Page 9 of The Rest is History

I don’t regret walking away from it all. If the only way to the NFL was to remain under Reece’s father’s thumb, then I wanted no part in it. I never wanted Reece to be so subjected to his father either, but I was too young to stop any of it. My parents, too helpless against the giant.

“Hot date?”

Shit. I forgot all about this asshole.

“Sam’s just teasing. I’ve just got a couple of things to do this afternoon.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

I’m seeing my ex-best friend who also happens to be the person I fucked for one solid year in high school, and who I cried over for four or five years after that. I don’t tell Gerald any of that, obviously, because the whole of Linksfield would know about it by three-thirty.

“Yeah. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Gerald.”

He scowls. For a straight man who wouldn’t even talk to me the first year I got here because he didn’t want to ‘tempt me’ (lol), he sure has a lot of questions about my and Sawyer’s personal life sometimes.

I leave him and his screwed-up face and head for the parking lot, waving goodbye to Ms. Martinez, the history teacher.

“See ya tomorrow, Cameron,” Principal Watson calls from inside his Hyundai.

Mr. Patel – Abdul – the English teacher, falls in step with me. We parked next to each other today. “Did that fucking drama queen have shit to say about me today?” he asks.

I laugh. “Not today.”

We reach our cars. Abdul unlocks his and puts his hands on the hood. “If he doesn’t get his rehearsal schedule right this year for his production, I’m going to kill him, I swear to God.”

“Which God?” I laugh harder. According to Gerald, a devout Catholic, his God is sending Abdul to hell and according to Abdul, the one going to hell is Gerald.

“Shut up, Cameron. You’re no help. I’m going home.”

“See you tomorrow, Patel.”

I stop at Al’s Diner for a takeaway double cheeseburger and fries for Sawyer. Al’s sick, so his son, Jay, serves me. “Can’t wait for the championships, Coach,” Jay says.

“Me too.” I grin, almost tasting that victory even though it’s months away. November feels like a long way away, but we all know how fast time flies in Linksfield when it comes to high school football.

“Say hi to Sawyer for me,” Jay says, handing me a brown paper bag.

“Sure will.”

It’s just past three-thirty when I arrive at the woodlot where Sawyer works. I text him to let him know I’m parked behind the company trucks at the back of the parking lot.

Five minutes later, I spot my husband making his way across the lot. Still, even after all these years, my heart skips when I look at him. He’s dirty – dusty jeans, size eleven steel-tipped boots with mud sticking to the sides, and a blue work shirt that has seen better days. I love him the most, and am most grateful for him, when I see him like this. Hardworking. Simple. Humble.

And gorgeous. All six feet of him.

Sawyer is a beautiful man. Rugged in his features. Overgrown black hair. Soft, sweet brown eyes and a permanent two-day stubble riding his slim jaw and cheeks. He’s shorter than me only by an inch or two but he’s just so fuckin’ muscled. Much more than me. I can’t believe sometimes that I get to sleep next to him every night.

Now, he’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he’s wiping his hands with a washcloth. He’s stopped by several of his colleagues who seem to want to just fuck around for a minute or two, but Sawyer isn’t having any of it. He jogs the rest of the way, and I get out of the car to greet him.

“Hey, baby,” he says when he reaches me.

“Hey.”

He stands back for a minute to shake off some dust from his hair. “Sorry, babe. I’m so fuckin’ dirty.”

I cast a glance around to make sure we’re adequately shielded from the rest of his colleagues. “Fuck the dirt, baby. Come here,” I say, pulling him to me.

He comes, tilting his head slightly to kiss me. “You nervous?”

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