by Danica Avet
They all know I hold a Master’s in Music, that I specialized in percussion and composition, and that I was with the Red Mask Squad for three years before I took the job with St. Joseph’s, which in itself is impressive. That should have been enough to earn their seal of approval. The Squad is one of the most popular drumlines in the country. Not everyone is able to meet the strict requirements to try out for the Squad, much less become a member.
But these are college kids, I remind myself as I stare at Levi. They think they own the world, that they’re the best. I think I was the same way at one time, until life taught me differently.
“What kind of playing you want to do?” Levi asks suggestively, his dark eyes twinkling devilishly.
Ignoring the titters that erupt around me, I step forward and slide my hand through one of the snare straps and fasten it. It hangs too low, so I adjust it until it’s more comfortable. There are a few murmurs of disbelief. Yeah, I’ve been here before, but at least Levi looks interested.
“Sticks?” I ask Cuba, one of the freshmen drummers. He hands them over and I feel the familiar focus coming over me despite the nervous pounding of my heart. I’m not nervous because I doubt my own skill, but because if this doesn’t work, I don’t know what will. “I outplay you, the line goes back out there and works on the cadence and the rudiments at the end of the Banner. And you stop it with the disrespect.”
He stands, easily towering over me. “And if I outplay you?”
Okay, maybe I hadn’t thought through this entirely. The smirk on his face has a few of the girls giggling behind their hands. “The whole line has the rest of the day off and I buy a round of beer at The Shed for those old enough to drink. The others get dinner.”
He studies me for a few seconds before he takes up his own snare, settling it on his shoulders easily. “Sounds like a bet to me, Frostbite.”
Shaun
I feel like my lungs are going to explode and my legs want to break off at the knees, but I keep pushing myself. Not because I’m a sadist, but because I need my guys to respect me for more than just my fame. They’re a good group of kids, hardworking and high-spirited, with a competitive drive that could lead them to the BCS National Championship.
Focusing on getting them to work together as a group instead of individual players was better than thinking about the shit storm my night with Katie had stirred. The rhythm of my soles pounding on the pavement as we run circuits around the stadium soothes the frustration I feel at her doing a fuck and chuck. Sure, I understood why she did it. When I woke up to see her gone, my phone was sitting next to the sofa. She had to have seen the barrage of texts from a drunk Denise and thought I was some cheating scumbag. Either that or she’d gotten what she wanted and decided four rounds with me was enough.
I shouldn’t even be thinking about that but, fuck it, I really liked her. By the time I got my shit together that morning and tried to find her room, she’d already checked out and left the hotel. I know I could find her again, but my pride won’t let me. And I need to concentrate on my new job. And my ex-wife, who suddenly decided she didn’t want a divorce after all.
I’m still not a hundred percent sure what’s up with that, but the texts and phone calls I’ve had from her over the past two months have left me pissed off and uneasy. I don’t want Denise, don’t love her, yet now she claims she made a mistake and wants to come back, for us to try counseling to repair our marriage. She didn’t seem to understand her mistake isn’t one I can forgive. Ever. As far as I’m concerned, our marriage ended the day she even thought about jumping into Johnny’s bed. I’m finished with it all, although I still hope we can avoid court—and the spectacle that would create.
Starting a new life in LaSalle seemed the best way to cut all ties with her. There’s no way she’ll ever come here, or want to live here; not with it so far away from the shopping and lifestyle she so desperately needs. I like it though. It’s a lot slower than L.A., but I think that’s my favorite part of living here. Nielsen offered the job, I took it and moved to the lazy south Louisiana town a short three weeks after my interview. The house I bought a few blocks away from campus is more my style than anything Denise picked out, and while everyone has been excited to meet me, they haven’t been all up in my business either. It’s nice, although the fucking humidity is trying to kill me.
