Chapter Two

Several minutes later Jake was tucking in his shirt as he jogged toward the fields. He made it there before any of the kids, and found the three college guys who were assistants this year standing with Brandon and the freshman team coach, Jonathan. They were waiting for someone with a key to the storage room off the home dugout, and the head coach grumbled as he jogged up and fished the key out of his bag.

“I swear, my office gets further away every year,” he growled as he jammed the key in the lock and opened the door. The assistants began to drag the equipment out and set up the field, and Jake turned to Brandon and glanced around the complex with narrowed eyes. “Where the hell is Troy?” he asked with a frown as he pulled a pack of sunflower seeds out of a bulk sell box and shoved it into his back pocket. A stream of blue-clad kids began to filter out of the building in the distance, and Jake growled softly. “He’s gonna get a bat up his ass if he’s not here before they get here.”

Brandon decided right then and there that keeping his mouth shut was probably the best idea, although the thought of Jake going postal on golden boy Troy was funny as hell. Golden boy Troy—the other popular king of the castle—homecoming king when Jake couldn’t be, the known ‘playboy’ of the school, light to Jake’s dark. The unholy duo. Brandon shook his head and stood to one side, watching the college guys in case he needed to know how to set up sometime in the future. They were quite friendly, not knowing Brandon from anyone else. None had been Parkview students, they said.

A squeal of little bitty tires and the clink of the electric golf cart shutting off signified Troy’s arrival, and Jake growled under his breath as he watched the man hop the chain link on the other side of the dugout and jog out to where Jake stood at home plate. The man was grinning as if he’d somehow dodged a bullet, and Jake smacked him on the side of his head with his glove. “Ow,” Troy huffed as he rubbed his ear and sulked. “Is that Bartlett?” he asked suddenly in surprise, looking over Jake’s shoulder at the suited-up science teacher.

“That’s the new member of our coaching staff,” Jake answered in a hard voice, all of his usual good humor gone the second he had stepped onto the grass. “If you want to stay on it I suggest you get your ass in gear,” he warned seriously. Troy looked at him, sighed, and nodded, head down as he moved to help set up the equipment. Troy knew how Jake got when he was on the field, whether it was football or baseball. He was like a different person. There was no bullshitting out here. The fun wouldn’t start until the teams were set.

Jake stood there and met the boys as they jogged out onto the field. “Take your laps!” he boomed in a voice that carried over all three fields and made the freshmen flinch. The older boys immediately ducked their heads and started into a warm-up trot around the field, leading the new kids by example. There was no first day of practice greeting. There was no explanation of what Jake expected of Parkview’s baseball players. There was no lecture about being on time to practice or remembering their gear every day or grades or attendance. The kids already knew all of it. And if they didn’t, they’d learn or quit within the next two days. Jake’s seniors would make sure of that.

The coach watched them with intent black eyes as he stood like a king at home plate, seeming to tower over the entire complex. He picked out the kids who were lagging at the end of the lap. He remembered them. He picked out the kids who were talking as they ran, and he remembered them. He watched with narrowed eyes as he mentally began weeding out the kids who were already proving themselves to be JV material and no more.

“Who wants to take the running today?” he asked his coaches softly, pointing to his heel in explanation of why he couldn’t do it himself.

Brandon looked around at the other coaches. The three assistants were shuffling their feet, a younger coach he didn’t know looked unsure, and Troy was oblivious—or at least acting that way. “I’ll do it,” he volunteered. How difficult could it be?

Jake raised an eyebrow at Brandon and looked him over carefully. He certainly had the look of a runner, but looks could be deceiving. Hell, if Troy could look like he knew what he was doing, then Brandon could look like an athlete, right? “All righty,” he said as he waved Brandon closer. “To warm them up we make them run suicides against a coach,” he informed the man as the first of the herd of ballplayers began to come down the third base line. “If they beat you, they get bragging rights. If you beat them ...” he trailed off and smiled wickedly as he waved his hand at the field.

“Suicides?” Brandon murmured.

“Oh, yeah,” Jake answered as he pointed down to the third base line. The assistants were setting up cones marking lines across the field as the older players filed up obediently at the painted white line and instructed the younger boys to follow suit. “Start here at the line, run to the first cone line and back, run to the second line, then back, and so on with all five lines,” he told Brandon as he pointed out the cones. “I can make one of the kids do it,” he added in a lower voice as he waved his hand at the college kids. “That’s what they’re here for, after all. $9.50 an hour for me to torture at my whim.”

The science teacher chuckled. “No, I don’t mind. So is the point speed or endurance?” he asked curiously. “Do I just do it once the fastest, or over and over?”

