Blake
“How was your weekend, Mr M?”
I look up from my tangle of stopwatches, finding the beginnings of my Year 10 afternoon class trickling through the doors. A jumble of fifteen-and-sixteen-year-old boys jostle each other, dumping their gym kits on the benches and toeing off their restrictive school shoes.
“Track today, lads,” I remind them before turning to James, a tall lanky boy who also plays football in the after-school sessions I coach.
“Not bad, thank you.” I paint on a smile. “Yours?”
I see James’ lips moving but I’m hardly listening, instead preoccupied with shoving the thoughts ofCallathat his question has provoked out of my mind. A difficult feat, seeing as how she’s the thought that sits centre stage and has done since the moment I stepped out of the apartment after fucking her – and myself – senseless last week. I mean, what on earth was I doing having sex with Callaagainand in an open space where anybody could barge in.
I wasn’t thinking; that’s my answer.
And there within lies the problem.
I’ve come to realise that when I’m with Calla I don’t fucking think – leading to dangerous and spontaneous decisions – which are so unlike me, so far away from my usual carefully thought-out plans.
But there’s something there, something about Calla, that makes me throw caution to the wind.
Not that ruminating on how she makes me feel really matters anymore. I signed both the email, and the paperwork needed in order to rent the apartment and sent them off the very next day, so there will be no need to see Calla a third time.
I ignore the resoundingpangof disappointment at the thought.
Repressing a laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, I clap James on the shoulder as if I’ve been listening to him the entire time and send him off to get changed.
“Can we—”
The shrill sound of my phone ringing within the confines of my fleece jacket pocket echoes from the locker room walls.
“Track shorts and trainers, boys,” I direct, fishing out my phone. “Ten minutes and then I expect you all out on the field. Alright?”
A chorus of “Yes, Mr M” kisses my ears as I slip out of the locker room, and peer down at the unknown number calling me.
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking to Mr Millen?” croons a rich sounding male voice from the other end. I should hang up; it’s probably a cold caller trying to sell me something. But for some reason I don’t.
“That’s me.”
“Just the man I was looking for. I’m calling from McAvoy and Fraser. We’ve received both your email and paperwork to begin processing your tenancy agreement, but unfortunately, we’re missing a signature. We won’t be able to move onto the next step until we have everything in order, Mr Millen. Is it possible for you to come by the office to get this signature complete?”
“Sure.” I grip the back of my neck. “Sorry about that. What time are you open till today?”
“Five p.m., sir.”
“Right… I don’t finish work until four, but I’ll get there as fast as I can. Is there anything else I need to bring with me?”
“Let me just check everything else is in order, Mr Millen. Not a moment…”
The tapping of a keyboard and the heavy whirr of a copier machine kisses my ears, before the rich, male voice, resumes centre stage.
Sounding more like he’s talking to himself rather than me, the voice hums. “Mm… Calla here hasn’t left any notes.”
My heart leaps in my chest at the sound of her name before I’m able to stop it.
“Yes, Becker hasn’t left any notes,” he repeats. “So—”
“Miss Becker?”
