Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  I installed the two-inch tile backsplash myself—on camera. It was painstaking work—but also meditative. Listening to music helped pass the time as well as romance audiobooks—a suggestion from one of my followers.

  Finally, the sculpted glass chandelier that hangs over the shiny, white, marble-topped island gives the whole room a real touch of sophistication.

  I pick up the empty spray bottle on the counter and pour each ingredient in. “We mix together one cup of hydrogen peroxide, two teaspoons of baking soda, a drop of dish soap and a squeeze of lemon—and voila! We have an effective, lemony-smelling carpet and fabric cleaner that’s safe for babies, pregnant ladies, animals and plants—that you can make yourself for pennies.”

  It’s baking soda day. I’ve shown them how to make homemade teeth-whitening trays, toothpaste, insect bite cream, heartburn remedies and now carpet cleaner.

  Baking soda is a miraculous substance—you can use it for everything.

  I spray the bottled solution into the air. “And that’s it for now. All our recipes are in the comments below this video and I will see you tomorrow when we’ll continue working on decorating the living room. Bye, Lifers!”

  I press the end record button and plop my tired self down in a chair—my stomach still feeling moody. Jason walks into the kitchen a little while later. There’s an infinitesimal pause before he sets his bag on one of the white wicker island stools—and I know he’s noticing my pale cheeks and the pink burst-blood vessels in my eyes.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, honey. How was school?”

  “It was good.”

  Jason fills up a glass of water at the sink and passes it to me.

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  “How are you and the bump doing? Did you get sick again?”

  “Yeah, I did. It’s probably going to be a regular thing for a while so I don’t want you to worry.”

  “Okay.”

  And then he looks at me—worrying. With those young old-man eyes.

  He slips his phone out of his pocket and sends a text. Then he moves to the garbage can, tying up the bag to take it out, without being asked. His phone pings on the counter with a few incoming texts.

  I sip my water. “What’s that about?”

  My son shrugs. “A few of us were going to go to the football game tonight.”

  Jason has friends. It started the first day of school and in the six weeks we’ve lived here, his place in the little band of misfit kids has solidified. They’re a nice group—polite, smart, a little hyper, a little odd. They’ve even taken it upon themselves to decorate the attic with dozens of dangling Blair Witch Project-like talismans, because apparently the house is teeming with ghosts. But they make Jason happy—they make him smile easier and more often than I’ve ever seen, so unless they start talking animal sacrifice or building an altar to Satan, I don’t mind.

  “Coach Walker said there’s half an extra credit point in it for us if he actually sees us at the game.”

  Ah, the illustrious Coach Walker.

  According to my son, Coach Walker sounds like a combination of Captain America, Eddie Vedder, Chris Hemsworth, and Albert Einstein. The day Jason told me he plays in a band, I almost asked him if the name was Amber Sound, just to torture myself.

  “What does football have to do with calculus?” I ask.

  Jay smirks in that way kids do when they think adults are being ridiculous.

  “He says we need to expand our horizons.”

  I smile too. “Can’t argue with that.”

  Jay’s phone pings again.

  “But I’m not gonna go to the game,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  He lifts one shoulder. “I’d rather stay in tonight. Home. With you.”

  Oh boy. When a fourteen-year-old is canceling plans because he’s worried that his pregnant, losing-loser of a mom has zero offline social life and is basically a hermit when she’s working on a project—that’s some Holy Batman level pathetic, right there.

  “Jay—”

  “It’s fine, Mom. We’ll watch a movie, it’ll be fun.”

  My sweet Jaybird can be stubborn—he gets that from me—so there’s no point to arguing. Instead, I change tactics.

  “I was actually thinking about going to the football game tonight too.”

