Chapter 8

Lucy

The classroom buzzes with the anticipation of our impending visitor, my kids squirming in their seats, pencils tapping, and whispers flitting through the air like nervous butterflies. My own stomach even flutters a little as the time draws near for Chance Devereaux's arrival. This is an exciting day.

A distant rumble grows into a roar that vibrates through the windowpanes. Heads turn, eyes widen, and I brace myself. The Harley's growl is a symphony to some, and a stressor to others. I see hands press against ears, faces scrunch up—the loud noises are too much for some of them. But there's also a ripple of excitement, a few kids bouncing on the balls of their feet, eager for the sight of the giant motorcycle that heralds our guest's approach.

"Remember, deep breaths," I remind them, and a few nod, taking in gulps of air, trying to center themselves amid the disruption.

"Miss Sheridan?" Aleksander's hand is raised.

"Yes, Aleksander?"

"Is it time to get Dr. Chance?"

"Dr. Chance?" Farida echoes, using the name he told me they should use as we planned this meeting.

"Absolutely," I say with a smile. "Please go meet him out front and walk him back to our classroom."

They scurry out, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection on the glass of the framed motivational poster by the door— Never Say "I Can't." Always Say "I'll Try ." My hair could use a touch-up, and I wonder if my makeup has survived the morning. A part of me yearns to dash to the bathroom for a quick refresh, but instead, I turn back to the math unit spread out before me. After all, Chance isn't coming to see me. He's here for the kids, to be that spark of inspiration they so desperately need. Because that's what makes every challenging day worth it, seeing the moment when understanding ignites in their eyes. And I'm here to facilitate that magic, not get a date.

I dive back into the world of changing fractions to decimals, trying to finish today's mathematics lesson before our guest arrives.

My gaze drifts toward the window, where Chance dismounts his Harley as young Aleksander and Farida bounce from side to side. I can tell he's talking to them as he takes off his helmet and gets a box from his bag. He hunkers down and extends his hand in greeting to each of them. They gesture wildly, animated in conversation, while Chance's nods are slow, deliberate—a gentle giant with them.

There is no way this guy is that perfect.

I can't hear them through the glass, but the scene speaks volumes—he's a natural with curious children. The kids lead him toward the school building, and I stand transfixed as they disappear from my narrow vantage point and reemerge through the main entrance visible from my classroom door.

"Should've brought my camera," I murmur. They're all smiles, blissfully unaware I'm watching. My heart swells with a mix of pride and something else—a fluttering warmth that has no business surfacing now, not when there's teaching to be done.

I scribble the last equation on the whiteboard, but then Chance is here.

"Okay, everyone," I call, turning to face my class, "let's put away our math materials."

The door creaks open, and in they come. Chance's presence fills the room, and he scans the sea of faces.

"Class, this is Dr. Chance Devereaux," I tell them as he shrugs off his leather coat.

For a moment, it's as though summer has returned, the air thickening around me. Chance's T-shirt clings to him like a second skin. His jeans, snug and worn in all the right places, sculpt him into a figure more fitting for a billboard than a fifth-grade classroom. I swallow hard, hoping the kids don't notice the flush on my cheeks.

"Bonjour," Chance says, his voice smooth and confident. "Est-ce qu'il y a quelqu'un qui parle fran?ais?" A few hands go up, hesitant at first, then steadier as their classmates turn to look.

"Zabān-e Fārsī baladid?" he continues, switching to Farsi. Another set of hands rise, accompanied by shy smiles and nods of recognition.

He moves on, speaking in a language that curls around the syllables with a rhythmic familiarity. It takes a half-second longer for me to catch up—Ukrainian. Half the class responds, hands waving like flags of pride in a sea of diversity.

"Shéi huì shuō Pǔ tōnghuà?" A lone hand, belonging to little Ming, rises this time. His eyes gleam with the unique joy of being seen and addressed in his mother tongue.

"Who speaks English?" Chance's final question unites them all, every hand thrusting to the ceiling in a forest of eagerness.

"Speaking many languages is really important in my job," he explains. "And one of the great things about Canada is how we're a mix of people, all bringing something special to the table."

I watch, my heart echoing the sentiment, as the children absorb his words, their eyes reflecting a world far bigger than this classroom.

"Okay," Chance says, shifting gears with his easy charm. "I hear you've been learning about the heart."

The kids' eyes are fixed on him as if he's the most fascinating puzzle they've ever seen. He holds up a fist, muscles shifting under his skin. "This is about the size of your heart." Their eyes widen in amazement.

"Really?" someone breathes, and I recognize Ivan's voice, tinged with awe.

"Really," Chance confirms, and he delves into the leather bag he brought.

He brings out a large plastic heart. "And this is what it looks like inside of you, only it's the size of your hand."

From there he explains, at a ten-year-old level, the chambers of the heart and how it beats. Then he asks, "Who would like to listen to their heart?"

Every hand raises up high.

"This is the coolest part," Chance says as he hands out real stethoscopes, not the plastic playthings. He instructs them on how to place the earpieces and where to position the chest piece. "Now, everyone needs to be quiet so you can hear."

