Getting Played (Getting Some 2)

Mine, mine, mine.

Lainey was mine that night—every beautiful inch of her. And the baby we made that night is mine. Ours.

And I feel that, right down to the center of my bones.

The sun is just setting on the west side of the lake, reflecting on the water like an orange ball of fire when I drive down Miller Street and pull into Lainey’s driveway. The wind gusts when I get out of the car—a flock of crispy brown leaves swirl around my feet as I take long, deliberate steps across the lawn.

The song “Shallow” from that Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper movie plays loudly from inside. I hear it as I walk up the steps and across the porch, toward the door in the back.

But I stop when I catch the sight of her through the window. And that aching throb in my chest comes back with a vengeance—a steel-fisted punch right to the heart.

Lainey’s hair falls around her shoulders in long, loose waves. She’s wearing soft gray shorts and a tank top that reveals about an inch of skin just above that rounded little bump. An oversized beige sweater flares out as she spins in a circle—dancing slow and barefoot on the shiny hardwood floor.

And it’s instantaneous—immediate—everything locks into place inside me. The free-falling, freaked-out feeling is gone . . . because . . . okay, I may not know what I’m doing—but I know what I want.

I want to be more than my father and better than my mother. I want to be here for her and for them. I don’t want to be a faded fucking picture in the back of an old photo album.

I want to do this, and more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life—I want to be good at it.

I rap my knuckles on the oak wood, so she’ll hear the knock above the music. When Lainey opens the door, she looks up at me, her pink lips parted, her long, pretty lashes blinking around those big gorgeous eyes in a way that makes me want to kiss the hell out of her.

“Dean, hey…”

The music swells from inside the room—two voices singing about diving into the deep end, leaving the safe shallow far, far behind.

And my tone is clear with the simple, unshakeable truth.

“I’m in. I’m all in.”

Chapter Nine

Lainey

I’m in trouble.

“This is so weird.”

“It is. You’re right. Totally weird.”

Dean and Jason are on the back porch steps. Sitting beside each other. Looking out over the lake. Talking. Mano a mano, guy to guy, teacher to student, baby-daddy to son.

“It’s so . . . disappointing.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“How so?”

And I’m in the kitchen peeking out the window and eavesdropping through the crack in the door, like the pregnant creeper I am.

“You’re my favorite teacher ever—”

“That means a lot to me.”

“And now, I find out you’re the guy who . . .” Jay can’t bring himself to say it. Picturing it probably is no picnic either. “That you and my mom—”

“It’s better if you don’t think about it. Just block it out.”

“She’s getting bigger by the day—kind of hard not to think about how that happened.”

“Fair point.”

I think I’ve handled the whole situation well. I’ve been calm, mature, strong and dignified. I meant it when I said I’d be fine doing this on my own—I would’ve been.

“Am I going to be able to stay in your class?”

“I’ll talk it over with Miss McCarthy, but I don’t see why not.”

But I’d be a big, fat liar if I said I wasn’t relieved that I don’t have to.

Relieved and . . . thrilled. It’s the thrilled part that worries me.

“What am I supposed to call you?”

“I dunno. What do you want to call me?”

“Dean would be too weird at school.”

“Agreed. You start calling me Dean, the whole class will start calling me Dean . . . it’ll be anarchy.”

When Dean showed up on my porch, flashing those stormy blue eyes and swore that he was all in—like it was the most solemn, important thing he’d ever done—I almost swooned right on the spot. My knees actually got weak. For. Real.

“But calling you Coach Walker around the house . . .”

Dean shakes his head. “Way awkward. It’s like calling someone Grandfather or The Colonel. It’d be like living in a game of Clue—Coach Walker in the bedroom with the turkey baster.”

Jason chokes on a snort.

“Too soon?” Dean asks with a laugh in his voice.

And now he’s having a heart-to-heart with my Jaybird and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. The care in his voice as he talks to my son. The interest.

Having a conversation with a teenage boy about the more complicated situations of life isn’t easy. Not many men would know how to handle that, and listening to one who does is a heady thing. An alluring, attractive thing that speaks to a deep, primal part of me.