“Speed,” Jake answered immediately. “If you beat them, they know what comes next. So they’ll be gunning for you,” he warned as he wagged a finger and walked toward the dugout to grab his bullhorn.

“He thinks he needs that thing to be heard,” the freshman coach murmured from Brandon’s side. “What a joke, man, he could whisper and these kids would hear him. Hey,” he said as he stepped up next to Brandon and offered his hand to shake. “Whatever you do, just don’t let them win. Don’t pull your punches, right? He hates that.”

Smiling, Brandon shook his hand, then grabbed one foot at a time, stretching a little by pulling them up behind him. “I’m Brandon. New assistant coach. Of some kind,” he said with a half grin.

“Jonathan,” the man offered. “Freshman head coach. I go by ‘hey you,’ mostly,” the man offered as Jake’s voice boomed over the field. The bullhorn hung unused at his side.

Leaning over at the waist to stretch, Brandon chuckled as he looked over toward Jake. “You were right about the bullhorn,” he said, standing and turning his waist each way in a slight warm-up. He saw the kids trotting in their direction. “Do you teach?” he asked as Jonathan walked with him over to the starting line.

“Over at Trickum, the middle school up the road, yeah,” Jonathan answered as he watched the boys line up. “Here we go. Good luck, Coach,” he offered with a pat to Brandon’s hip as he jogged away from the starting line.

Brandon blinked at the familiar touch, but didn’t say anything as he moved to stand at the line. At least there was someone here who wouldn’t judge him by his past, unlike Jake and Troy. And as the students lined up around him, he realized he would be new to some of them, too. He only had one class of freshmen this year, whereas most upperclassmen he’d taught sometime in the last three years.

Some of the older students and seniors nearly matched him in size, and they were in great shape. Brandon hoped to be able to at least keep up with them. This sort of running was new to him. He glanced over to Jake, squatting slightly to keep his weight balanced. Just like starting any other race, he told himself. Take deep, even breaths.

Jake stood near the plate, his eyes scanning the line to make sure there were no cheaters leaning forward. He placed his whistle in his mouth, met Brandon’s eyes briefly, and blew a sharp blast.

Whether it was because he was a teacher or something else, none of the kids crowded him, so Brandon got off to a swift start, reaching out with one foot to touch the first line as he stretched back into the run, trying to use his long legs to his advantage. At the second line, he was keeping up. By the third, most of the younger kids had fallen behind. As Brandon ran for the fourth, he hit his stride, his breathing settling in, and he was hard put not to laugh as he swiftly ran back toward home plate, matching a handful of seniors.

Jake was momentarily shocked at the quick burst of speed from Brandon, and he watched the man in astonishment as he displayed that—in this case—looks were not deceiving at all. The man could run. He pulled his attention away enough to observe the boys, which ones ran well, which ones looked like Bambi on ice, and which ones were lagging too far behind. When the lead group came close to the finish, he dragged his eyes away from Brandon one last time in order to watch the finish. A couple of the boys, his speedsters, beat Brandon to the painted line by a fraction of a second, and Jake blinked again.

“Damn, that was close,” he muttered to the man at his elbow, who happened to be Troy, standing there to watch the finish.

“Dude can run,” Troy muttered in return. “Shit, who’d a thunk it, huh?” he joked softly, and Jake shook his head and smiled as the stragglers passed the line.

Brandon was grinning when they finished, only slightly winded, even more pleased when several of the older students who knew him came over to compliment him. “Wow, Mr. Bartlett, I didn’t know you could run.” “Mr. Bartlett, you the man!” “Good job, Teach.” “How can you run when you spend all that time in the lab?” Brandon just laughed, pulling his feet up behind him again to stretch a little more.

“You all have Marshall and Tyler to thank for your sorry asses not having to run any more!” Jake boomed as he walked over and gave Brandon’s hip an absent-minded pat, just like Jonathan had. He began to separate the boys by grade, sending an assistant or coach to go with each of them. When they had all dispersed, Jake turned to Brandon and grinned widely. “Nice run,” he said to the man with a smack to the arm, the compliment a rare and sincere one. “Stick with me today, you’ll get a feel for it,” he went on.

The pat, the compliment and the smack all gave Brandon’s ego a boost, and he nodded, flushed with warmth, pleased to have done well on the first day. At least there was something he could do—there wasn’t much of a way to mess up running. He was sure there’d be plenty of yelling in his direction going forward, but running he could do. Brandon started watching Jake as he put the kids through practice, coming to appreciate that the man was not just a good teacher. He was a great teacher. It was an eye-opener.

