Harlequin Special Edition November 2014 - Box Set 1 of 2: A Weaver Christmas Gift\The Soldier's Holiday Homecoming\Santa's Playbook (41 page)

So all he said was, “Those are some lofty goals,” as the other kids stormed back into the kitchen to noisily take their places at the table.

“Aim high, Mom always said. Right?”

Actually, what she'd said was, “Aim high, kick fear in the nuts and live like you'll die tomorrow.”

“Right,” Ethan said, swallowing the baseball-size knot in his throat.

* * *

The next morning, Claire cautiously threaded through the herd of students surging to their first-period classes, the cardboard tray holding two coffees precariously clutched in her still-frozen fingers. It was ridiculous how badly her stomach was boogying, never mind that Ethan's office door would most likely stay open and this wasn't even remotely personal. This was about the kids, period. And surely she had the wherewithal to pull off a simple conference without sounding like someone who'd been teaching for five minutes.

Someone who, despite how far she'd come, was still far more comfortable on a stage or in the front of a classroom of rowdy students than she was one-on-one with the likes of Ethan Noble.

Gosh, she hadn't been on this side of the building since those long-ago days of required PE in the tenth grade, a thought that did not evoke even the faintest trace of nostalgia. The bell rang, magically sucking students out of the halls and into classrooms. Claire scurried the rest of the way to Ethan's office, through halls that smelled faintly of chlorine from the indoor pool. His office door was open, but she rapped lightly on the glass insert, anyway. He glanced up, then stood, with what he probably thought was a smile.

“Hey,” he said, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else, with anyone else. Yeah, promised to be a great chat. “Right on time.”

“I brought coffee,” Claire said, holding aloft the tray, willing it not to wobble. “Couldn't remember what you liked, so I got straight black. Cream and sugar optional.”

“Black's fine. Thanks.”

Claire pried one of the cups out of its little nest, muttering a mild obscenity when a few drops squeezed out from underneath the lid and dribbled down the side. The tray clumsily lowered to his desk, she snatched a napkin from the bunch fortuitously wedged in one of the empty cutouts to wipe up her mess before handing the once-more-tidy cup to him.

“Thanks,” Ethan said again as she wadded up the soggy napkin and stuffed it into her coat pocket. Looking almost amused, he reached behind him for a metal trash can, held it out.

“Right,” she said, fishing out the napkin and dropping it into the receptacle. He replaced the can, then gestured toward the chair in front of his desk before sitting back in his, taking a long sip of the coffee. “Jules is very excited about getting that part, by the way.”

Okay, good start...
“And you didn't even hear the screech when the stage manager read her name. Like Justin Bieber had asked her out.” Claire unsnapped her coat, took a drink of her own coffee. Still warm, hallelujah. “Or whoever the hottie du jour is, I'm not really up on these things.”

“
You're
not up on these things.” Ethan shook his head. “Do they change every week, or am I completely out of the loop?”

She smiled. “Both, probably,” she said, and—amazingly—he started to smile back...only to apparently remember why they were there.

“So. We have an issue. About my players not passing your class.”

“No,” Claire said carefully. “Ultimately, this is Roland's and Zach's issue. Not ours. But I do want them to be successful. To
feel
successful—”

Ethan scowled. “And you think I don't?”

“In all areas of their lives. Not only football.” She leaned forward, her heart hammering. That scowl... One might say it was intimidating. One might also say it was dead sexy, but this was neither the time nor the place. “Look, I'm well aware how important the football program is to Hoover. And that's fine...as far as it goes. The problem is, the guys get this idea that academics come a distant second to sports, especially
that
sport, that nothing trumps bringing home that dang championship trophy, that they're far more valued for their brawn than their brains. And for what? I care about these kids, Ethan. And it kills me to see them not even try to live up to their full potential. So...” She felt her face heat. “Thought I'd put that out there.”

His silence seemed to suck the air out of the room, just as his steady gaze sucked the air from
her.
Then something flickered in those icy blue eyes, although his posture changed not one whit. “You like football?”

“Not particularly, no.”

His mouth might've twitched. “You think it's stupid? Silly? Pointless?”

“Do I have to choose?”

