“I wouldneverforget that face. Or those lips.”
“Forrest Holmes!” Rosalie snaps, her eyes on the red-headed boy just feet away from us. “Stop bowling over Emily like that! She isn’t bread dough, and you aren’t a rolling pin.” Rosalie’s teacher voice is in full play, and every child in the room freezes. “We have two guests in our classroom, and you’re being very rude. And that”—she points to where Forrest was just rolling on the ground—“is not reading, sir.”
“Sorry, Miss Conrad,” Forrest says, but he’s smiling too wide to mean it.
Sighing, she says, “Okay, class, reading time is over. We have an assembly today, but before we go, we get a one-on-one meeting with a new friend. So, everyone up, sit at your desks, and voices off.” Rosalie gives me a pointed stare. One that says my serendipitous moment is going to have to wait.Then she claps and her kids move. Even Forrest. They are like well-trained puppies.
Even I move to the horseshoe table at the back of the room and take a seat.
Rosalie is quiet until everyone is in position. And then she begins. “Mr. Whitaker is a soccer player for the Reno-Tesoro Red Tails. His job is playing soccer. Isn’t that exciting? Has anyone been to one of their games?”
As Rosalie speaks, thatprofessional athletewalks to the front of the room. My eyes follow him like thunder follows lightning.
Several hands shoot into the air with Rosalie’s question, and my kissing partner grins for his crowd of seven- and eight-year-olds.
Rosalie steals my eye contact, tapping her wrist. She’s asking about work. And yep, I’m gonna be late if I don’t leave now.
But how in the world can I leavenow? So I’ll be late. Glen can be mad. Jill will cover for me. There’s no way I’m leaving just yet. I lift one shoulder in reply to her silent question.
“So many of you. That’s great,” Rosalie says as she moves from the center of the room to stand right next to my serendipitous moment. “I’ve never been to a game.” She peers out at her class. “So, before we go into the gym to watch the members of the Red Tails team perform a few drills, we get to ask Mr. Whitaker some questions. If you have a question for our professional soccer player, what should you do?”
Twenty hands shoot into the air as an example.
“Very good,” Rosalie says with a nod. “Does anyone have a question for Mr. Whitaker?”
A few hands drop, but several stay high in the air. Thatprofessional athletecalls on a boy in the front.
“Are you a millionaire, Mr. Whitaker?”
Laughing, my lip-locking partner answers, “No. I am not.”
I listen to two more questions. But I’m over thisMr. Whitakerstuff—I’m ready for a given name, a real name. So, I raise my hand, along with a few other kids in class.
His eyes dart to me, and with a wiggle of my fingers, he grins. “Miss, in the back,” he says, calling on me.
“What’s your first name, Mr. Whitaker?”
“That’s Callum Whitaker,” says a boy three desks to the left of me. He shakes his head. “Number ten. Reno-Tesoro Red Tails.”
“Hand, Andrew,” Rosalie says, one finger gliding over her lips.
I swallow—because Andrew is making me feel as if I should have known my kissing partner’s name all along. Was I kissed by a celebrity and didn’t realize it? I’m trying to decide which movie that is when?—
“Yes, my first name is Callum.” His eyes crease as that joyful grin widens, making my mind pause its whirlwind search.
Callum. It’s a nice name. A very nice name. In fact, it might even be nicer than the title “kissing partner.”
“Jamie,” Rosalie says, pointing to a boy in the middle with his hand in the air. Her jaw clenches. “Go ahead.”
“Did you always want to play soccer?” Jamie asks, his hand still high as if he might have a second question.
“Always,” Callum says. “My parents were really supportive too. They used to drive me all over the country to different camps and academieswhen I was your age.”
A smile blooms on my face. I can’t help it. Hisparents—as in, loving partners. At least that’s what I’m hearing.
Goals, people.
Callum Whitaker is speaking my language.
