Page 19 of B is for Baby Me (Classes in Kink #1)

Chapter eighteen

Sigh-Moan

JR

“You wouldn’t believe all of the new advancements!” I reach across the table at Roscoe’s, snagging a hot wing from a platter. “We’re this close to curing cancer. If only my—“ I snap my mouth shut, darting my eyes to my father.

“Yeah, I wish your Mom could’ve hung on a little longer, too.” Dad lets out a sigh, gazing at me with a wistful look. “She sure would’ve been proud of you, Georgey-boy. You’re a regular chip off your mother’s block.”

“Was your wife interested in medical science, George?” Simon asks.

My father’s face lights up—Mom is another one of his favorite subjects. “She sure was, Si. Sunny was the brains of our marriage, I can tell you that.”

“JR said she was a nurse?” Fletcher prompts as he reaches for a slider from a nearby tray.

I love how the professor (and Simon, of all people) has made a place for himself within our noisy pack of football players. Sunday afternoons at Roscoe’s have never been more fun.

“Yep, Sunny was the best!” Dad confirms. “She’d planned on applying to medical school once Junior got a little older. She would’ve made an excellent doctor.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say to my dad. When Fletcher squeezes my hand under the table, I glance at him with a soft smile.

“Yo, Bennetts!” Tyrell calls out over the noise in the sports bar, making his way toward our spot. “Oh. Hey, Professor Fletcher. Mr. Crenshaw.”

Simon licks his lips, gazing up and down the athlete’s muscular body. “Hello there, Tyrell. Please call me Simon. It’s an easy name to remember—just put ‘sigh’ and ‘moan’ together.”

The linebacker’s eyes grow wide as he takes the seat farthest away from the businessman. “Uh... who are we backing today, SR?”

“Do you really need to ask, Ty-breaker?” Dad snorts. “The Eagles may be strong this year, but you know where my heart lies.”

“My dad used to play for the Packers,” I explain to Simon.

“Is that a fact?” He turns to my father. “I just love Pennsylvania. All that Civil War history is riveting.”

“Wisconsin, Simon. Green Bay,” Fletcher smirks.

“Oh, those Packers.” He nods his head and takes a sip of beer.

Another shout cuts through the din of the crowded bar and grill. “Yo, SR! Are the Packers packin’ today?” Blake swaggers up to the table, taking a seat next to Tyrell.

“So far so good, QB Tuesday.” Dad passes the hot wings over to him.

The quarterback gives him a fist bump in return, then calls out to Fletcher, “Hey, Professor! I’m glad JR made it back from the conference in one piece. Tyrell thought you’d eat him for breakfast!”

I choke on a swallow of beer, coughing hard into my fist.

“I’m not the Big Bad Wolf, I can assure you.” The professor flashes a predatory grin at my teammate.

“And Bennett ain’t no Little Red Riding Hood,“ Tyrell snorts. “Speaking of little, where’s your roommate, JR?”

“Yeah, where’s J-Bob hiding?” My father looks around the restaurant with a frown. “He was here earlier. I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me.”

I glance toward Fletcher, then quickly away. “Um... he’s not avoiding you, Dad.”

“Well, I expect to see him at Thanksgiving—and that goes for all of you boys.” My father pops a french fry into his mouth. “Tom, Si... you’re coming, right?”

Way to go, Pops! I’d never have had the guts to ask Fletcher over for Thanksgiving. “My dad bakes a bunch of cheesecakes and everyone drops by for a slice. It’s kind of a Bennett family tradition.”

“That’s right,” Dad says. “We have football going on the flat-screen all day, so you can catch the score between turkey at Aunt Milley’s and pie at Uncle Bob’s. Stop by... unless your family’s out of town?”

Fletcher swallows a sip of beer and then shakes his head. “No family. My parents are gone, and I was an only child—the same as your son.”

Simon huffs, folding his arms across his chest. “No family? What am I, your stockbroker?”

“I’m lucky to have you, Si.” The professor pats his best friend’s shoulder.

“You’ll both come over. I insist.” My father stares at them with a determined look. “The Bears are playing the Lions... Raiders versus Cowboys... Falcons versus Saints. Drop by for a minute or stay for all three games.” Dad holds out a fist to seal the deal.

The businessman gives it an experimental bump, grinning in delight. “We’ll be there. And who will we be backing?”

“Bears, Cowboys, and Saints,” we answer unanimously.

“Sounds like a party to me,” Simon purrs.

Josiah rushes to the table, his eyes bright and eager. “What did I miss?”

Simon pulls out the chair next to himself and waves the athlete into it. “Apparently the men of Green Bay are packing. You wouldn’t be from Wisconsin, would you, Josiah?”