  Jason’s eyebrows dart hopefully. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean basically the whole town goes, right? It’ll be good to get out. You’ll get your half-point extra credit and the nugget and I will get some fresh air.” I put my hand on my stomach. “Why not?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Football is a big deal around Lakeside. The high school stadium is larger than I expect and immaculate—with rows of fan-packed concrete bleachers, a freshly painted blue and gold snack stand, and a top-of-the-line score board. The October air is damp and crisp but not too cold, so I wear a long-sleeved black thermal top, comfy denim overalls and a knit black beanie with my hair down in curled waves around my shoulders.

  Jason and I arrive midway through the first quarter, and as we walk around the outer fence, the whole Lakeside section rises to their feet, cheering, as the band strikes up a soaring victory tune when one of our players dives into the end zone.

  Three of Jason’s friends catch up to us about halfway around the field.

  “Hi, Jason! Hi Miss, Burrows!”

  “Hi, kids.”

  “That’s a great hat, Miss Burrows. Did you crochet it yourself?”

  Before I can answer, Quinn, a chipper, dark-haired girl, with darting, bright blue eyes, just keeps right on talking.

  “I crochet too, especially when I can’t sleep and I almost never sleep. It used to drive my Mom crazy hearing me walk around the house at night so she said I had to stay in my room, but now when I can’t sleep I just crochet and it works really well. I was going to make us all Christmas sweaters if I have the time and—” she looks at Jason “—do you celebrate Christmas?”

  It’s amazing that she can get all that out in one breath.

  Jason smiles, because he’s used to Quinn’s run-on sentences.

  “Yeah, Quinn—we celebrate Christmas.”

  “Oh.” She smiles, nodding, and seems to remember to close her mouth. “Cool.”

  “Come on, Jay,” Louis says. “Keydon’s on the other side of the field, where he can pick up Wi-Fi, working on this new algorithm that chooses the best plays based on the opposing team’s player’s stats. It’s lit. We’re going to show it to Coach Walker after the game.”

  Jason glances at me hesitantly.

  “Go ahead, I’ll be fine. I’m going to find a seat and watch the game.”

  “All right. Thanks, Mom.”

  As the kids walk away, Louis turns back to me. “There are a few seats left at the top, Miss Burrows!”

  I wave a thank you and head in that direction.

  The crowd cheers again, standing as I make it to Lakeside’s end of the field. The band plays a song and the cheerleaders do a quick track-side routine. The air smells like leaves and wet grass—with a hint of pizza that makes my stomach churn. I’m out of breath by the time I make it to the top of the bleachers, but when I look around, there isn’t anywhere to sit.

  Just as I turn to head back down the steps, a whirlwind warm little body collides with my leg, holding on tight. He’s about two years old with baby soft brown hair, big onyx eyes and a devil of a smile.

  “Boo!”

  Automatically, I cover my face with my hands and quickly peek out—because when an adorable little boy boos you, you boo him back.

  “Boo!”

  He lets out a delighted belly laugh—until a voice calls out from behind him.

  “Will!”

  Will’s eyes go wide and he bounces up and down like a monkey who wants out of his cage.

  “Up, up, up, up, up!”

  I scoop up the little runaway—and his warm, solid baby weight feels beautifully familiar to my arms.

  Then I mak
e eye contact with the smiling blond woman coming down the row. She’s about my age, with soft, pretty features.

  “I’m guessing he belongs to you,” I tell her.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I hand the bouncy boy over. “He would’ve been all the way to the other end if you hadn’t grabbed him. Running is his favorite thing to do.”

  “No problem.”

  “No!” Will frowns, his little brows squeezing together. “No sit!”

  “Yes, sit,” his mother tells him, kissing his chubby fist. “We’re going to watch the game. You don’t want to miss it.”

  I look toward the steps as everyone in the bleachers stands up again, cheering over something on the field.

  “Were you looking for a place to sit?” She cocks her head toward the announcer’s box. “There’s a spot at the end by us, you’re welcome to join us.”

  “That’d be great, thanks.”

  I follow her down the row and she sits beside an older couple wearing matching Lakeside High School sweatshirts.

  “I’m Callie, by the way. And this,” she tickles the toddler’s stomach, “is Will.”