“Good thing you brought coffee,” Ethan said, and this time she definitely saw a twitch. “Otherwise a person might think you were here to pick a fight.”

“Being up front isn't the same as picking a fight. But no way am I fudging grades so the kids can still play. Which I know other teachers have done.”

At that, his brows lifted. Not a lot, but enough. “And you think I
asked
them to do that?”

“You tell me.”

“No. Never.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.
Oh.
Am I unhappy when I lose a good player because his grades suck? You bet. And I've never kept that a secret. Any more than I did when I was a student here, and I had to bust
my
buns to pass a couple of classes or risk getting cut from the team. I wasn't exactly academically gifted—or so I thought—so, yeah, I thought the policy was a load of crap. But if it eases your mind, I don't see it that way now.”

“No?”

“No.” The glimmer in his eyes faded. “Heck, nobody knows more than me that there's more to life than football,” he said with a quiet intensity that riveted Claire's attention. “And that putting all your eggs in that particular basket is nothing but an invitation to watch all of 'em break. But try explaining that to a seventeen-year-old who's never known before what it feels like to be successful, to be
somebody,
before he discovered this one thing he's actually good at. Some of these guys, they can't see further ahead than next Friday night's game. Then there's the others who are looking to the future, who maybe need that game to clinch the championship, which in turn maybe'll snag the attention of a college scout. For them, football might be their only shot at actually going on to college—”

“Oh, come on, you've got players from pretty privileged backgrounds, too.”

“True. But White and Baker aren't among them. I know these kids. Know their families, if they even have much of one. Hell, I went to school with some of their parents, so in a lot of ways this is personal for me. And let me tell you something else—what they learn out on that field? About being part of a team, of working together to achieve a goal? Totally new concept, for some of 'em. And one they'll use for the rest of their lives. Believe it or not, football's about a lot more than throwing around a funny-shaped ball. For these kids, football's not only their life. It's their
lifeline.
To something better. Something—” he lifted a hand, let it fall back to the desk “—more.”

Definitely not your average jock, Claire thought. His obvious passion—for the kids even more than the sport, she was guessing—stirred something deep inside her. Compassion, maybe? Because obviously this
was
very personal for him. And not only because of his long-standing relationship with the community, but because the game was as much a lifeline for him as for them.

“I get what you're saying—”

“Really?”

She smiled. “Yes, really. But they still need to know how to write a five-paragraph essay. Especially the ones who do go on to college.”

“Agreed. I'm not against the policy, per se. But I don't want them to lose the one thing that's making a positive difference in their lives.”

“It's about balance, absolutely. So let's get them help.” The passing bell rang. Claire stood, gathering her purse. And her now-cold coffee. “And I'll work with them, too. The unit on
Macbeth
is coming up,” she said, and Ethan made a face. “Hey, I'm an actress. If I can't bring the thing to life, who can?”

“You ever tried teaching it to a bunch of high schoolers?”

“Oh, I think I'm up for the challenge.” At his if-you-say-so smirk, she added, “It'll be good, I promise. Because you're not the only one who gets off on seeing them accomplish something they didn't think they could.”

Ethan studied her for a moment as, outside the door, kids shuffled and shouted their way to second period. “That why you became a teacher?”

She thought for a moment. “To be honest, my goals when I went for my certification weren't nearly that altruistic. I needed a job, I liked kids and I thought teaching was something I could do until... Well. Not getting into that right now. So no, that's not why I became a teacher. But it's why I'm
glad
I did.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” he said as he stood, and somehow she got snagged in his gaze, which felt an awful lot like that memorable college performance of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
when she'd backed off the stage, got hung up on a fake tree stump and landed flat on her butt.

“Your guys won't lose their spots,” she said. “Not if I can help it.”

Then she booked it out of there before anything even remotely inappropriate could take root in her thoughts.

Chapter Four

“R
oland? Zack? Could you stay for a couple minutes?”

Both boys were nearly through the door, making the other kids knock into them as they made their own escapes.

“We gotta get to our next class, Miss Jacobs,” Roland said, dozens of meticulously crafted braids quivering around his high, toffee-colored cheekbones. “Mr. Avilla, he gets real mad if we're late.”

