shitty enough to spy on her. Even if she is prancing around gloriously naked, and she just took a shower and her hair is all wet and soft and would smell wonderful if I could bury my face in it and rake my hands up her body and give her breasts a squeeze.
Stop it, Alex.
Oh, well. I can probably avoid her. I have plenty to do on my own.
I have to coach peewee football tomorrow.
Chapter Four
P hoebe
D amn it .
I run over and close my curtains properly after I realize what I was doing. All he’d have to do is glance over from his house to see me prancing around naked in my bedroom after my shower.
God, I needed a shower. I also need one of those detachable shower heads.
What on earth is wrong with me? I despise this guy, but I can’t stop thinking about him, or keep my hands off myself when I do. As soon as I got in the shower, I started drifting off thinking of him bending me over the kitchen counter.
Maybe I was a little harsh with him earlier, but he’s so damned forward, making sex jokes and passes at me where my kid could hear. Carrie is oblivious, though. I found her lying on her bed passed out from all that food she ate, her (thankfully completed) homework still sitting on her little desk.
Okay, so, I’m going to stop thinking about him.
Until I lie in bed.
I have a big bed. A queen. I don’t take up very much room. When I lie in the middle and wrap myself in the sheets, I feel like I’m lying in the middle a snowy field, alone. I grab one of my pillows and hug it hard.
Stop thinking about Alexander Wright, Phoebe. Put him out of your head.
It’s a fool’s errand, trying not to think of him specifically, so I try not to think at all, and get some sleep. I have work tomorrow, then I have to pick Carrie up from practice.
Thinking about that makes me toss and turn. He doesn’t seem like the peewee coaching type, and I’m sure he’ll blow his stack when he sees they let girls on the team.
I couldn’t believe she was allowed to play myself, but when I took Carrie to register, I found three other girls already signed up. They’re only six or seven years old, after all, and football is in the blood around here. I was ready to argue with them to let her join, but they signed her right up.
She loves it, absolutely loves it. It’s so silly watching them run around in their goofy oversized helmets and pads. I never miss a game, but I can’t do every practice. A bus picks her up from the elementary school and drives her to the high school with the other kids to use their field.
After I finally get a fitful six or seven hours of sleep and drag myself out of bed, I push a groggy Carrie through the motions of preparing for school, energize her with Pop Tarts, and drop her off.
Then it’s back to traffic patrol. I make my stop at the station, gas up the Tahoe, and set up in a different spot a bit further down the road. This time no news vans crowd me. I get a few more tickets than usual, and the look on my face keeps their mouths shut.
Better day than most, worse than some. Just marking time.
I change at home before I drive over to pick up Carrie. I hate walking up in uniform with all the gear and my piece on my belt. It makes me nervous having it around the kids.
When I arrive at the field, he’s there.
Wright towers over the usual coach, Eddie McGinty, who stands with a clipboard and whistle, visibly annoyed at sharing his responsibility over the team.
A few other parents mill around, waiting for the practice session to end.
“Phoebe,” Eddie says, scowling at me.
“Hey, Ed. How’s it going?”
“They’re slow,” Alex grunts.
“They’re kids,” Eddie sighs.
I join him in glaring at Wright. “What are they doing?” I ask.
The kids are lined up, running from one end of the field to the other.
Well, from one line to the other. They don’t run the whole field; it’s too long.
“Wind sprints,” Wright says.
“Wind sprints,” I say.
“They’re six.”
“They’re
Stop it, Alex.
Oh, well. I can probably avoid her. I have plenty to do on my own.
I have to coach peewee football tomorrow.
Chapter Four
P hoebe
D amn it .
I run over and close my curtains properly after I realize what I was doing. All he’d have to do is glance over from his house to see me prancing around naked in my bedroom after my shower.
God, I needed a shower. I also need one of those detachable shower heads.
What on earth is wrong with me? I despise this guy, but I can’t stop thinking about him, or keep my hands off myself when I do. As soon as I got in the shower, I started drifting off thinking of him bending me over the kitchen counter.
Maybe I was a little harsh with him earlier, but he’s so damned forward, making sex jokes and passes at me where my kid could hear. Carrie is oblivious, though. I found her lying on her bed passed out from all that food she ate, her (thankfully completed) homework still sitting on her little desk.
Okay, so, I’m going to stop thinking about him.
Until I lie in bed.
I have a big bed. A queen. I don’t take up very much room. When I lie in the middle and wrap myself in the sheets, I feel like I’m lying in the middle a snowy field, alone. I grab one of my pillows and hug it hard.
Stop thinking about Alexander Wright, Phoebe. Put him out of your head.
It’s a fool’s errand, trying not to think of him specifically, so I try not to think at all, and get some sleep. I have work tomorrow, then I have to pick Carrie up from practice.
Thinking about that makes me toss and turn. He doesn’t seem like the peewee coaching type, and I’m sure he’ll blow his stack when he sees they let girls on the team.
I couldn’t believe she was allowed to play myself, but when I took Carrie to register, I found three other girls already signed up. They’re only six or seven years old, after all, and football is in the blood around here. I was ready to argue with them to let her join, but they signed her right up.
She loves it, absolutely loves it. It’s so silly watching them run around in their goofy oversized helmets and pads. I never miss a game, but I can’t do every practice. A bus picks her up from the elementary school and drives her to the high school with the other kids to use their field.
After I finally get a fitful six or seven hours of sleep and drag myself out of bed, I push a groggy Carrie through the motions of preparing for school, energize her with Pop Tarts, and drop her off.
Then it’s back to traffic patrol. I make my stop at the station, gas up the Tahoe, and set up in a different spot a bit further down the road. This time no news vans crowd me. I get a few more tickets than usual, and the look on my face keeps their mouths shut.
Better day than most, worse than some. Just marking time.
I change at home before I drive over to pick up Carrie. I hate walking up in uniform with all the gear and my piece on my belt. It makes me nervous having it around the kids.
When I arrive at the field, he’s there.
Wright towers over the usual coach, Eddie McGinty, who stands with a clipboard and whistle, visibly annoyed at sharing his responsibility over the team.
A few other parents mill around, waiting for the practice session to end.
“Phoebe,” Eddie says, scowling at me.
“Hey, Ed. How’s it going?”
“They’re slow,” Alex grunts.
“They’re kids,” Eddie sighs.
I join him in glaring at Wright. “What are they doing?” I ask.
The kids are lined up, running from one end of the field to the other.
Well, from one line to the other. They don’t run the whole field; it’s too long.
“Wind sprints,” Wright says.
“Wind sprints,” I say.
“They’re six.”
“They’re
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