This time his smile lit his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“See ya tomorrow, Whitney.” She stared, transfixed, as his smile morphed into a heart-stopping grin. Then he opened the door and stepped out.
9
Will entered the PE office a step ahead of Pete, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He’d had a healthy dinner and a good workout the previous night. He’d gone to bed early, with MoJo curled up at his feet, and was dead to the world until his alarm went off. But the real reason he walked taller today had nothing to do with any of those things.
He’d done his homework. Spent a solid hour going over names and reviewing faces, and he’d put his study into practice first period in the science room, surprising Pete when he offered to take attendance. During a lab, he’d addressed students by their names as he circulated and provided feedback.
Was he perfect? No. But there was no denying the students noticed his efforts. One of the girls in class had smiled when Will asked to confirm her name. This time, it would stick.
He dropped his bag and plopped into his seat. Now he knew what Rebecca had meant. He’d taken a genuine interest in them, invested in them, and they’d responded. He couldn’t wait to share his success story with her. Remembering she’d invited him to the gym this period, he snagged his change of clothes, sans Crestwood logo. “Pete, I’m gonna head to the gym. The ladies invited me to observe their classes.”
“Sounds good, bud,” he said. “We’ll see you at lunch.” Will passed by, but before he reached the door, Pete added, “Hey, nice job this morning. It was great you knew their names.”
Will tried to control the wattage of his smile. “Thanks. Hope it helps this afternoon.”
There was a designated staff changeroom not far down the hall from the office. Once he’d changed and made his way back to the gym, the period was underway. Rebecca waved when he came in. She and the woman he assumed to be Margaret were lined up with all the girls on the far side of the gym, and the boys were on the wall closest to him. A rainbow of dodgeballs sat on the center line.
“Mr. Whitney,” Rebecca called out. “Go ahead and join the boys . . . if you’re brave enough.”
The boys cheered, obviously glad to have another among their ranks. Never one to back down from a challenge, Will took his position on the wall and waited for the signal. He’d lined up across from Rebecca, keeping her in his sights, almost certain she’d take the first shot.
“Three, two, one, dodgeball!” Margaret cried.
Both teams tore off the baseline and raced for center. In the ensuing chaos of the opening rush, two boys were taken down, all the girls made it through scot-free, and they had possession of the majority of balls. Will and three other boys had their team’s only supply. He tossed his to a student near center who immediately pegged a girl on the shin. Without a ball to protect him, Margaret fired hers straight at Will who fell to his knees, leaned back, and caught it in the pocket he’d made with his lower body.
He laughed as he overheard Rebecca promise to avenge her. They were down to seven on their side versus nine on the girls’ side, but now the balls were in the boys’ favor. Will, keeping a watchful eye on the opposition, brought the boys in for a quick strategic plan. On his command, they’d all throw together at their three chosen targets. The boys set up at the line, faking their throws to keep the girls from launching an attack of their own. “Ready, boys?” he yelled. “Three, two, one, throw!”
One. Two. Three targets down. Will stood in awe of the action unfolding on the left side of the court, the boys executing the play perfectly. He bent down to retrieve a ball that had rolled to his feet, still admiring the maneuver they’d pulled off without a hitch. And that’s when it hit—a stinging slap to the face that smacked him so hard he fell over.
He had a feeling only one girl on that team could throw hard enough to knock a guy’s lights out, and she was currently dashing across the court toward him. Margaret blew her whistle and called for a ceasefire while Rebecca came to assess the damage.
“Oh, my God, Will. I’m so sorry,” she said in a rush as she squatted down to his level. “Are you okay?”
He was a little shaken up. Not so much he couldn’t have gotten to his feet, but when she pressed her fingers to the cheek that’d taken the beating, there was no way in hell he was cutting short that indescribable sensation. He didn’t care if it was simply a force of habit from a woman used to dealing with injuries; he’d take it.
“Do you need ice?” Their eyes met, hers dark and filled with worry, darting between his own. He wondered if she could feel the electrical currents pulsing through their point of contact, or if it was the leftover shocks of being bowled over by Rebecca Ledgerwood. Christ, she had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen, which made her almond-shaped eyes all the more enticing. When she pressed her lips together, he noticed they were tinged with a pinky shade of gloss, but outside of that her look was all natural. And heart-stoppingly gorgeous.
“Will? Please say something.”
Margaret drew closer to provide her assistance, but as soon as Rebecca took her hand away, he was suddenly capable of speech again.
“That’s the second time you’ve hit me in the head in two days.”
Rebecca pressed that magic hand to her heart and blew out a long breath. “Good grief, you scared me there.”
Will rubbed the side of his face. The spot was tender, and he’d probably have a bruise. A badge of honor, in this case. “I’m starting to get a complex.”
Margaret’s gaze flitted between the two of them. “I’d say she needed to work on her aim, but that was a bullseye if there ever was one.” She reached out a hand and pulled him to his feet without any difficulty. “Margaret Robinson,” she said by way of introduction. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Will Whitney. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
“Well, I’d guess we have another sixty seconds before the kids lose their patience and it becomes a free-for-all.” The older woman laughed. “Why don’t you have a seat”—she pointed to the bench near the equipment room—“and Ledgey will get you some ice. I’ll gather up the equipment with the kids.”