My muscles scream for a break, so I slow as we approach the marching band’s practice field. Waste of space if you ask me, but the music program at Sauvage is just as important as the athletic program, or so I’ve heard. I’d use that prime piece of real estate to build an indoor field for drills so my guys could practice rain or shine. Besides, while the band sounded good, the music only acted as a distraction to my players.
Harsh pants and a few wheezes fill the air as the Spartan’s offense unit comes to a stop. One guy even falls flat on the ground as soon as he stops running. Looking over the guys, I bite back a smile. They aren’t looking so cocky now. Yeah, I’ll probably have to spend half the night in the hot tub at my place, but it will be worth it if they start working as a team.
They’re trying, but we have a lot of new faces; some transfers from other universities and the rest freshmen. Out of the eleven starters on the offense three are seniors, two are juniors and my quarterback is a freshman. They show a lot of promise, but until they think as one we aren’t going to do jack shit.
The water cart rolls to a stop next to us and everyone except Shaw grabs a bottle. Taking two, I pass one to the felled center, who gives me a pathetic smile of thanks, before I crack mine open and gulp it down. I probably could’ve used the track for laps but I wanted these guys off the field for a bit and, since the stadium has a nice walking track around it, moved our run outside the stadium.
Other than the band lounging on their practice field, we’re completely alone out here. I have to hand it to the Sauvage Alumni; they’ve helped to build one hell of an athletic program, with top notch facilities that rival some of the professional setups I’ve seen.
“Why are we running out here and not on the treadmills?” De Groot, one of my guards, mutters behind his water bottle.
“Because games aren’t played on treadmills,” I say, without missing a beat. “You guys have been working out in that gym and practicing on the field since training started, but not every game is played on your turf. You need to be able to keep your feet no matter what.”
They grumble a bit, but don’t say anything else to me. Standing back to watch them interact, I’m pleased to see Beau, my quarterback, making the rounds, commiserating with the others. Let them think I’m an asshole. I’m okay with that, but Beau needs to stand up and take leadership of his unit. The guards, tackles and center might be the protective skin of the offensive line, but the quarterback is its brain and heart. Without him taking an active role we’d be left with talented players milling around doing nothing.
“Hey, isn’t that your roommate and little brother?” De Groot asks Titus Moody, my junior tight end, pointing at the band.
It’s only then that I realize there’s some sort of practice or something going on; maybe the drummers practicing their cadence, because all I hear is snare drum. I glance over to see only two people with snares, facing each other like old-fashioned gunslingers. Except without guns. One is a tall guy who isn’t wearing a shirt, his arms and chest sporting colorful tattoos. The other is a short woman with a great set of legs.
They aren’t playing together so much as going back and forth, doing complicated rhythms and complex tricks with their sticks. I’m too far away to see much, but even I can tell they’re both talented. And it’s some kind of playoff. Weird. Still, instead of turning back to get my guys moving again I stare hard at the woman as she patiently waits her turn.
The other members of the band seem just as captivated, some of them cheering when the guy finishes with a flourish. He folds his arms over his muscled chest, looking down at the woman. Even looking on from such a great distance, his body la
nguage screams smug satisfaction, triumph.
“Yeah, that’s Crash—I mean, Levi and Cuba,” Moody says as he raises his hand to shield his eyes.
“Who’s the chick with the bubble ass?”
Yeah, I kind of want to know that myself, even though I have no business checking any woman out, especially if she’s a student. Getting caught up in some kind of on-campus drama wouldn’t look good on me and no doubt would send Denise off the deep end. Shuddering at the thought, I watch as the woman applauds with the rest of the band before she gives her drumsticks a twirl.
I know fuck-all about music, having no talent for it, but as soon as that woman begins to play I’m left in awe, because she’s good. No, better than good, she’s phenomenal. The rapid drumming she sets up, with a few rimshots interspersed, has a catchy beat that has several band students nodding their heads in unison. Then she steps forward, toward the taller guy, looking straight up at him as she begins to use a cymbal one of the others is holding to add to her beat.
