Mrs. Carpenter cackles. “If you’re old, honey, I’m an antique. Thirties are the new twenties.” She gestures to herself and winks. “And seventy is the new forty. They say a woman’s sexual peek is in her forties and I can tell you from experience, they’re not lying.”

Callie covers her eyes and groans. “Mom, please don’t.”

And that’s how it goes for the next few hours. The Lakeside Lions rack up the touchdowns, but I don’t really watch the game. I spend the time talking with Callie and the Carpenters and playing with baby Will.

Jason and his friends find me, just after the final whistle blows.

“Hey, Mrs. Coach D,” Jason’s friend Louis greets Callie.

“Hey, guys.” She smiles, standing up with Will on her hip.

“Mom, we’re going to go to Dinky’s Diner,” Jason tells me. “Quinn will drive me home. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Do you have money?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Okay, I’ll see you at home.”

After they walk off, Callie nods toward the empty football field. “I’m going to let Will run off some of his energy on the field while I wait for Garrett, so he’ll sleep tonight. It was great talking to you, Lainey.”

“Same here—this was a lot of fun. I tend to hibernate when I’m working, so this was exactly what I needed.”

She waves. “I’ll see you around town. And, my email is on the school website—if you ever want to grab lunch and commiserate about the joys of pregnancy, just drop me a message.”

“I will, thanks, Callie.”

And I really am glad I came out. When you spend so much time communicating online it’s easy to not notice how lonely you are. Isolated. That you can go days or even weeks without talking to an actual live human 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.

Tags: Emma Chase Getting Some Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net