The directive snapped Rebecca to attention. She appeared rattled, maybe feeling guilty for hitting him. He’d do his best to ease her mind when she returned.
“You okay to make it over there?” Margaret asked him.
He must have been staring at Rebecca’s retreating form. Will faced Margaret in time to catch the smirk on her face. He nodded and gave her a thumbs-up for good measure. “On my way.”
Taking a seat on the bench, he bounced his sneakers against the floor and waited for the ice delivery. It really wasn’t necessary. He was fine. And grateful that the dodgeball, like most of the other equipment, wasn’t fresh out of the box. But it wouldn’t do any good arguing with two women—two pros—on the matter. When someone got injured, you tended to them, no matter whether they were staff or student.
Somehow, Margaret had every single student on their feet to help with ball retrieval. “That’s the way,” she told them. “More hands make for lighter work.” The vision of her holding open the ball bag while the kids obediently filled it made him think of Mary Poppins. Aly had wanted to be Mary Poppins one year for Halloween, but their mom hadn’t been able to find a costume and wasn’t willing to expend the energy to make one. Aly had been so upset, she decided she didn’t want any part of trick-or-treating. Will yearned to have that night back. Wished that he’d been unselfish enough to blow off his own plans and spend the holiday with her instead.
He overheard one of the guys whining about not getting to play more dodgeball as he begrudgingly forfeited the red ball he held. “The boys should technically win because we had more players on our side,” the kid argued. “And your team should be disqualified for hitting our best player in the face.”
Will snorted at that.
“Carson, save the histrionics for my drama cl
ass,” Margaret sing-songed as she secured the bag and carried it away from temptation.
Carson scrunched his nose. “What are you talking about history for?”
As if by some magnetic force, his focus shifted to the gymnasium door. Rebecca strode through at a brisk clip, carrying a bag of ice and some napkins. She was at his side within seconds and sat on the bench next to him.
“This is for your face,” she said, presenting the bag of ice which he accepted. “And this”—unfolding the pile of napkins, she revealed a chocolate chip cookie hidden in their depths—“is so you don’t hold any grudges.”
Will’s mouth watered at the sight of the slightly melted chocolate chips. Had this cookie come right out of the oven, or was the warmth of her palm responsible? “I wondered what took you so long.” He cupped his hands and she transferred his prize with the care of a true cookie-lover.
“How’s your face?” She leaned forward and took a closer look at the spot.
Not as nice as yours, he wanted to say. He set the cookie on the bench and picked up the bag of ice in its place. “No permanent damage. You might want to register that arm of yours as a weapon, though.”
She rewarded him with a grin he didn’t deserve for the cheesy line. The sympathy card must have won out on this occasion. “I used to play in a league. They called me the Cannon. Broke a guy’s finger once.” Shooting him a wink, she hopped to her feet and hustled back over to help Margaret set up for soccer.
His fist clenched around the bag of ice and squeezed. Good Lord, why was he so turned on by the fact that she’d broken some schmuck’s finger? You are sick and twisted, Whitney. He bet she was the type of woman who catalogued all her injuries for posterity. He’d broken his leg in seventh grade when Joey, at his insistence, had stupidly pushed him down a hill in a wheelbarrow. A hard tackle during the final football game in his sophomore year ended in a fractured wrist. He’d had his fair share of bumps, scrapes, stitches, and bruises, but none of those were worth remembering.
He pressed the bag of ice to his skin and shivered at the contact. The swelling would go down, the bruise would heal. But he’d never forget how he’d gotten the mark or the markswoman who’d struck him.
Rebecca toweled down her bike, then powered off the stereo that pumped out her favorite Dance Mix ’94 CD. Once or twice a week, she’d spin for an hour after school in the weight room. Some days necessitated a tough workout and a good sweat to get them out of her mind. Some people, too.
She never threw at her full capacity when she played dodgeball against the kids, for obvious reasons, but with Will, it was like she was trying to prove something. Why? To give his ego a hit, or to stroke her own? To demonstrate her physical strength, assert her power over him? For what purpose?
Because she was beginning to feel a bit powerless over the way her body reacted toward him.
Losing control wasn’t an option. Any time she felt the reins slipping from her hands, fear gripped her instead. Trauma from her past life, when she’d been defenseless and incapable of escaping her situation. She’d studied hard, often on an empty stomach, knowing that there’d never be enough money to pay for college. Margaret had helped her apply for scholarships, and she worked part-time to cover extra costs.
Once she got a taste of control, she was desperate to hang onto it. So she focused her efforts on the things she could influence. Her mental and physical health, diet and exercise, romantic pursuits. Letting go of power led to unhappiness, as she’d proven with Derek.
She wrapped the towel around her neck, flipped the lights, and locked the door behind her. The halls were empty. Passing by the darkened windows of the main office, she figured the only people who remained in the building, besides her, were the custodians.