As the sun began to set on their first practice, Jake sent one of the kids over to the control box to switch on the lights. They flickered on in the growing darkness, bathing the field with light once more. “If you’re thinking about what momma has on the table for dinner,” Jake bellowed as he walked over the grid of kids now doing push-ups like they were in a boot camp, “then you can get your ass off my field and go home! I am your momma now! And I say when you eat! I am your daddy now! I say when you sleep! The only time I am not your momma or your daddy is when you want money for new shoes!” he shouted, his voice booming over up and out into the darkness. He walked the rows of panting, sweating, whimpering kids. They were the best, and this was how they got that way.

Brandon stood off to one side, next to Jonathan, just watching. The kids were tough, he had to give them that. But, he supposed, you didn’t get to be a team that went to State if you weren’t tough. He hadn’t become a cross country runner over night. It had taken months and months of grueling, exhausting, mind-numbing running to condition himself properly, and even then it didn’t stop. So yeah, he felt for the kids, but more in the way of having been there. He wondered how many would quit. Jonathan had told him earlier in the afternoon that these were supposed to be tryouts.

“The juniors have everything to lose,” Jonathan murmured. “They can’t be on JV, too old. The seniors have the leg up just ‘cause they were all on varsity last year. The juniors are the ones digging in this week.”

Jake let them go for another full minute before calling a stop to it. “Now!” he boomed. “Get your lazy hind ends up and into the showers! Go home!” he ordered amidst an array of thankful groans and moans. “And if there is one stitch of equipment left on this field, tomorrow you will all wish you hadn’t been born!” he threatened, and kids scurried to put up the stuff they’d been using.

The science teacher watched them react to Jake and had to smile just a bit. It was obvious the coach didn’t have discipline problems. Jake handled it in a totally different way than he would have, but it was extremely successful.

Hands on his hips and watching the kids like a hawk, Jake kept his presence big and hulking and threatening until the kids were all gone. Then he seemed to deflate a little, becoming less large, becoming more approachable. He looked over at his coaches and smiled slightly. “What do we think?” he asked no one in particular.

Brandon glanced among the other guys. He knew it certainly wasn’t his place to say anything right now. He had a few opinions about some of the kids, but they were only based on what he’d seen tonight, so it wasn’t a reliable sample. He needed more data to generate viable conclusions.

“Yeah, me too,” Jake agreed with the silence. “Go home, guys. See you tomorrow,” he told the men staring at him, heading for the gate a little stiffly.

Raising a brow, Brandon nodded a goodbye to Jonathan and made to follow Jake back to the gym. He had to get his clothes and head back to his classroom. He had two blocks of papers to grade and more planning. He was trying to decide if he wanted to stay here at the school to do the work or pack up and head home when his stomach growled.

Jake turned to see Brandon pacing him, and he stopped for a beat to let him catch up and walk beside him. “That you growling at me?” he teased lightly. “What, the grapes at lunch weren’t enough to go to six o’clock?”

“The grapes were dessert, actually,” Brandon said with a chuckle. “I’d eaten a sandwich in my office before that.” He wouldn’t mention what type of sandwich, it would probably get him laughed at. Peanut butter and jelly was still his favorite. “But yeah, growling. 11 a.m. was a ways back.”

“Tell me about it,” Jake grumbled. “Might want to start stealing snacks from the cafeteria for just before practice. Stay away from the gray stuff,” he warned absently. “How long’s your ride home?” he asked suddenly.

The sound of “gray stuff” made Brandon cringe. “About 40 minutes, depending,” he answered. “I live out in Mountain Park.”

“Damn,” Jake exclaimed in his usual ‘act first, think after’ method of communicating. “That’s one hell of a commute. Hey man, I hate to ask you this, but would you maybe mind giving me a ride home?” he asked with little to no shame. “I live on a side road just up the way and on nice days I walk in. But my damn ankle is giving me fits tonight,” he explained with a slow blush that crept up under his high blue collar and into his cheeks. The truth was, no one would ever know just how much Jake hurt all the time. To let them know would be to admit that all his years of playing the sports he had loved, balls to the wall the entire time, had done him more harm than good.

If Jake was man enough to admit his ankle was bothering him and ask, then Brandon was adult enough to help him out. “Don’t mind at all. I need to change and stop at my classroom, but then I’m good to go,” Brandon said as they walked back into the gym. “The commute’s not bad, actually. It’s only about 25 miles. It’s just on curvy country roads,” he added as he pulled open the locker room door. “Want me to meet you here?”

“I’ll meet you up at your room,” Jake offered automatically as he bypassed the locker room door and kept on going. “Err ... actually, I don’t know where your room is,” he corrected as he stopped and turned back around to face Brandon. “I’ll just be wandering around looking lost near the parking lot,” he told the man with a careless wave of his hand that was typical of Jake’s easy attitude. “Can’t miss me,” he laughed, turning back toward his office door.

