by Donna Fasano
Taking Love in Stride
Donna Fasano
Copyright © 2011, Donna J. Fasano
Smashwords Edition
All Rights Reserved
This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, " fair use" in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the author.
Chapter One
Andrea O'Connor briskly strode the length of the tiled corridor, her ever-present whistle swinging against her chest. What she craved more than anything was to step out of her hot, sticky running clothes and into a cool shower. She'd worked the school's track runners to their limit and, in the process, had gotten a pretty good workout herself. But before she could even think about her own wants and needs, a problem had to be taken care of. Immediately.
Reprimanding students was not something she enjoyed, but if her job as a teacher and coach taught her anything, it was that teenagers needed limits. Andrea knew her kids had to learn that if they overstepped the bounds, there were repercussions to be faced. This particular pupil had thrust her big toe across the boundary line more than once, and Andrea was determined it wouldn't happen again.
Andrea stopped in the art room doorway, momentarily taken aback by the barrage of colors and textures before her. A huge, nearly completed papier-mache Chinese dragon leered at her from the ceiling, its golden eyes and black brows drawn into a fierce frown. A hundred different projects in various stages of development were scattered around the room. The faint traces of turpentine, paint and damp clay that mingled in the air were so different from the familiar smell of the locker room—stale sweat and sneakers— she was so used to.
Denise was perched on a high stool in front of an easel, so engrossed in the colors on the canvas that she didn't even hear her coach enter the room.
Sidestepping a modern sculpture that looked suspiciously like two garbage can lids wired together, Andrea's shoulder brushed against a shelf. A small round of crimped tin clattered to the floor.
"Miss O'Connor!" Denise plunked her brush into a glass jar of paint thinner so quickly that the jar tipped precariously. "Am I late for practice again? I'm sorry."
"Denise, practice is over."
"Over?" Denise's surprised gaze rose in search of the clock on the wall.
"Over," Andrea repeated. "I think we need to talk."
"But it won't happen again..."
"I know it won't." Andrea's voice dropped. "Because you're off the team."
Andrea watched Denise's throat work in an effort to swallow.
"You can't do that." Denise's eyes held a plea.
"Oh, yes, I can," Andrea said firmly. "And I have."
"But I have to be part of the team!"
"That's just it, you're not 'part of the team.' A team works together. Practices together. You've been late for practice more times than I can count, and you've missed two altogether. I've warned you over and over." Andrea took a breath. "Denise, there are rules. And you've broken them. Now it's time to pay the price."
"But you don't understand." Denise's eyes widened in panic. "My dad's going to be furious."
A small frown planted itself in Andrea's brow. "I don't see how this has anything to do with your father. We're discussing a commitment you made."
"The only reason I'm on the stupid team...uh, I'm sorry, Miss O'Connor. The only reason I'm on the track team is because my father wants me on the track team."
Andrea's frown deepened. She knew that Denise had no desire to run track, but thought the girl was keeping up the stubborn pretense in an attempt to reach the common teenage goals of being popular and visible. Now, from what Denise was saying, the root of the problem was something, or rather, someone completely different.
Andrea knew from personal experience what could happen when parents pushed their kids into doing things they had no desire to do. Frustration, anger and a slow but steady eating away of the child's self-esteem was all it achieved. It had taken Andrea several of her adult years to figure out that she was not put on this earth to make her impossible-to-please father happy.
"Denise, I can't believe your father is insisting that you participate in sports. He's never been to any of the track meets. It's your grandfather who always comes to cheer us on." Andrea remembered the gentleman confined to a wheelchair who never missed a meet.
"Dad travels a lot, so he can't come," Denise explained. "But he thinks my being on the team will teach me all about competition." Denise made a face. "And, he says, healthy competition is what the business world is all about."
"Denise, as long as I've known you, you've never shown an inkling of business aspiration. You're in this art room every minute you can spare." Andrea's head tilted and her eyebrows rose in admonishment as she added, "And quite a few that you can't."
Andrea's eyes swept from the girl to the painting she was working on. The power and vitality of the colors on the canvas surprised her. "You're good," she said. "You're really good. I can almost hear the crashing of the waves and the rumbling thunder. Denise—" Andrea turned back to her student "—doesn't your father know that you can learn 'healthy competition' with your art? There are all kinds of contests. In fact, the school is sponsoring one this month. Have you entered?"
"Oh, no! I couldn't. I couldn't do that..." Her voice trailed off and her hands darted with quick jerky motion as she replaced the caps on tubes of paint and wiped her pallet clean.
"Well, why not?"
Andrea knew by Denise's nervous tidying and the girl's refusal to meet her coach's gaze that something was wrong here, something serious. Reaching out, Andrea placed a quelling hand on Denise's forearm.
"Denise," she softly said. "I asked why not?"
The teenager's gaze rose reluctantly. "He doesn't know," she whispered.
"What? You're kidding me." Andrea watched Denise drape a white sheet over the entire easel. "Your father doesn't know about your painting?"
Her chin lowering, Denise swished her fan brush around in the jar of golden liquid, wiped off her pallet knife and threw it into her paint case before snapping it shut. "Look, Miss O'Connor, I have to go. Please give me another chance. I promise..."