“Frost, Frost, Frost,” the band students start chanting low, then get louder the faster and faster she plays.
I frown.
She gives the snare one last hard hit and tosses the stick in the air, where it flips end over end. Catching it, she takes a little curtsy that has the students screaming in approval. Tall and Tatted stands still for a few seconds before he joins in, a white smile slashing across his tanned face. He reaches out to tug off the woman’s hat, releasing bouncy blonde curls. My heart stutters as I stare at that blonde halo.
No way.
“I think that’s the new Assistant Director,” Moody finally answers, as the rest of the drumline gets up to crowd around the much shorter figure, clapping her on the back. “She’s also going to be teaching Music Appreciation.”
Moody’s mom works in human resources, so he would know.
The drummers finally separate from the rest of the band and move to the side, the woman fixing her hat back on her head, as she follows more slowly. The way she walks looks familiar. The big, round tits that bounce look familiar. Someone calls her name and she turns to look in our direction and I feel as though I was just clotheslined. I know that face.
“Mom says her name’s Katherine Frost and she’s some music phenom from Chicago,” Moody continues.
“Looks like I’m gonna be taking Music Appreciation,” one of the other guys mutters, earning laughs and grumbles of agreement.
“Let’s get back to it before Coach decides we need to do three more miles,” Beau finally says, as the band gets back on the field sans the drumline, which is practicing under the careful eye of the short blonde.
I barely pay attention as my quarterback finally steps up and takes control of his group because my full focus is on the woman. Katie. At Sauvage. The spark of anger, hurt even, I felt at her leaving the morning after our encounter returns, but it’s joined by a weird satisfaction. She can’t run away from me this time. Even if she does, I’ll catch her and paddle that little ass for ditching me.
Turning away from her is hard, especially when she stands close to that tattooed drummer, the two of them speaking privately. She doesn’t belong to me. Yet. But I can’t just go after her with a full frontal assault. I’ll have to sneak up on her—not in a creepy, stalker way either. I need to catch her off-guard somehow.
With one last look at her, admiring the sound of her husky laughter as it echoed across the field, I jog to catch up with my line. Things are looking much better than they had only a few minutes ago. I’m just not sure if it’s because my guys are pacing themselves to stick together, or because the woman who’s given me some of the best wet dreams I’ve had since I was a teenager is within reach. Whatever the reason, I know I’m being given another chance and I plan to grab it with both hands this time.
Kate
August
As students slowly filter into the stadium style classroom, my palms sweat. Maybe it’s the suit. Should I have worn a suit? Am I supposed to wear one? Mark didn’t exactly say I had to dress like I was going to a Fortune 500 company board meeting, but he said dress casual was the best way to go. The skirt suit I’d worn for my interview now seems a little extreme, especially since I’m sweating like a pig underneath it.
I can’t believe how nervous I am. I’m teaching something I love, something I’m passionate about, but I feel as though I might throw up. When I taught at St. Joseph’s I didn’t feel pressure the way I do now, probably because my students were shorter than me. As I eye the people seating themselves, I note several of them look like football players. A few familiar faces come into view and I smile at some of the band students I’ve won over.
The face-off against Levi had gone in my favor, but even I have to admit it’d been close. He’s very good, something I made sure to tell him during the private apology he gave me. Since then, things have been much better between me and the drumline. They listen to my suggestions. They don’t always take them, but they at least listen and try out my changes before rejecting them. I’d ended up buying them all dinner and drinks anyway, a sort of bonding moment for band nerds, and I’d enjoyed myself.
Oh, Levi hasn’t completely given up on plaguing me. He still flirts. A lot. But he flirts with every female he comes in contact with it seems. When we went to The Shed, he flirted with the ancient bartender with shrimp colored hair, the girls who were playing pool, with the older women playing video poker. I think it’s just the way he is, which is fine as long as it doesn’t go any further with me.