“That’s fine. For future reference, I’m in old man Rayburn’s room,” Brandon said before disappearing to change clothes.

Heading on to his office and stepping inside, Jake tugged off his Under Armour cage jacket and tossed it onto his desk. For a first day of practice, things hadn’t gone so badly. The real shocker today had been Brandon Bartlett, and Jake’s thoughts couldn’t help but linger on the man as he dropped his baseball pants and slid back into his khaki shorts. Jake knew the terrifying feeling of being dropped into something you knew little about. He knew the freefall effect it had on your stomach and your nerves. Brandon had handled the day in a way Jake respected: silent, observing without interfering, but willing to step into it without even knowing what to do. A sudden overpowering guilt swept him as Jake thought about the man as someone he could respect, maybe even like. No matter how much he thought he’d learned since high school, he was still discovering things about himself that he didn’t really like all that much.

After changing clothes, Brandon gathered up the uniform, figuring he could wear it again tomorrow before washing it. Christ; he was a coach now. Shaking his head, he walked out of the locker room and headed back into the school proper, navigating the darkened halls to his office. He shoved several stacks of papers and his planner and calendar into his backpack—he refused to carry a briefcase even now—and laid the uniform in on top. He grabbed the cleats, figuring they’d do well to air out, and was on his way.

Jake stood at the large circle in back of the school where parents dropped off and picked up their kids, his heavy equipment bag over his shoulder and his face turned up to the cold night sky. His entire body hurt. It wasn’t the pleasant ache of muscles being used hard after a long break. It was pain, pure and simple. He stood stock still, waiting for his ride.

Brandon pushed out of the side door, and he saw Jake at the circle, so he went ahead and got the car rather than making the guy walk. He slung his backpack and the cleats into the back seat of the Jetta and climbed in. Because of his long legs, both seats were pushed all the way back, and he found the car roomy enough for him, so Jake shouldn’t be too uncomfortable, he thought. A few seconds later he pulled up in front of the coach and rolled down his window with a spur of the moment smile. “Need a lift?”

Jake huffed, not sure how to respond as he stepped forward and opened the back door. If it had been someone he knew well he likely would shown some leg and faked thumbing a ride. But he just didn’t know Brandon well enough to know where the joke line was drawn. He laid his bag carefully in the back and then climbed into the front seat. “I never hurt this much when I played,” he complained with a groan as he stretched his long body out.

The science teacher shrugged a little. “Sucks getting older,” he muttered. Sometimes he felt it in his knees when he ran, but his college sporting career hadn’t really lasted long enough to do serious damage, and now he ran for simple exercise and enjoyment instead of seriously training. “Where to?” he asked politely.

“Ah, take a right at the exit,” Jake answered with a frown. “I’m not old. You might be old, but I’m not,” he said with a small smile and a sideways glance at the man driving.

Turning as directed, Brandon glanced over at his passenger. Now obviously worn out, Jake did look a little older. But it wouldn’t be polite to mention it. “I didn’t say we’re old. Just that we’re getting old,” he said. “We’re only 32 or so. We got at least 30 years to start approaching old.”

“Pfft,” Jake offered as he watched the school pass by. “I was getting old when I was seventeen,” he muttered as his ankle and knees screamed at him.

Hearing the edge in Jake’s voice, Brandon looked at him again. “You okay?” he asked quietly, not wanting to pry, but the other man looked like he was hurting. Pretty bad.

“Nothing some ice won’t fix,” Jake answered with an attempt at a smile.

Brandon nodded and let it drop, pleased that the other man had at least replied civilly. “Any ideas about what I might be doing with the team?” he asked after Jake directed him through another turn.

Jake gave a short, sharp laugh. “My God, he wants me to think!” he exclaimed sarcastically, glancing over at Brandon and smiling to let him know he was joking. “If I had to say right now, I’d tell you you’re going to be working with me on varsity. Third base coach, probably, since you mentioned at least being a fan, right?” He paused. “You were taught to run, weren’t you?” he asked suddenly. He recognized training when he saw it.

Blinking at the sharp segue, Brandon stopped the car at a light and looked at Jake, one brow raised. “Yeah. In college. How did you know that?”

Jake shrugged and looked out the window. They were at the intersection he’d been crossing this morning when his heel had suddenly decided to have a shit fit. “You have the look,” he answered vaguely. It was difficult to describe how one athlete was able to spot another. “Sorta like gaydar for athletes,” he offered, laughing a little.

