Caught Running (5 page)

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.