Page 12 of I Want to Know What Love Is

“That mean I’m going to turn into a mean SOB now that my parents are split?” He stops as I’m about to open the back door.

“No man. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—I forgot. That was cruel of me.” I laugh, but not a jolly laugh, a sad resigned one, and pat him on the back because he needs the consolation more than I do. He has a gentle soul under his wise-ass exterior, especially for a guy playing a mean-as-fuck game.

“No worries. Truly. I need to let it sink in and move on.” I open the door before he can say another word. My bones are starting to ache—and my heart.

“And there he is,” Bane says the second we walk inside. “The big man on campus, the one who snagged—or should I say shagged—the hottest coach ever to—”

“Shut up, Bane.”

“Did you shag her?” one of the guys says as I feel Shelby’s hand rest on my shoulder, more in support than restraint. I give a quelling look to the small group around the table eating cake.

“If I did shag Coach Lake, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be turning myself in at the nearest psych ward. I’m not a fucking moron and neither is she. So why don’t you quit being morons.” That quiets the roar down to murmurs and oaths aired under their breath. I couldn’t have more effectively doused whatever pleasant afterglow was going on in our little after-party. Last thing I wanted to do. I swipe my hand through my hair.

“Sorry to be such a downer.”

“Understandable,” Hightower says. “I was telling the guys she was here to tutor you and they didn’t believe me, so naturally we were betting on whether you and your tutor burned the bed, jumped the line, or fell off the ledge.” Jasper’s smile is too genuine to react any other way but with a snort and a middle finger.

“I’m going to bed. You’re all losers. And I mean that in the most affectionate way possible.”

“Laissez les bonne temps rouler!” Shelby shouts, murdering my calling card with a horrible accent. I laugh at him as I walk up the back stairs.

“Ca c’est bon. Bonne nuit, vous les fous.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but I’m good with that,” Shelby says, and the guys around the table laugh as they finish the last of the cake Majik had hidden away for us in the pantry for the end of the night. It’s another tradition. Her cake is almost as good as my mom’s. But not quite. I’m a loyal son if nothing else.

Pushing into my room a few minutes later, I regret not getting a piece of cake before it was gone and taking it with me. Even though I needed to escape, restlessness is going to keep me from being tired. I sit on the edge of my bed, pull out my phone, and scroll through the images and messages. Nothing interesting. Not sure what I was expecting.

Maybe a message from Coach Lake telling me she left her back door unlocked?

Hell, as far as she knows, I have no idea where she lives. Except I do. My internet detective skills are legendary. Taking a deep breath, I lie back on my pillows and put my skills to the test, typing in Coach Amanda Lake.

What secrets about Amanda Lake’s past will Google find for me tonight? As I’m tapping away I wonder if this is how stalkers start, with the internet and then they escalate? After all, I must be psycho to have a crush on the woman on campus most unlikely to have anything to do with me. It’s nuts that I have a crush on any woman, really, because I’m way past the stage where it’s normal to have crushes, right?

The last woman I should be thinking about in any way except respectfully and gratefully is Amanda Lake. In fact, I ought to have my mind washed out with soap for all the dirty things I think about doing to her. If she knew, maybe she’d spank me. I stop short at that thought, not because it’s inappropriate—it’s truly mild compared to some of my dreams, but not ungentlemanly because after all I always dream of getting the lady off first, don’t I? No, I stop because I’ve come across something so unexpected it has my fingers frozen on my phone and my chest tightening.

It’s a small article from the Long Island Press society page—which itself is an eye-opener because I never knew they had such things as society pages, let alone a Long Island Press these days. As I read the article, my breath stops.

Notable: Yesterday’s wedding nuptials between Amanda Lake and Gary Ludwick weren’t meant to be after all. The ceremony was postponed indefinitely at the last minute while guests waited at the church. No explanation was given. In a magnanimous gesture by the bride and her family, the food from the reception was donated to…

Fucking A. I’m no social genius, but it sounds like someone got jilted at the altar. Either Amanda jilted this guy or she was jilted by the biggest loser prick imaginable. Shit. I shake my head because I know it was her who got jilted. There is no way on God’s green earth that she would do that to a person. Even though I haven’t known her long, I know that much about her. No way she’d be so weak or so cowardly.

Some guy named Gary Ludwick dumped her. The thought sinks in and I stop myself from tapping his name into the Google search window. Because the need to do violence to that bastard wells up in me hard until I punch my pillow with brutal force. The pillow takes the blow without exploding, thank fuck.

Pillow-punching is something my dad taught me. He gave me a lecture once on the appropriate way to let off steam and warned against punching walls. “Bad for the walls, worse for the womenfolk and not particularly good for your knuckles.” He sounded like his dad, Grampa, that day, a good day. I was an unruly fourteen-year-old and needed the lecture, but I needed ice for my damn knuckles even more and I remember Grandpa supplying the ice.

Jilted at the altar. Fuck. Taking a rejection like that had to mess with her head. Had to hurt like a son of a bitch. Checking the date of the article, I discover it happened a year ago, almost to the day. Fuck. Raw wound. My chest aches. I was right about there being something vulnerable about Amanda.

And I wish I was fucking wrong.

But here it is a year later and she’s clearly moved on with a new job and new home. I shake my head because she’s not home licking her wound though she has every right to. No, Coach Lake is busy handing guys their asses, undaunted in spite of the asshole who jilted her. Or maybe because of him. Maybe she was once a kinder, gentler—Wait, what? No fucking way.

I can’t even imagine that wedding scene, how much hurt and humiliation she must have suffered. If I don’t stop dwelling on her and what happened, I’ll want to bypass the pillow and go straight for a sucker punch to the face of Gary fucking Ludwick.

I laugh at myself. Then I shut down my phone and pull the blanket over me. It’s not enough to shut down my thoughts, but my heart rate slows and my head’s no longer in danger of exploding.

What a start to the semester and the season. I vowed to concentrate on football, and yet everything but football floods my mind. Of all things, a hot coach dominates my thoughts—and everything else in me. I’m getting half a boner, but I ignore it, don’t touch myself. Too much going on to indulge.

And I’m all about self-discipline.