Getting Schooled (Getting Some 1)

Slowly, I open my eyes and every one of my kids is staring at me like I have four heads. Until David starts to clap—loud and quick—and like baby ducks, the rest of them follow, until a full-on applause rings out. Garrett puts his fingers to his lips and whistles.

And it’s ten times better than any standing ovation I’ve ever received.

“Holy crap.” Bradley stands up. “That was sick!”

It’s okay—sick is good.

“Can you teach us how to do that?” Toby asks.

“Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah, actually, I can.”

The bell shrieks from the hallway and the kids grab their stuff and head towards the door.

“We’ll pick this up tomorrow,” I call after them. “And it’s never too early to start memorizing your lines!”

In the midst of the shuffle, I make my way over to where Garrett’s still standing against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for me. I lean in towards him, as much as I can without setting the high school gossip mill on fire . . . or jumping him.

“That was sexy as fuck,” Garrett growls low, making me blush like the virgin I was before I met him.

“You always did have a thing for Les Miserables,” I tease him.

And his smile hits me right in the center of my chest, making feel giddy and silly and light—like my feet aren’t on the ground. He makes me feel that way.

“Thanks for helping me with them—for trying to get them to trust me.”

He tucks a rogue strand of hair behind my ear. “Anytime.”

Garrett stares at my mouth, his brown eyes intense and swirling—filled with carnal thoughts and desperate, delightful ideas. “Come over tonight, Cal. Even if it’s just for an hour or ten minutes, I don’t care. I’ll feed you ramen and do dirty things to you.”

I laugh. How could any girl say no to an offer like that?

Chapter Thirteen

Garrett

No, no, no—as if this season wasn’t already a flaming bag of dog shit . . . as if being 0–3 wasn’t humiliating enough to make me want to burn the school down . . . now this, on game day.

“Walk away, dude,” Dean whispers to himself, because he gets it too. “Keep your mouth shut and walk away.”

Damon John—my star receiver and his long-term girlfriend, Rhonda, are having an argument—a loud, public, right in the middle of the fucking D wing-break-up, kind of argument. The crowd’s about six students deep, but Dean and I can hear every word.

“You broke my heart. You only get to do that once.”

I like Rhonda; she’s a good girl for DJ—sweet, smart, doesn’t take any of his stupid shit. But it would seem Damon John has forgotten that fact.

“Whatever, baby.” He shrugs, looking right through her. “Been there, done that. I’m over it.”

What a little asshole.

But that’s high school boys for you—back them into a corner and they turn ugly—like Gremlins fed after midnight.

Rhonda lifts her chin, holding back tears. “Do not text me, do not call me, do not show up at my house. You are dead to me.”

When DJ swallows hard and his eyes flair with uncertainty—I catch it, but I’m probably the only one who does. To the rest of the world, he laughs, blows it off . . . but I know him—studied his every move, so I know better.

“Works for me. In a few hours, I won’t even remember your name.”

Dean covers his eyes. “Dumbass.”

With that, Rhonda turns around and walks away, and doesn’t look back. The late bell rings and the crowd disperses.

I glance at Dean. “DJ and Rhonda were together for two years, man.”

In high school years, that’s like twenty.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “It’s gonna be bad.”

~ ~ ~

And bad it is.

I hear just how much as I walk down the hall towards the locker room after school. The mixture of despair and regret that sounds like a mortally wounded animal . . . but is really a seventeen-year-old boy who’s been dumped on his sorry ass.

I open the door and sure enough, there’s DJ lying on his back across the bench, with his forearm across his face, covering his eyes.

Crying.

For even the staunchest supporters of the “boys don’t cry” rule—a locker room is the exception. A thousand disappointed, heartbroken tears have been shed here.

Six of my starters surround DJ, without a single clue between them about what to do. If he’d twisted an ankle or cramped a muscle, they’d know. But a busted heart? That’s out of their league.

“I don’t get it,” Sam Zheng says. “If you still like her, why did you say all that crap to her in the hallway? Why didn’t you just say sorry?”

Ah . . . Sammy, he’s a sophomore—still innocent.

“I don’t know,” DJ moans. “I didn’t mean it.” He turns on his side, moaning, “How am I supposed to play tonight? How am I supposed to live without my bae?”