Getting Played

It was different for me. I had no illusions about being a Stand and Deliver, Dead Poets Society-esque, Mr. Keating shaper of young minds—that’s not my style. But the pay is decent, the benefits are good, and the hours are a cakewalk. The summers off allow me to tour with the band I’ve been playing drums in since I was a kid, and being the football team’s offensive coordinator lets me enjoy the smell of the grass and the feel of the pigskin in my hands. There’s no downside.

Teaching lets me live life exactly how I want—uncomplicated, easy.

I like easy. Sue me.

“You just get back today?” Jerry Dorfman, former jarhead, current guidance counselor and defensive assistant coach asks me, as the players stream off toward the water cooler.

“Last night.”

I tour the Jersey shore with Amber Sound from June til August, slipping back into town just in time for preseason practice.

“So . . . how was it?” Jerry nudges me with his elbow.

“Good. It was a good summer.”

“Don’t give me good—give me details. I’m married now. I have to get laid vicariously through you.”

Don’t let him fool you—Jerry wasn’t getting laid before he was married, either.

Last spring he tied the knot with Donna Merkle, Lakeside’s megafeminist art teacher. And, I’m saying this as a guy—when he’s not on the clock or dealing with a kid—Jerry’s a pig. The whole faculty and student body are still pondering the mystery of how the two of them happened.

“What’s the matter—Merkle holding out on you?” I ask.

“Hell no.” He runs his hand down his “Dad-bod”. “My wife can’t resist this fine piece of male specimen. But . . . there’s no harm in hearing about your adventures in punani-land.”

Punani-land? And the guy wonders why he’s not getting any.

“Yeah, Coach.” Mark Adams, the fresh-faced team trainer and newbie gym teacher, agrees. “When I went here, we all knew you got more ass than a toilet seat.” He makes the Wayne’s World “we’re not worthy” gesture. “Teach me your mighty player ways.”

I’m not that much of a player. Not anymore.

Back in high school, in my twenties—sure—that was another story.

These days, I’m all about keeping it straightforward, casual, good. I think friends with benefits is the greatest invention of the twenty-first century. I don’t lie or do headgames, and I don’t do relationships—there’s nothing easy about them.

But that’s the thing about small towns—who you used to be sticks forever—even if you’re not really that person anymore. Although there are worse things to be than the town player. And, I don’t want to disappoint the fans.

So, I smirk. “Well, there was this one girl.”

Jerry rubs his hands together and Adams pumps his fist. Garrett’s there too, but he stopped giving a damn about my sex life decades ago.

“Was she hot?”

My eyes roll closed in awe.

“Smokin’ hot.”

With endless legs that felt incredible squeezing my waist, a pussy that tasted as sweet as cotton-fucking-candy, silky honey-gold hair that looked real pretty wrapped around my hand, and these big, innocent, sparkling hazel eyes that could rip your heart out.

And her laugh . . . it was long and light—the kind of sound that pulls you in, makes you want to laugh with her.

Lainey.

Last name—unknown. Number—unknown.

With that thought comes the sharp kick of frustration that nails me right in the gut. Because if I’d been more than half awake, or sober, I would’ve asked for her number.

Goddamn it.

Typically, in the summers one bite of the apple is enough for me—there’s a lot of fruit on the trees. But I definitely would’ve gone back for another taste of her.

“Was she a freak in the sheets?” Adams asks.

“I bet she was a deep-throater,” Jerry adds. “Nothing’s more glorious than a woman without a gag reflex.”

And it’s weird. Normally I don’t have a problem with Jerry and Adams talking like two pervy asshats, but hearing them direct this shit at Lainey seems all kinds of wrong.

There was something about her—a sweetness, a charm . . .

“I never do this, Dean. Ever.”

. . . that makes me feel protective. Proprietary.

“We had a good time.” I shrug, blowing it off. “Like I said—it was a good summer.”

Jerry and Adams open their mouths to argue, but I swiftly cut them off with a stern, “Enough.”

