Page 141 of The Americana Playbook

“Doing this with clothes on.”

Slowly—and careful not to slip inside me—Fitz starts gliding over my center.

“O-okay,” I stutter after the third or fourth pass when I’m finally able to find my voice.

Fitz pulls away from my neck, finding my lips. “Kissing.”

The strength of his mouth pulls mine open as his tongue waves inside to link with mine. I clutch at the back of his head and squeeze my legs together to keep him in both places.

I whimper when he pulls away, sitting back on his knees.

I push up on my elbows. “And?”

“Noand. Those things. Together. Fully clothed.”

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing. “You want to dry hump while we make out?”

Fitz’s head tilts to the side, sighing. “A kid can dream, can’t he?”

I lick my lips. And while I’m not sure I’ll be able to get Fitz back into the classroom to tick off another naughty item on the nostalgia bucket list, I wonder if I can take him back to the past while still living out the things he once dreamed about in a different way.

* * *

“Oh!” Lo claps her hands. “That isbeyondcute.”

I hop out of the car, tucking the poster under my arm.

“What isn’t cute is that you smell like manure,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“I was just at the barn. I’ll shower and change before tonight,” I promise. I shut the door with my hip. “Did you get the final count?”

Lo pulls out her phone. “We have yes from every guy on the fifty-three man roster and twelve from practice squad. And plus ones. You have no idea how excited everyone is.”

“Aren’t there sixteen guys on the practice squad?”

Lo sighs. “Foller cut four form the roster yesterday, so a few guys moved up.”

“Yesterday?” I ask. “The season didn’t even start yet. How can he cut anyone?”

“Oh.” Lo snickers darkly. “He can always find someone to cut. Or threaten to.”

I shake my head. I can’t stand the guy.

“Is it almost time?” I ask her.

Lo takes out her phone. “Yup. We have four minutes. They’re done at 11:12.”

“You mean 11:15.”

“No.” Lo shakes her head. “Practice ends at 11:12.”

“Who ends anything at twelve minutes past the hour?”

We begin walking and I peak over at Agent Samuels who steps out of the SUV, trailing me.

“Coach Foller,” she answers, and I’m not sure why I’m surprised at all. “This way, they have forty-eight minutes for minor treatment and showering before lunch and film.”

I shake my head. “Is he running the military or a football team?”

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