  I press a hand to my chest. “Lainey Burrows.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. Are you new in town, Lainey?”

  “Yeah, my son Jason and I moved here a few weeks ago from North Jersey. We’re in the old house on Miller Street.”

  Callie’s eyes go wide. “Really? That place is . . .”

  “Haunted.” I nod. “So I’ve heard. Haven’t seen any 18th century ghosts yet, but I’m keeping my eyes peeled.”

  She laughs. “It’s an old legend around here.”

  “I’m getting that. You’re from Lakeside?”

  “Born and raised.” Will stands up between her legs, holding her hands and bouncing. “It’s a great town—a nice place to grow up, raise kids.”

  I look down toward the field at the wall of large, padded football players’ backs and ask Callie, “Which one is yours?”

  She points. “The tall, dark-haired one with Coach Daniels written across the back of his jersey.”

  I follow her pointed finger to a handsome guy wearing a headset, talking animatedly to two players about to take the field.

  “Garrett coaches and teaches history and I teach theater here at the high school.”

  Next to Garrett Daniels, facing the field, I spot my son’s teacher-hero from his jersey—Coach Walker. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing his own headset and jeans, which he fills out very nicely. Coach Walker’s got a great butt.

  A woman in front of me stands, blocking the view.

  “Come on defense! Let’s go, Lions!”

  Will steps away from his mother, braces his hands on my knees and climbs up into my lap. And it’s nice—the sweet scent of his hair, his cuddling arms. This time next year, I’ll be holding my own little boy or girl, and I relish that thought.

  “Boo!” Will says, cracking himself up.

  “He’s a charmer, huh?” I say to Callie.

  “Oh yes. Just like his Dad.”

  Will holds his arms out toward. the field. “Daddy!”

  But the team is too far down for his father to hear him.

  “What do you do, Lainey?”

  “I’m a lifestyle blogger—interior design, life hacks, that kind of thing. I have a webseries on Facebook called Life with Lainey and that’s why we moved here—I’m redecorating the house on Miller Street.”

  “No kidding. That’s so interesting!”

  “Yeah, it’s never boring. I’m lucky.”

  Callie smiles warmly. “I’m going to check out your videos.”

  The gray-haired woman beside Callie leans over and says in a gravelly voice, “I’m going to look at your videos too. Callie, you’ll have to help me with that internet. I want to redesign our kitchen in the spring.”

  Callie gestures to the couple. “This is my mom and dad, Anne and Stanley Carpenter. Mom, Dad—this is Lainey Burrows.”

  Mrs. Carpenter grasps my hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Lainey. We should talk.”

  I smile, nodding. “I just finished the kitchen in the lake house. I could definitely give you some pointers.”

  Mrs. Carpenter leans back to her seat, then she takes a cigarette from her purse and lights up.

  “Mom, what are you doing?!” Callie snatches the cigarette from her mother’s fingers and tosses it in the cup of soda at her side, waving the smoke away. “You can’t smoke here.”

  “We’re outside! What kind of world do we live in that a grown woman can’t smoke outside? So many rules you kids have today.”

  “It’s not so many rules—it’s two rules. You can’t smoke around your grandson or your pregnant daughter. It’s not that difficult.”

  Mrs. Carpenter waves her hand dismissively and returns her attention to the game.

  I glance down at Callie’s abdomen beneath her oversized football jersey.

  “When are you due?”

  “Late March.”

  I put my hand on my own stomach. “Me too. Well—early April.”

  Callie puts her hand on my arm. “Congratulations. How’s the morning sickness treating you?”

  “Oh my God, it’s so bad.” And it’s pretty great to have someone to talk to—someone who understands. “How about you?”

  Will shifts back to his mother’s lap.

  “You know, I was sick as a dog with Will, but this time there’s been almost nothing. Garrett thinks we’re having a girl because this pregnancy is so different.”

  “This pregnancy is definitely different for me. But it’s been fourteen years since I had Jason, so it could be that I’m just old.”

  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 s
atisfying 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.