Just then, the dark-haired captain of the cheerleading squad—Ashley Something—jogs up to Garrett, who’s been ignoring the whole exchange.

“Coach D, can we use the field to practice our half-time routine while the team’s on break?”

“Sure.” Garrett checks his stopwatch. “We’ve got about ten minutes left.”

“Thanks!”

Ashley bounces away and a few seconds later, a flock of cheerleaders take the field in a square formation, decked out in blue-and-gold uniforms.

Teenagers today have a thing for the 80s aesthetic. The style, the music—thank God, not the hair. My theory is they subconsciously long for the old-fashioned days they’ve heard their parents talk about—before electronics and social media ruled the world.

“Mickey” by Toni Basil pounds out of the field speakers.

And the cheerleading squad starts to dance.

But . . . there’s nothing old-fashioned about it.

There’s some hip shaking, a little skirt flipping . . . then things get weird. When they start sucking their fingers into their mouths, turning around and smacking their own asses—then smacking each other’s asses—swirling their hips and kicking their legs like they had a high-paid pole dancer for a choreographer.

“I’m uncomfortable with this,” Jerry says in a stunned voice. “Is anyone else uncomfortable with this?”

I raise my hand.

Garrett—whose wife’s fifteen-year-old niece is one of the cheerleaders shaking their shit out on the field—raises his hand higher.

Young Adams looks conflicted.

Because when male teachers have reached a certain age you look at your female students sort of like you’d look at your sister. On a basic level, you recognize that they’re hot—young, pretty, perky in all the right places—but they don’t turn you on. You’re not attracted to them.

Because they’re kids.

It doesn’t matter if they’re technically eighteen, or if they pass around nudes like goddamn baseball cards . . . they’re still naïve, clueless kids. All of them.

In some ways, these kids are more kids than we ever were.

In one synchronized move—the cheerleaders strip off their sweaters—leaving them only in tiny skirts and gold bikini tops, with the word “Score” written across their chests in big blue letters.

“Whoa!”

“Jesus!”

“Where the hell is McCarthy?” Garrett looks around. “No way she’s gonna let this slide.”

No sooner does he say her name than she does appear—like the devil.

Michelle McCarthy has been the principal at Lakeside High School for forever. She hates me—I’m pretty sure she hates all of us. When I was a student I thought her high-strung frustration was entertaining—but now, as an adult—I think she’s a goddamn riot.

Miss McCarthy marches out onto the field, waving her arms, her pudgy cheeks ripe tomato-red, and her meek, hunched assistant, Mrs. Cockaburrow, following behind her like a docile indentured servant.

“No—no—shut it down! Shut. It. Down!”

The music cuts off and the cheerleaders look crestfallen.

“There is no stripping on the football field!” McCarthy declares. “Where’s Ms. Simmons?”

Kelly Simmons is the special-ed teacher and cheerleading advisor. Back in high school, she and I used to bang each other’s brains out—in-between relationships with other people, and sometimes during those relationships. She was the hottest girl in school and kind of a bitch. Now she’s the hottest teacher in school, and still kind of a bitch.

“She’s in the parking lot with her husband,” one of the cheerleaders volunteers. “I think they’re having, like, marital issues.”

McCarthy’s finger swings like an axe in the air. “Regardless—you’re not doing that routine on the field. Clothes stay on. You’re students, not strippers!”

Ashley stomps her foot. “Strippers are people too, Miss McCarthy.”

“Not in high school, they’re not!”

Lucas Bowing, our starting quarterback walks up next to me. “I don’t see what the problem is. I think they looked good.”

Beside him, sophomore defensive end Noah Long stares hypnotized at the bikini-topped girls. “Yeah. Mickey is F-I-N-E, fiiine.”

Then they both start dancing, and grunting, and swinging their hands as if their tapping imaginary asses.

“For God’s sake, stop twerking,” I order. “Badly—I might add. You’re supposed to be hydrating, go drink some frigging Gatorade.”