Brandon’s mouth pulled into a smile. If only Jake knew how true that was. “Nobody’s ever told me I had ‘the look’,” he commented, starting to drive again at the green light. “I wanted something to do at school to counteract the classes and workload, and my adviser introduced me to some guys on the track team. Figured running was good for focus. Turned out I was better at the endurance races, so I switched to cross country.”

“You still run?” Jake asked, glancing over at the man. To be honest, he had never had much respect for track and field. In high school and college the joke had been that they had no “balls.”

“Yeah, I try to get in at least an hour a day. Seven, eight miles maybe. Helps me clear my head,” Brandon said distractedly as he made a turn into a nice neighborhood. “Usually in the park at home or around the lake if it’s nice. It’s a chunk of time I really need for other things sometimes, but I try hard to resist skipping it. I feel like shit if I do.” He had no idea why he was chattering so much. Maybe it was because it had been so long since anyone asked about him directly. He didn’t have friends outside a few teachers at the school because he worked too much to socialize. It didn’t look like that would be changing anytime soon.

“I never got much out of running,” Jake admitted. “I always wound up talking to myself,” he said with a slight blush.

“Yeah, I had that problem at first. Too much going on in my head. To really get into it you have to get past that, sort of zone out. For distance running, I mean,” Brandon said as he pulled the car into a driveway. They were about a mile from the school, half a mile as the crow flies, in an older, upper-class subdivision with large, wooded lots. It reminded him of Mountain Park a little. He leaned forward to look at the house with green trim. “Nice house,” he complimented.

“Thanks,” Jake responded, reaching for the door handle. “You want a drink or something?” he offered as he popped the door open.

Brandon’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. His lips twitched. “I’m thinking I better go look for some dinner. Thanks, though.” He tilted his head, a thought occurring. Surely Jake was just as hungry as he was. “You going to eat?”

“Sometimes I do, yeah,” Jake laughed softly. Truth was, if he didn’t eat dinner then whatever he took for his aches would hit him quicker. But he didn’t say that. “I’ve got sandwich stuff,” he offered with a shrug.

“Well, I was going to suggest Mimi’s after you got some ice, but sandwiches would be fine,” Brandon said. “I’m not much of a cook myself. Cold cuts, microwave. Roll-out cookies from a can,” he said self-deprecatingly.

“Hey, I’m a great cook. All I need to fix a meal is a phone and someone to answer the door,” Jake responded as he got out of the car and closed the door. He opened up the back and retrieved his bag. “I need beer,” he added before closing the back door.

“Unless Mimi’s got a liquor license, you’ll have to provide that,” Brandon said, climbing out of the car. “But if you want to get your ice, I can make the sandwiches.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jake agreed as he straightened his back and popped it slowly. “I’m not helping you do teachery things,” he warned with a wave of his finger as he dug out his keys and turned to head for the door.

Brandon paused at the hood of the car. “Teachery things?” he asked, wondering if that was a hint that he could bring his grading in to work on while they ate.

“Yeah, you know, with pens and papers,” Jake said with a wave of his hand over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs. “I don’t do those,” he said with a shake of his head.

Figuring that was as close to a sign as he was going to get, Brandon ducked into the rear seat to grab his back pack and jogged to catch up. “How can you not do pens and papers? I remember taking tests in P.E.,” he said, curious. How could he get away with giving grades without giving tests?

“Tests?” Jake asked incredulously. “No, no, they moved that to health and somewhere else,” he answered as he pushed the door open and stepped into his house. It smelled cool, with an undercurrent of something that might have been a melon of some sort. He snapped on the lights and headed for the kitchen, trusting that Brandon would follow. “The only tests we do in P.E. are the President’s Fitness tests, and those are usually 8th grade, I think,” he added. “P.E.’s just pass-fail.”

Brandon looked around as he followed. It was a really, really nice house. Not at all what he would have expected for a ... Brandon winced at the track his thoughts were taking. He figuratively kicked himself and entered the kitchen behind Jake. Once another set of lights flipped on, he slung his backpack onto the bench of the breakfast nook. He needed to work on changing his preconceptions. They’d already been tilted several times today.

“I grew up here. My parents moved to Florida about five years ago,” Jake told the man, knowing he had to be wondering how he afforded this house on a teacher’s salary. “I took the house in exchange for hauling all their shit down there for them,” he smiled as he went to the refrigerator and opened it. “Want a beer?”

“Sure,” Brandon said, looking around a little more and out at a rolling, wooded back yard. The neighbors looked to be a good fifty yards or more away. “Got my house pretty much the same way. Well, inherited it, I mean,” he said, pausing for a moment as he remembered his parents, some years gone now. He turned back to Jake abruptly. “Okay—ice? Blender? What do you need?” he asked efficiently.