He shakes his head. “Pennsylvania, sir.”

“The other Packers... delicious.” The dom licks his lips. “And will you be going to the Bennetts’ for Thanksgiving cheesecake?”

“Yes, sir!” The running back sends a grateful smile across the table to my father. “My dinner plans fell through, but at least I can look forward to a holiday dessert.”

Dad passes Josiah a platter of nachos. “Don’t worry, GI Jo. We’ll make you a turkey sandwich with all the fixin’s.”

“ Sandwich? “ Simon puts a hand to his chest.

“Dad and I don’t really cook,” I tell him with a shrug. “We usually just make turkey subs. Sometimes we’ll throw some canned cranberry sauce on them, if we get fancy.”

The businessman gives a horrified gasp.

“My wife was an excellent cook, but the Bennett men are hopeless,” my father agrees. “My only claim to fame is my cheesecake. That, and my holiday rum balls.”

“Simon cooks up a feast every year.” Fletcher smiles at his friend. “If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t remember what a home-cooked Thanksgiving tasted like.”

“Did you say home-cooked?” Tyrell perks up at the far end of the table. “I’m invited to Coach Becker’s, but they’re just grilling hot dogs this year.”

“ Hot dogs? “ Simon splutters, sounding outraged.

I gotta admit, I feel the same way. Too bad Roscoe’s is closed on Thanksgiving. “The team always has a game on the holiday weekend, so nobody has time to fly home. Sometimes the cafeteria at Spartacus will serve a turkey dinner.”

“But do they hand-baste their turkeys every half hour?“ The businessman raises an eyebrow. “Does their meat literally fall off the bone?”

All of the Golden Gladiators around the table lean toward him. Even some guys at the next table over.

Tyrell wipes some drool from the corner of his mouth. “Do you make stuffing, Mr. Crenshaw?”

“He hand-prepares everything,” Fletcher answers for his friend, “from his homemade rosemary stuffing to his not-from-the-can cranberry sauce.”

Jeez. My mouth waters just imagining all of that good food.

“Do you make mashed potatoes, sir?” Josiah places a hand on Simon’s arm.

“With garlic and sour cream,” he says with a come-hither stare.

“And those really soft rolls?” Blake’s mouth hangs open.

“Baked fresh from scratch.” Simon casually buffs his fingernails.

Holy shit . My mouth hasn’t watered this much since the first time I blew Fletcher. “Do you make green bean casserole, Simon?” I ask.

“Using fresh green beans and my own secret recipe,” he answers.

OK. Now he’s just bragging.

“My mama doesn’t even make her green bean casserole from scratch,” Tyrell says. “You sure are lucky, Professor.”

“Would you have any extra room at your Thanksgiving table, Mr. Crenshaw? You know, for a starving student?” Josiah gazes at him hungrily.

“Hey, I’m more starving than you are!” Tyrell flexes his broad shoulders. “I’ve got at least fifty more pounds to feed.”

“Now boys, there’s no need to fight—there’s plenty of me to go around.” Simon pats his freshly-styled hair. “George, how would you feel about a joint Thanksgiving venture?”

My father leans toward him. “I’m listening.”

I know my dad. He’s as eager for a home-cooked meal as the rest of us Gladiators.

“I provide the turkey and trimmings, and you provide the football and cheesecake.” He holds out his fist for a bump. “What do you say?”

Dad blinks. “Are you inviting all of these bottomless pits at the table? Are you sure you can handle that many men?”

“I’ve handled more,” the dom retorts.

“How many more?” There’s a hint of a dare in my old man’s voice.

Simon narrows his eyes at him. “As many as your house can hold.”

Dammit. My dream of a home-cooked meal just vanished into thin air. “Um... Simon? Dad invites the entire team over all the time.”

“Then I will do—I mean, feed —the entire team.“ He folds his arms over his chest, determination shining in his eyes. “I will stuff those football players so full, every one of them will be screaming my name.”

“Trust me, George. He’s made up his mind,” Fletcher says with a rare laugh. “There’s nothing Si loves more than a challenge. Or a party.”

“That’s right,” Simon agrees. “Invite the coach as well, since I’m stealing all of his players.”

“I already texted him and the rest of the team,” Blake says as he sets down his phone. “He’s bringing Mrs. B and little Sam.”

The professor shakes his head, giving my father and I a rueful look. “Are you certain that you don’t mind us taking over your holiday plans?”

“Are you kidding?” Dad laughs. “This is gonna be the best Thanksgiving we’ve had in years!”

My stomach rumbles in agreement. All of my friends, all of that great food, and more time with Fletcher? What more could I possibly want?

I pull my roommate into the Uber. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, Josh.”

