thongs, silk bows, and fur-trimmed handcuffs . . . these are a few of my favorite things.
Just before midnight, I’m sitting on my couch, still all charged up—rock hard with thoughts of her.
I look over at Snoopy. He stares back at me.
“Fuck it, right, buddy? I should just go over there?”
He lifts his nose and lets out three shrill, rolling barks.