“Heh,” Jake laughed as he tossed Brandon a beer. “Rookie,” he scoffed as he opened up the freezer and pulled out a frozen gel pack. He plopped it onto the counter and reached in for another, and with it pulled out a wrap that was specially made to have one of the gel packs inserted into it and then fit over his ankle.

Brandon nodded—he’d seen braces like that before. “Modern technology is a wonderful thing,” he commented, setting the beer on the table. “Sandwich fixings?” Brandon was trying very hard to distract himself from looking at Jake’s close-cropped dark hair, the curve of his neck. Oh, not a good thing. Nope. Move on, Bartlett. Nothing here to see. He walked over to the bread box, lifting the door experimentally and pulling out the loaf he found there.

“Everything else is in the fridge there,” Jake said with a nod at the stainless steel appliance as he lifted his foot onto a stool and gave his sore ankle a brief rub before sliding into the compression pack. He gave all the Velcro pieces some tugs and made sure the ice was on his heel, then slid around Brandon and reached into the freezer again for a wrap that went around his knee.

Brandon had mayo and mustard in the crook of his arm, and he was picking up packages of deli meat when he felt the other man’s body close, so he shifted his hips over so Jake could open the freezer door. He rifled through the cold-storage drawers, finding a couple kinds of sliced cheese, some shredded lettuce, even a few tomatoes. He pulled it all out in a huge armful and spread it out on the table, nabbing the bread. “Plates? Knife? Cutting board?” he asked as he watched the coach adjust the wrap. By the looks of his movements, he was very well-versed in putting the things on. He suddenly wondered if Jake had continued to pitch in college, or if he’d played outfield or first base instead.

Jake tapped a drawer to signify the knives were in there and reached behind him as he stood on one leg, his hand holding the knee piece together while he plucked out a cutting board and set it on the counter. “I’ll get the plates in a sec,” he muttered as he pulled the compression brace tight and felt the cold of the ice pack within press around the inside of his knee. He smoothed out the Velcro and then sighed heavily as he straightened back up.

Watching the production, Brandon began to understand a little bit of what Jake was going through all without saying anything. He would never have thought the coach hurt that much until less than an hour ago, but now it was getting obvious. He’d learned this afternoon, though, that with Jake silence was more valued than chatter, so he kept quiet about it, taking the cutting board and a knife he’d pulled out to the nook table where he started slicing the tomatoes.

Jake glanced up at the man as he reached into one of the glass-fronted cabinets and retrieved the plates. “I blew out my knee freshman year,” he told the man in answer to the unasked questions. “It still aches on me sometimes, when it’s cold like it is now.”

Brandon looked up at Jake, face even. He didn’t pity the man. He was sure Jake was doing something suitably athletic at the time, but he wouldn’t wish that sort of pain on anyone. “Saw that happen to runners a few times. Painful,” he commented quietly, going back to slicing. “Ligaments, anyway.”

Jake raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He doubted many runners got tackled from the side by wild bears in thick pads as they trotted down the trail or something, but he left it alone. He also hadn’t explained the bone spurs in his ankle or the utter destruction of his shoulder that his dumbfuck high school baseball coach had wrought by pitching him too often and too much. He just let it go at the knee and twisted open his beer. It didn’t occur to him that most people used bottle openers to do that.

“I’m guessing since this stuff is in your fridge, you’ll eat it all,” Brandon said as he built two large sandwiches, heavy on the meat and cheese. He stole glances at Jake, seeing the play of emotions across his face. He was curious, but it wasn’t right to push. For all that he’d gone to school with and now worked with him, Brandon barely knew him. It felt awkward standing in his kitchen making him a sandwich.

“I’ll eat anything,” Jake responded automatically. “I’ll eat bark if you put beer on it,” he assured the man as he popped a few pills and took a long gulp of his beer to wash them down.

“Bark?” Brandon asked with a snort. “That would certainly take care of your fiber for the day,” he joked, setting the plate with the bigger of the two sandwiches in front of Jake on the bar that faced the nook. He sat at the table and rifled through his back pack to pull out a folder of papers. Then with a glance up—though he wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed, he wore them all day when teaching—he pulled his glasses out and slid them on. “Good with the sandwich?” he asked.

“Mm hmm,” Jake answered as he straddled the nearest bar stool. He watched Brandon silently as he ate, glad that he didn’t have to deal with grading papers.

Nodding and taking a bite of his own, the science teacher started reading and marking, scribbling a grade at the top of each paper and circling it before setting it aside. He kept eating as well for several minutes, pretty much caught up in what he was doing until he glanced up to reach for his beer and saw Jake watching him. He froze in place. How had he not felt the weight of those black eyes on him?