“That’s easy for you to say, JR. Professor Fletcher likes you .“ He frowns at me as he buckles his seatbelt.

“He’s not so bad.” Why do I feel like I’m always saying that?

As we ride to my father’s house, Josh mutters, “I think Fletcher wants to poison me. He said he’s going to add chlorine to my family’s gene pool.”

“That was just a joke, buddy.” He shouldn’t take things so literally.

“I sneezed once in class, and he passed me a tissue to ‘wipe my primordial ooze’ ,“ he mimics Fletcher’s stern growl.

“OK, ‘bless you’ would’ve been nicer,“ I admit. “But I’m sure he appreciates your work as his TA.”

Josh points a finger at me. “He said I was as useful as a chocolate Bunsen burner.”

I snort. OK, that one was funny.

As we pull up to Dad’s house, I tell my friend, “Trust me, Josh. You’ll be glad you came. This will be a Thanksgiving you’ll never forget.”

I know that it’s true as soon as I open the front door. We’re in for the best meal of our lives. The mouth-watering aroma of roasting turkey leads me by the nose like a cartoon character. As I enter the kitchen, I blink in amazement. Simon has transformed the outdated space into something that resembles a TV cooking competition. I’ve never seen so much delicious-looking food in one place. Simon is a Thanksgiving god .

“Wow, it smells amazing in here! But are you sure there will be enough for everyone?” I ask. The Golden Gladiators can be like a swarm of locusts descending on Egypt.

“Oh, this is extra.” Simon waves a hand casually toward the dining room. “That’s where most of the food can be found.”

No way. I hurry over to the dining room door and stick my head into the room. Folding tables line the walls, overflowing with chafing dishes and serving trays. I count at least eight different kinds of cold salads before my father taps me on the shoulder.

“He made five turkeys, Junior,” Dad says in awe. “ Five!”

“There’s enough food in here to feed my grandmother’s entire village!” Josh gasps.

“J-Bob!” My father puts a huge hand on the teenager’s head and messes up his hair. “I made you a vegan cheesecake.”

“Yum! Thanks, Uncle SR!” He gazes up at my dad with a grin.

Simon saunters over. “And who is this adorable young man? Have we met before?”

“This is my roommate, Josh Malik,” I tell him. “Josh, this is Professor Fletcher’s friend, Simon Crenshaw.”

“Professor Fletcher’s friend?” My roommate looks at him warily.

The businessman pats him on the arm. “Call me Sigh-Moan—all the boys do. I made several vegan options for today, darling boy.”

Josh’s eyes light up. “Thanks, Sigh-Moan! But how did you make all of this food in SR’s tiny kitchen?”

I’d been wondering the same thing myself.

“Oh, that.” Simon brushes a piece of lint off his spotless sleeve. “My company did some consulting for a culinary academy. The owners let me use their kitchen.”

“It’s a good thing, too,” Dad says as he carries a huge platter into the dining room, setting it next to a long line of others. “Only an industrial kitchen could feed all of you growing boys.”

My stomach rumbles. I hope we can eat soon. “Is Professor Fletcher here yet?”

“I’m sure Tommy will be along shortly.” His friend pours a glass of wine and passes it to me. “So, Josh—are you a biochemistry major, like JR?”

Dad rumples my roommate’s hair again, beaming at his ‘bonus son’. “Our J-Bob is studying to be an astrophysicist and aerospace engineer! He’ll work for NASA one day, mark my words.”

“Is that a fact, Joshua?” Simon cocks an eyebrow as he pours another glass of wine.

“It’s Josh. Just Josh,” my buddy tells him. “I do hope to work for NASA one day, but first I need to finish my first two bachelor’s degrees. After that, I’ll either get a master’s or a doctorate. Maybe both.”

“So ambitious!” the businessman purrs, holding out the wineglass to Josh.

He presses his hands together and gives a slight bow. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not allowed to drink wine. I’m only nineteen.”

“And graduating this spring with a double major!” my father brags. “Can you believe that, Si?”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” Simon agrees. “I think we should toast to it, Josh. I promise not to tell anyone if you have a glass or two.”

My roommate gazes at the wine with longing. “I’d like to try alcohol someday, but my parents will never allow it.”

“Are your parents coming today?” the owner of BDS&M asks him.

Josh shakes his head. “No, they’re in India.”

“Well, then—cheers!” Simon passes him the wine.

The teenager accepts it with a look of excitement, taking a curious sip.

Uh oh. I saw how overboard Josh went with the porn. This probably isn’t gonna end well. “Just go easy, OK, buddy? Alcohol can knock you on your ass if you’re not used to it.”

“Don’t be such a worry-wart, Junior,” Dad says. “Let J-Bob live a little. Besides, what’s one little glass gonna do?”