There's an initial fumble of fingers and giggles as they help each other, but soon enough, a hush falls over the room. And then, as directed, they gently press the cool metal to a neighbor's chest, listening intently through layers of cotton shirts.

"Sounds like horses," Anna whispers, and her partner, Artem, grins back at her, their ears filled by the black tubes of their stethoscopes.

As this unfolds, I feel a presence behind me. I turn slightly to see the back of the classroom filling with curious onlookers. Teachers and aides weave between the desks, drawn by the novelty of the lesson—or perhaps by the man leading it.

"Is it getting hot in here, or is it just him?" Tiffany murmurs from the doorway, fluttering a hand near her neck.

I stifle a giggle. "Focus," I mouth to her, but there's no denying the warmth that's blooming in my cheeks or that it has little to do with the temperature in the room.

The room is abuzz with whispered excitement, the children locked on Chance as he moves among them. I lean against my desk, watching him engage with each eager student, their faces lit up with wonder and curiosity.

"Dr. Chance?" Remi's voice cuts through the murmurs, his hand raised. "Do you… Do you see a lot of dead people at the hospital?"

Chance kneels beside Remi's desk, his expression gentle. "Sometimes, unfortunately, it does happen," he admits. "But I—and all the doctors and nurses—work very hard to help people get better and avoid that happening."

Remi nods, processing with a solemn frown. The rest of the class is silent, hanging on Chance's every word. They're completely smitten, and I can't blame them, because so am I.

"Dr. Chance?" Kayla's voice pipes up next, and her question slices through the seriousness that had settled over the room. "Are you Miss Sheridan's boyfriend?"

Laughter bubbles up around us, but I'm too quick to let the teasing grow. "No, Kayla. Dr. Chance is someone I know who works at the hospital, so I invited him to help us with this lesson." But I can't contain the smile that spreads across my face.

"Miss Sheridan is a wonderful friend," Chance adds, winking at me.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Tiffany smirking. She's probably concocting some matchmaking scheme already. Thankfully, Chance and the kids don't seem to notice.

Several in my class sigh dreamily, no doubt imagining themselves in fairy tale romances. I chuckle softly. Dr. Chance is breaking hearts left and right without even trying.

Our time is almost up. "Okay, everyone, let's return the stethoscopes," I call, gesturing toward the bag Chance brought.

"Actually," he interjects, holding up a hand, "you can keep them. The hospital just got new ones, and these were going to be destroyed anyway."

A collective cheer ripples through the room.

"Really?" one of the children asks, her voice tinged with disbelief.

"Yes, really." Chance holds up a roll of tape. "Since they all look the same, I thought you might want to put your name on them, just like doctors do."

Chance works his way around the room, giving each child a bit of tape, and after they've written their names on it, he shows them where to affix them to the stethoscope.

"Wow…" The word is barely audible, but it's mirrored in every child's awestruck expression. This isn't just a simple guest lecture anymore. It's something they'll remember for years.

"Class, what do we say to Dr. Chance for coming to speak with us today and for these amazing gifts?" I prompt.

"Thank you!" they chorus, loud and clear enough that it must reach every corner of the school.

I have them tuck their gifts away in their backpacks, creating a small stampede as they do.

I turn to Chance, about to thank him myself, when I notice the lineup that's formed at my door. Teachers, aides, even the librarian seem to have found reasons to wander near my classroom, each with that same hopeful look in their eyes.

"Dr. Chance, could you maybe come talk to my class next week?" one teacher asks, her eyelashes fluttering in a way that's probably supposed to be charming.

"Actually," I interject before he can respond, a protective edge to my voice I hadn't planned on, "Dr. Chance is very busy in the emergency department, and he's already done so much for us today. We don't want to ask too much."

Chance shoots me an appreciative glance, but it doesn't stop the others. They lean in closer, their laughter too high-pitched, their body language screaming flirtation. My stomach twists, and I press my lips together, trying to understand why this bothers me so much. It's not like he's mine, like we're anything more than friends. Hell, I've spent weeks willing him to disappear from my life. But the tightness in my chest won't ease, and I find myself wanting to steer him away, into the quiet sanctuary of an empty classroom.

I edge closer, tilting my head to offer a smile. My words are ready, a quiet thank you to ease him out of this unexpected spotlight, when Tiffany sidles up beside me. Her eyes flicker with mischief, and she leans in. "Girl, you better lock him down before someone else does," she stage whispers, nudging me.

Heat crawls up my neck as I shoot her a flustered glance. Lock him down? The absurdity of the idea sends a shockwave through me. Chance is just… Chance. Just a customer at the bar who rode his Harley into my world today and somehow made my classroom feel both too small and infinitely larger. Why would Tiffany say that? Is it so obvious that everyone but me understands what this flutter in my chest means?

Chance's laughter breaks through my thoughts, deep and genuine. Fortunately, it doesn't seem to be Tiffany's comment that's amused him. He's chatting with the librarian now. I watch as he handles the attention with an ease I envy. It's not fair, really, how he can just stand there, all casual charisma, and not see the effect he has on the rest of us.

"Sure, Tiff," I murmur without conviction, trying to shake off the weight of her words. "But I don't need to worry about Chance."

Do I?