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Jake answered with a small smile. “Just another one of those times where I’m glad I’m me,” he laughed softly with a gesture of his beer at the stack of grade papers.

Brandon cracked a grin. “You already said you wouldn’t help with the teachery things, too. Bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

“That’s the rumor,” Jake answered with a shit-eating grin as he pushed his empty plate away and finished his beer. He plunked it down on the counter and leaned back on his stool, trying to reach the refrigerator without having to get up.

“I’ll get it,” the science teacher said, pushing his glasses up with one finger and crossing to the fridge. He took out a beer and pressed it into Jake’s hand, then went and sat back down, going right back to eating and grading.

Jake frowned a little. “Thanks,” he muttered, looking at the man closely. He wondered how much of a doormat the guy really was, or if he was just too nice. There was such a thing as being too nice.

Back at his marking, Brandon made a noncommittal noise. “Just don’t get used to it,” he said, not even looking up from his papers. He wondered how long Jake would let him stick around before kicking him out. He was getting a decent start on his grading now.

“Hmph,” Jake offered as he twisted off the top and kicked back a large portion of the beer. This was his nightly ritual. Get home, get ice, take drugs, and chase them with alcohol. He knew he likely should have been embarrassed to be doing it in front of Brandon, but frankly, after ten years he had lost the capacity to care. In fact, he had rarely cared what people thought of him; it was one of the qualities he supposed had made him so popular everywhere he went.

“That reminds me, every Wednesday the coaches all gather somewhere under the guise of team meetings,” he said as he watched the pen move. “Usually we drink and make fun of the Dugout Club, but it’s always a good time. If you’re interested.”

Brandon glanced up—Jake was inviting him to hang out? How wild was that? His glasses had slid down enough that he could look at Jake over the frames. “The Dugout Club?” he asked, smiling a little.

“Yeah, you know, the parents who can’t keep their noses out of the game long enough to let us breathe?” Jake answered with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t get me started on the Diamond Girls,” he warned.

Smile getting bigger, Brandon chuckled. “You know I’m gonna ask,” he pointed out. “Better I know now than look like an idiot if I have to ask later,” he pointed out reasonably.

“Cheerleaders for the baseball team,” Jake grunted. “Baseball shouldn’t have cheerleaders,” he protested grumpily.

The science teacher’s eyes got really big. “We have baseball cheerleaders?” he asked in utter disbelief. “Oh God. Don’t tell me it was one of Misty’s ideas. I knew she wanted to figure out a way to be around the field in the spring, but this?” He threw down his pen and leaned back with a groan.

“Don’t say that name to me,” Jake warned good-naturedly. “I tried to fight it, but the girls started shouting discrimination.” He grunted in distaste.

“Oh, good Lord. Does the softball team have cheerleaders?” Brandon asked, tossing his glasses to the table.

“Not that I know of,” Jake answered wryly. “As long as they stay away from the dugouts we deal with it,” he added. “That’s another thing. When you’re in the dugout with the guys, make sure they know you’re willing to smack them around if they get out of line,” he advised as the warmth of the beer began to flood through him.

“You know why you have a cheerleading team, right?” Brandon asked. It was an open secret, really. Misty ran her mouth about it even in the ladies’ room—or so Rhonda had told Brandon. The cheerleading coach was gunning for a handsome husband; specifically the Prom King to her Prom Queen.

Jake leaned back warily and narrowed his eyes. “Why?” he asked with a slight touch of dread.

Brandon looked uneasy. He’d never been one to pal around with the guys, comparing cock length and notches in bedposts. He wasn’t really comfortable with that kind of talk. “You remember how Rhonda was looking at you like an appetizer?” he asked.

Jake blinked at the man and then shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, that,” he muttered. “Misty’s tenacious,” he huffed uncomfortably.

“She looks at you like you’re a side of high-grade beef, man,” Brandon said with more than a tinge of sympathy.

“She always has,” Jake shrugged. “Senior year I thought she was going to kill me if I didn’t take her to the prom. I skipped last period one day, drove over to Berkmar, grabbed the first girl I saw and asked her to go with me. Just to save myself the trouble.”

Brandon’s jaw dropped. “Wow. No wonder she was so pissed. I remember that hissy fit very clearly, and I was all the way across the cafeteria. Sure as hell went a long way to making me swear off ... “He snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. “You were smart,” he finally added.

Jake cocked his head questioningly at the truncated sentence, but left it alone. He smiled fondly at the memory. “I almost married that girl later,” he told the man with a small smile. “She couldn’t take the ‘brutality’ of the sports, though. And I couldn’t take ... well, the thought of being married.”