Maybe she needed to back off with Will. She wasn’t his mentor teacher. He had Pete, who was totally capable of the job, so there was no reason for her to continue putting herself in situations that could give rise to suspicion. She’d gladly offer her help, but in a hands-off way from now on.
Planning to shower at home, she swung around to the PE office so she could grab her bag and throw on a different T-shirt. She wiggled her key in the lock and opened the door, surprised to see the light on. Then her gaze landed on Will. He hadn’t reacted to her entering. She walked closer and saw the earbuds he wore as he intently scribbled notes on his clipboard. Her heart thudded a little harder against her breastbone at the look of concentration on his face. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pulled together. She almost hated to disturb him.
Will must have caught her in his peripheral vision, though, because he turned his head and his eyes widened at the sight of her. He dropped his pen and pulled out his earbuds. “Hey,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was here.” His gaze lowered to the towel that hung around her neck, then swept over the rest of her.
“I was just, uh . . . spinning,” Rebecca explained, tugging on her T-shirt that clung to her body in places from perspiration. “You working late?” She finished walking to her desk and stood behind her chair, like it was some kind of shield.
“I used to work in advertising,” he said. “I wouldn’t leave the office before eight most nights. I’m still a bit stuck in that mode, I guess.”
Those long hours couldn’t have left much room for a social life . . . or a romantic one. Stop, she told her traitorous mind. “Why did you leave?” she blurted, thankful she hadn’t asked a more inappropriate question. “I mean, teaching isn’t exactly the most natural career transition from advertising.”
A flicker of something that resembled pain flashed across his features. He stared at a spot on the wall and ran a hand through his hair before meeting her gaze again. “I wasn’t getting anything out of it anymore. Nothing positive, anyway. I wanted to make a difference. To make up for . . . mistakes I made.”
A flurry of questions ran through her brain, but she held them at bay. Just like with her students, she knew when to press for more information and when to ease up. Some subjects were more sensitive than others, as she was all too aware. Every teacher had their reasons for entering the profession. But she wondered if his motivation had more to do with atoning for whatever choices he made in the past, and less to do with a genuine passion to help students prepare for the future.
The reality was, the moment the work became about you, you lost the whole purpose of teaching.
“Thanks again for letting me observe you and Margaret today.” Will smiled and rubbed his cheek for emphasis. “Other than the minor injury, it was really helpful.”
Chuckling, she moved from behind her makeshift barricade, flung her towel over it, and sat on the corner of her desk. “Yeah? I’m happy to hear that.”
“You two have similar teaching styles. It was neat to see you both in action while I was on the bench. And the rapport you have with the kids, I mean, that’s seriously enviable.”
“She was my mentor. Still is, actually. I learned from the best.”
He nodded. “I can see that.”
It was getting late. She should leave and let him finish his work, get home, clean up, make dinner. But her curiosity won out. “Was your afternoon any better today?”
She was glad she’d stayed when his head fell back and he sighed at the ceiling. “Possibly even worse. This one guy, Ryan . . . he’s really got it out for me.”
“Purnsey?” she asked.
“Yeah. He ditched yesterday, and today, he ignored every instruction, played on his phone, or distracted the other guys, and left halfway through the period.”
She’d had a lot of experience with Ryan, both in and out of the classroom. He was a good kid, but he took testing one’s limits to an art form. Every inch you gained with him felt like a mile. “If you want to have an in with Ryan, the first thing you need to know is that his number-one passion in life is basketball. He’s an incredible athlete when he wants to be. He can also be the laziest person in the room.”
She smiled as Will picked up his pen
and wrote the word “basketball” in capital letters at the bottom of his page. “We can’t exactly play basketball every day,” he said, drawing a circle around the word.
“No,” she agreed. “But what you can do is help Berg out with the basketball team. Ryan and a few of the other guys in your class play on the varsity team. It’d be a great way for you to get to know them in a different setting. See what they’re really capable of.”
He perked up at the idea and jotted it down next to his previous notation. “Do you think Pete would mind if I helped out?”
“Not at all. I’m sure he’d love having an extra set of eyes, and you’ll get some experience coaching. It’s win-win.”
Will nodded his head, then peered up at her. “Has anyone ever told you how brilliant you are?”
She laughed a little breathlessly at the compliment. Heat crept up her neck and burned her cheeks, and she ducked her head, hoping to defuse her body’s reaction before it became embarrassing.
He spoke again, thankfully, because she’d forgotten how to put words into sentences. “Could you maybe shed some of that brilliance on the subject of health? I’m doing a nutrition lesson next week, and I’m not really sure what to expect when I bring these guys into an actual classroom.”
“Ah, yes. The dreaded health class.” She slipped off the desk and shuffled toward the fridge to grab a cold drink. “Want one?” she asked as she reached for a second sports drink on the shelf. At his nod, she tossed him the extra bottle which he caught easily. Twisting off the cap, she took a long pull of the berry-flavored beverage. “I’m sure you’ve discovered how different Phys. Ed. classes are to academic classes. The gym, to them, represents fun, freedom . . . No desks, no technology. You basically start at a disadvantage because they’ve adapted to a less structured environment.”
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