Page 27 of Calling the Shots

I fervently disagree.

Getting my carpentry business up and running was one of the best decisions of my life. I have the triple gifts of time, money, and freedom, and I don’t take any one of those for granted.

And typically, I thoroughly enjoy each of those blessings. But today, the solo time stretches and yawns like saltwater taffy baking in the sun. Long and drawn-out, hot and sticky and never ending.

Everything Gracelyn runs through my head on loop. Her wide smile, her infectious laugh, the musky scent of her sex. The way her eyes fluttered shut when she came all over my cock.

I saw and sand, measuring and remeasuring the Sanderson cabinets. But still, she’s there. Right here with me, rubbing her luscious curves up and down my body. Begging for more.

I check the clock. Minutes tick by, but not fast enough.

Time doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m not seeing her again. So who cares? It’s not like I have something to look forward to later tonight. Much as I love the guy, pizza with Carter is not the same thing as seeing Gracelyn.

I won’t have her hair wrapped around my fist as I drill into her tight pussy. She won’t giggle at my jokes as we banter back and forth. Her fingers won’t lace through mine as we cuddle on the sofa.

I turn back to the cabinetry plans, double-checking the dimensions, then measure again. Make a cut, sand the edge, measure, make another cut.

Finally, the work day is over and I can escape the confines of my garage. I unplug the wood saw, toss the safety goggles on the back counter, and change into my coach’s uniform for practice.

Walking out to my truck, I catch sight of Mrs. Reynolds launching a lumpy garbage bag into the trash can at the side of her house.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Reynolds,” I call out, waving across the lawn.

“Afternoon, Mack. You let me know when you’re done with the chair and I can send Gracie over to pick it up.”

My mind flashes back to Gracelyn’s glistening pink pussy last night, how sweet she tasted as I knelt between her thighs and feasted.

I shove the thought away as I stare across the yard at her mother, hand over her brow shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Reynolds. As soon as I’m finished, I’ll bring it over.”

She shakes her head, her dark curtain of hair swishing on her shoulders. “You’re too good to me, Mack. Thank you.”

Doubt she’d think that if she knew what her daughter and I got up to last night. Guilt gnaws at my gut and I hold back a grimace, forcing a smile.

“Welcome.” I wrench the truck door open and hop in, eager to shut down this conversation.

Turning the key in the ignition, I fire up the engine and gun down the driveway. The scent of Gracelyn’s perfume lingers in the cab and my dick springs to life, stiffening in my shorts.

Not the time, dude.

How am I so hung up on this girl after only a few days? This is madness.

I coast through town, finally pulling into the lot of the high school. The sharp tweet of a whistle sings through the air, and I grab my playbook out of the backseat.

Sauntering onto the field, I join the other coaches on the sidelines.

“Glad you could make it, Mack,” Coach Baker calls from the end of the bleachers.

“Y’all started early.” I check my watch, noting it’s only five minutes after three.

“No, we started on time. You’re late.” Baker chucks a football at me and I shoot my hands out, catching the ball before it hits me square in the chest.

“You two quit bickering. You sound like old married people.” Coach Carter strides over to me, adjusts his ball cap. “Boys are warming up. Baker, you’ll take the offense and run drills, then the plays we’re gonna use on Friday night. Mack, take the defense and do drills, then practice blocking. Sandalwood’s got a tough offense this year.”

I nod, knowing he’s right. I’ve seen the film from the last few games. They have a wide receiver on the roster rumored to be getting recruited by Alabama—fastest kid in the state. Stopping him is going to be a challenge if he gets the ball in his hands.

“Got it, Coach.” I twirl a finger in the air, signaling to the defense to follow me to the opposite end of the field.

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