Andrea shook her head. "Denise, I can't do that."
Denise took a deep breath as she picked up her case and stuffed it in the bottom of a large duffel bag, taking pains to hide it underneath her school books. "Well, I'm in for it," she replied miserably. "And don't be surprised if my dad comes in to see you."
A small spontaneous smile twitched on the corners of Andrea's mouth. Teens treated every event in their lives as extremely grave, monumental.
"It's not as bad as you think. Go home and talk to your dad."
"I can't!" Denise almost shouted her conviction. "You don't understand. I can't tell my dad."
Denise picked up her backpack and hurried from the room without saying another word. Andrea stared at the empty doorway for a long time. Was Denise overreacting to how she thought her father would respond to her being dropped from the team? Or could her father, indeed, be forcing her to run track in some vain effort for his daughter to learn "healthy competition"?
Andrea couldn't tolerate pushy, overbearing parents whose goals were to raise bright, profit-making, overachieving children. All these parents succeeded in doing was turning their happy, well-adjusted kids into insecure neurotics. She'd love the chance to tell Denise's father exactly what he was doing to his daughter. Diplomatically, of course. Her frown was replaced with a slow, devilish smile. She hoped Mr. Powers would come in to see her.
"I'll be waiting for him," she whispered.
~
~ ~
When Andrea entered the teacher's lounge the next afternoon, the odor of burned coffee assailed her. Wrinkling her nose, she snapped off the coffee machine. She picked up the glass pot, grimaced at the thick black crust in its bottom and set the pot in the sink. She placed a tea bag in a cup and poured hot water over it.
It had been a long day. One of her students, a junior who should have known better, sprained her wrist while clowning around in gym class. And Andrea had found herself hard pressed to be patient with a group of giggling freshmen as she tried to explain the workings of the female anatomy during health class. Add to that an after-school track practice that had been grueling—she'd had to work the team extra hard due to the upcoming track meet—and it was all more than enough to equal a rough day.
She'd been thinking about Denise Powers off and on all day long. Andrea had expected a call from the school's secretary that Mr. Powers had made an appointment to meet with her. She'd spent every spare moment planning exactly what she wanted to say to him. That poor girl, she thought, having to live with that pushy brute.
But she hadn't gotten a call or a message. He hadn't made an appointment, so Denise must have been mistaken about her father's reaction to the news of her being cut from the team. Either that, or the man didn't care a wit, the unfeeling worm.
Andrea looked at her watch. She had a five-thirty appointment with Mr. Scott, the school's principal, in twenty minutes. She was feeling the need to relax for every one of those minutes before she attempted to reason with him one more time about the purchase of new track equipment. She'd enjoy this cup of tea at her desk, then tackle Mr. Scott.
On her way back to her office, she came up behind a tall, dark-haired man who was standing at the crossway of the halls. When he turned his head to stare up one corridor, Andrea's breath caught in her throat at the sight of the most gorgeous profile she'd ever laid eyes on.
His features were sharp, as though they were chiseled in stone. His ebony hair was smoothed straight back from his forehead. Andrea focused on his strong chin and a roguish, quarter-inch scar that was flaunted there. Probably a football injury, she thought. Those were definitely football shoulders straining against that white dress shirt. Her gaze returned to his face, bronzed skin covering high cheekbones, a square jawline and sensuously full lips. And his eyes! Chips of polished onyx.
Realizing he had turned toward her, Andrea's face flushed; she was sure he was aware of her intense scrutiny. Everything else was forgotten as she was pulled into the black depths of his piercing stare. There was nothing subtle about the awareness that was ricocheting between them.
It took every ounce of control she could muster, but she succeeded in lowering her eyes to glance into the cup that she held in her hand. She couldn't help but notice her breathlessness, as though she'd just finished a long run. God, what was the matter with her?
She jerked her head up to look at him, hoping he was oblivious to the state she was in. No such luck. His slow, lazy smile told her he was not only aware, he was enjoying it!
Sucking in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She hadn't the slightest idea who he was, but she looked a fool for no one.
"You seem lost," she commented, happy with the strength and clarity of her voice. "Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for the principal's office."
Although his request was spoken with candor, those black eyes held more than a hint of an I-know-you-want-me look that infuriated Andrea. She cleared her throat, trying to ease the tightness her anger and agitation was causing and pointed up the hall.
"Make the first left, there. Mr. Scott's office is the second door on the left."
The man lowered his chin in a tiny bow of gratitude, and Andrea's eyes darted once more to that devastatingly sexy scar. When he lifted his head, she nodded toward him and turned to walk in the opposite direction.
A sixth sense told her he was watching, and she was glad she’d taken pains with her outfit today. As a PE teacher, she spent most every day in sweats or gym shorts and a t-shirt. So whenever she had the chance, during in-service days when there were no classes or testing days when she wasn’t out on the track or one of the sports fields, she relished wearing girlie outfits. Today, she’d chosen a knee-length pencil skirt that hugged her hips, a tailored blouse and a narrow belt that accentuated her athletic body. And open-toed, four-inch heels that gave her killer calves and made her feel ultra-feminine. She straightened her back, suddenly conscious of the natural sway of her hips.