Speaking of the Devil, Levi strolls into my classroom with a flock of girls surrounding him. Or maybe they’re surrounding the other guy. The two young men give each other hard looks before sitting on opposite ends of the room, the girls dividing to take the seats around them. I shake my head at the weirdness of college coeds and flip through my lecture notes.
It’s Music Appreciation 101, not exactly rocket science, but I want to make sure these students leave my course with a true understanding of how important music is as a social, political, and spiritual machine. I see more people enter and my heart trips over itself. Why are there so many students in this class? Because it’s seen as an easy grade? Wondering if maybe I should lower my expectations, I pull out the syllabuses I’d spent a good week poring over, giving them another look through to distract myself from the crowd now filling the class.
The bell rings before I can do more than make sure I’d spelled my name correctly on the papers. Clearing my throat, I glance up at the room to see at least a hundred people looking back. My gaze skids across all the faces, settling on those I recognize to ground myself.
I can do this.
“Good morning, everyone, I’m Katherine Frost and this is Music Appreciation 101,” I start, proud of the confident tone of my voice. “I’m sure there are some of you who think this is going to be a breeze. What do you need to do other than listen to music, right?” A few people laugh and I smile. “While that’s mostly true, by the time I’m through with you you’ll be able to listen to music—all music—with a new appreciation for what it takes to create it, what it meant to the composer or artist, and what it means to the world.”
They don’t look quite as smug, but my fellow band nerds seem intrigued, which is all I need to keep me talking through the next hour. I try to keep it light and interesting, moving from one side of the class to the other. Now that I’m more comfortable, talking about my favorite subject, I try to engage my students. It’s the first class, yes, but I want them to feel enthusiastic about attending three days a week.
The bell rings, signaling the end of the hour. I glance at my watch, surprised it went to so fast. There’s a massive influx of noise as everyone starts getting their things together so I shout to be heard, “Next class, your assignment is to read the first three chapters of the text and write a short essay on your favorite musician, band or composer.”
It’s on the syllabus, but I still feel obliged to say it. People start shuffling out, a small bo
ttleneck forming at the doors. They’re moving fast, and I hope it’s because they’re in a rush to go to their next class instead of planning to storm the admissions office to drop my class. The band nerds hang behind, several coming forward to tell me how excited they are about the course. It feels good to know someone, several someones even, look forward to the rest of the semester.
I put my notes, extra syllabuses and everything else I’d brought with me in my messenger bag as we chat. I have to clear out the room, as there’s another class in fifteen minutes. Even Levi comes forward, a girl hanging off his arm.
“Hey Frosty, great class,” he drawls as he does that head-to-toes survey thing that drives me crazy. “Lookin’ good, too.”
I roll my eyes and fasten the bag. “Thanks, Levi, I appreciate it.” Then I grin at him. “Expect a hybrid rudiment warm up this afternoon.” Because, while he’s good, he hates warm ups.
He clutches his heart, the move forcing his arm hanger to let go. “Now I know it’s love,” he says dramatically, looking at the ceiling. “She’s talking band to me.”
I shake my head, but still laugh with everyone. Okay, so I find it flattering he flirts. I’m a woman, I can still enjoy it even if I could be his very, very young mom. “Get out,” I tell him sternly. “I’m sure you have other classes before I torture you at practice.”
Cuba asks Levi a question about some class they have together and the group slowly wanders up the aisle to the doors. I double-check the desk and podium to make sure I have everything before grabbing my bag. Slinging it over my shoulder, I follow my students out, sparing a glance at someone standing next to the door.
At first, I think it’s the professor of the class after mine waiting for the room, but the way Levi, Cuba and the others slow as though in the presence of a celebrity, I wonder if it’s one of the star football players instead. Focusing on the figure, I slow as well, but for an entirely different reason. He’s tall, like most of the men on campus seemed to be, with chestnut-colored hair that’s just a little on the long side. Cuba shifts to the side and I get a glimpse of his face, and the deep brown gaze coming to rest on me.