The smile reappeared. “Almost married, huh?” Brandon tilted his head, looking over Jake. “You’ve got closer than I have,” he added with a shrug, finishing off his sandwich.

“Too busy with the learning, huh?” Jake ventured.

Brandon played with his glasses, tapping them on the papers. This discussion wasn’t where he wanted to be—it edged too close to dangerous territory. “Yeah, I guess. College, grad school while teaching, moving back here. That and no real interest in dating,” he said. “I wasn’t exactly coveted by girls in high school, as I’m sure you know.”

“Nothing bad about that. You don’t have Misty on your tail fifteen years later, hmm?” he pointed out.

Shaking his head, Brandon made a face. “How someone that pretty can be so ugly, I don’t know,” he said, his voice filled with obvious distaste.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Jake crooned with another gulp of beer. “I mean, for some reason I’ve been thinking about high school a lot lately,” he admitted. “Thinking about what shits all kids are and how many friends I could have had but didn’t ‘cause I wore a letter jacket. You still see it today.”

Among the teachers as well as the students, Brandon added silently. “Well, I can honestly say I never thought I’d be sitting at your kitchen table grading papers and drinking a beer,” he said, thinking back to how defined the cliques had been when he was in school. Except for very few, those lines just didn’t get crossed, and the groups didn’t mix. “In high school, you just don’t know how to break those walls down,” he added quietly. He knew from experience, and now he sensed Jake knew, too. “But I’m sure I was just as much a shit as you were,” he poked, trying to lighten the tone of their discussion.

Jake bristled mightily and then sighed, the beer and pills loosing his tongue more than he would appreciate when tomorrow came. “I wasn’t such a bad guy,” he mumbled defensively.

Brandon looked at him closely when Jake dropped his eyes. No. No, he hadn’t been, not really, not compared to many. A sudden tenseness filled Brandon, and he knew he needed to leave. He wasn’t sure he liked this sudden interest his body seemed to be taking in Jake’s body. Gah . “It’s late, I need to get home and get more work done. I’ve got baseball practice after school tomorrow. Imagine that,” he said, standing and shoving all the papers in his back pack, that whole shell-shocked look returning.

Jake looked back up and watched Brandon with his dark eyes. “Something I said?” he asked curiously.

“Something you ...? No,” Brandon said, sinking back into the booth, sliding on his glasses to hide behind them just like he did at work. “I’m just not really good with people,” he said. “This whole baseball thing will be a real challenge for me. And not just learning the rules.” He’d been an introvert for so long, it was really hard for him to break the habit. Teaching was different.

“With people?” Jake echoed, brow furrowing in deeper confusion. “Oh,” he murmured as if trying to understand but not really getting it. “Yeah, no. No, I’m sorry,” he went on as he stood up slowly. The gel pack on his ankle made a loud squishing sound in protest but he ignored it. “I’ll walk you out,” he offered.

Standing up again, Brandon grabbed his back pack and headed to the door, feeling awkward once again. This was why he didn’t do social things. He stopped outside, turning to look at the tired man in the doorway. “Thanks for the sandwich. I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

“Heh,” Jake responded as he leaned against the door frame. “I’m sure I’ll be right as rain come morning,” he asserted with confidence. “Hey, don’t forget to bag your phone tomorrow,” he told the man with a cheeky grin.

Brandon just stared at him, totally at a loss for what to say. Bag? His phone? He blinked in confusion. Oh! It clicked, and he chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Sure. I’ll have to remember not to laugh when Troy announces it. It would be supercilious of me not to follow instructions,” he teased, shuffling a little.

“Like I know what that means,” Jake scoffed with a grin. “See ya tomorrow, man. Don’t forget your clothes.”

Starting down the stairs, Brandon raised a hand and nodded. He got settled in the car and drove off, all the while feeling very self-conscious because Jake stood there in the doorway, watching him the whole time. Jake waited until the headlights were gone, then turned back into his house and shut the door slowly. It was a habit learned from his father, to watch a visitor leave until they were out of sight. He didn’t even know that he did it. With a sigh, he trudged toward the stairs and the shower on the upper level. Something about Brandon was ringing in his ears, but he couldn’t place it. It left him unsettled and cranky, and Jake didn’t like being either.

The drive home seemed to whip by because Brandon’s head was full of new images and ideas—baseball, tight white pants, health class, Jake Campbell. He stopped the car in the driveway and climbed out automatically, looking at the rustic white bungalow surrounded by wild flowers. So different from Jake’s house. But tonight, Brandon thought they might have discovered they had at least a tiny something in common. He headed inside, deciding to finish grading the essays and the other block’s work before taking a run around the lake. It was going to be a long night. The first of many.