When she finally reached her office door at the far end of the corridor, she gave in to the irresistible temptation to turn around and sighed at the sight of the empty hallway. The fleeting sense of self-reproof was enough to tell her the sigh was more from disappointment rather than relief.
She sat down at her desk and sipped at her tepid, tasteless tea. Now she had only fifteen minutes to plan her strategy to get the new equipment for the physical-education department. The small private school was in dire need of new track equipment and had been for some time, but the school's principal didn't see it that way. She knew she needed to approach Mr. Scott from a new angle, her straightforward presentation of the facts having failed so miserably in the past.
Closing her eyes to think, her mind was overpowered by a black, hypnotic gaze. Damn! The man's face was crystal clear in her head. Who was he? she wondered. Could he possibly be the new math teacher? She remembered the potent power and commanding strength that exuded from him, and felt certain he would never be content stuck behind a desk teaching equations all day.
She shook her head, trying to clear the dark stranger from her thoughts. She needed to plan for her meeting with Mr. Scott.
"Miss O'Connor," Sylvia Green, the school's secretary, called over the intercom in a harried whisper. "Would you come to the office... right away?"
That's odd, Andrea thought, the woman sounded upset. Nothing flustered the indomitable Sylvia. Even when her boss was on the warpath, Sylvia remained calm and composed.
Glancing at her watch, Andrea frowned. Something must be up. There were still more than ten minutes before her scheduled appointment. And if there was anything Mr. Scott stressed, it was punctuality—not two minutes early or two minutes late was his maxim.
Andrea ran a hand over her cap of silky blond hair as she strode toward the office. The heels of her shoes tapped hollowly in the empty corridor. Just before reaching the door, she smoothed the bodice of her blouse and absently checked the centering of her belt buckle.
She wondered what was stewing in the office. Rats! she thought. Mr. Scott's probably going to give me a tongue-lashing because Sally was hurt in class yesterday. Andrea knew that if he became too preoccupied with raking her over the coals, they would never get the chance to discuss the new track equipment. She wouldn't have put it past him to have planned it that way. Well, she was determined that he would discuss the track equipment with her this afternoon, whether he wanted to or not!
"Hi, Sylvia." Andrea smiled brightly as she entered the office. Noting the woman's stark coloring, she felt intense stirrings of unease flutter in her stomach.
"He in there?" Andrea asked, pointing at Mr. Scott's closed door.
Sylvia nodded.
"Is everything all right?"
Sylvia slowly shook her head.
As Andrea turned the handle on the door, she heard Mr. Scott's usually forceful voice take on an extremely accommodating quality that was almost a whine, something she'd never heard before.
"You can be assured that everything will be put right," Andrea heard the principal say.
"You're damned right it will!" a deep threatening voice boomed.
Andrea took a breath to calm her jittery insides. What could this possibly have to do with her? Knocking twice, she pushed into Mr. Scott's office.
"Miss O'Connor." Mr. Scott stood, greeting her with an icy glare. "Come in."
She took one step into the room. She'd never seen him in such a state. Mr. Scott's usual b
rash cockiness had disintegrated completely. A curving line of sweat had gathered over his top lip.
The atmosphere in the room was thick with strain. Andrea's eyes flew to the other occupant of the office, wanting to know what kind of person could turn her pompous boss into a whipped puppy.
"You're Coach O'Connor?"
Andrea never knew whether it was the man's sarcastic tone or the sight of the "dark stranger" himself that made her stop dead in her tracks. She was momentarily stunned into silence. Who was this man? And what could he want with her? She swallowed the questions and took another step toward the two men.
"I'm Andrea O'Connor, yes." She extended her hand. "And you're...?"
"Ian Powers," he said.
His big hand enveloped her small one. Heat shot through her fingers and palm, past her wrist and right up her arm. Shocked by the sensation, Andrea jerked her hand from his grasp and absently rubbed it against her thigh.
Powers, Powers. She knew that name. Why couldn't she think straight?
"Denise's father," Mr. Scott emphasized.
Her foggy brain cleared instantly. How dare this man go over her head to the school's principal before speaking to her first!
"Denise's father," Ian Powers repeated when she didn’t immediately respond. His eyes gleamed with a hint of humor. He was laughing at her! Andrea's throat tightened with familiar anger, the same anger she'd felt when he'd given her that identical smirking look in the hall.
"You dropped Denise from the track team," Mr. Scott accused. "Mr. Powers wants Denise put back on the team. I told him you'd comply."
Andrea stared at Mr. Scott. A sheen of perspiration had now erupted on his high forehead, making it shiny and slick looking. Andrea's eyes narrowed as she realized that Mr. Scott was intending to bully her into doing as he said.
This is so wrong, she thought, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm. A principal was supposed to assume his teachers were in the right and back them up, not turn on them just because a parent applied a little heat. Mr. Scott hadn't even bothered to find out why she'd dropped Denise from the team in the first place.