“I've already spoken to Mr. Avilla, so you're golden. And this won't take long.”

“But your next class—”

“Sophomores. Assembly.” Claire indicated the desks in front of her. “So sit.”

The two boys exchanged glances but trudged back to drop into their respective chairs, each one more slouched than the next. Claire, however, remained standing, scrounging for whatever psychological advantage she could get.

“I suppose you both know your grades in this class are putting your places on the team at risk.”

“Yeah.” Zach sighed, shoving a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “The counselor told us—”

“It's not right, man,” Roland said, shaking his head. “It's only one class, it's not like we're totally failing or anything—”

Claire held up a hand, cutting him off. “Not here to argue about school policy. Which you both knew when you signed up for this gig. So. Any thoughts on how to solve the problem?”

Roland gave her the same smile Claire had noticed him using to his definite advantage on the girls. “You curve our grades? Hey!” he said when Zach smacked his arm. “What the heck—?”

“You stupid, or what? Are you even
looking
at her face, dude? Besides, if she was gonna do that, she would've done it already. Right, Miss Jacobs?”

“Since that was never even a remote possibility, Mr. Baker, your question is moot.”

“Huh?”

“
M-o-o-t.
Look it up. In any case, I promised Coach Nolan I'd do everything in my power to help you pass. But you guys have to do your part, too. Which means you actually have to read the material—”

“It's
hard,
Miss Jacobs,” Roland whined. “Nobody talks like that anymore—”

“Yeah,” Zach put in. “I mean, that's supposed to be English?”

“As opposed to text-speak? Yes, it is. Although if you'd bothered to glance past the first page, you'd see there are footnotes on every page explaining the references
most
twenty-first-century American teenagers wouldn't get. No, it's not easy. But think how proud you'll be once you've conquered this beast. So here's the plan. First, I'm pairing you up with tutors—”

They both groaned.

“Zach, you've got Aimee Hernandez, and Roland...I thought Libby Altman would be a good fit for you.”

The boys' mouths sagged open in comical unison. And no wonder. Both girls were not only knockouts and smart as whips, but probably the only two people—other than Claire—in the entire school totally immune to the football bug. As well as the boys who played it.

Roland found his voice first. “You serious, Miss Jacobs? Aimee and Libby?”

“I am.”

Zach frowned. “And the girls know about this?”

“They do. And they're both looking forward to working with you.” One of them, anyway. Poor Aimee nearly wet her pants at the prospect of sharing breathing space with the boy she'd been obviously sighing over since middle school. Took a little more convincing to get Libby on board, but Roland didn't need to know that. “And second...”

Claire reached behind her for a notepad, writing her cell phone number on two slips of paper, which she handed to the boys. “If you're still unclear about any of it, call me. Anytime. I'm up until at least eleven.”

Zach peered up from underneath his shaggy bangs. “For real? Anytime?”

She smiled. “I may not ‘get' football, although Coach Noble set me straight on how much it means to you guys. But he and I agreed it's about balance. And thinking past
now.
You won't be able to play football forever, but you will be able to use this,” she said, tapping her head. “
If
it's properly trained. So...think of me as your
brain's
coach.”

The boys looked at each other, then shrugged. Again, in unison.

“Yeah, guess that makes sense,” Roland said.

“Good. Then we're done here. And I fully expect you two to rock the test next week.”

That got dual sighs, along with a pair of resigned smiles as they hauled themselves upright. “Thanks,” Zach said as he ambled out the door, but Roland hung back, just inside the classroom.

“You honestly think we're smart enough to do this?”

“Hey. I saw those plays or whatever they were on Coach Noble's blackboard. I've seen less-intimidating algebra problems. If you guys can understand those, you can understand Shakespeare.”

That got a snort, followed by a slightly perplexed frown. “How come you care so much? About me and Zach, I mean. Whether we do good or not.”

“I guess...because the teachers that made the biggest impression on me were the ones that made me grow, made me dig deeper and try harder. Made me feel better about myself.”

“Like, more confident and stuff?”

“Exactly. So I want all my students to do
well.
” She smiled. “Not
good—
”

“Like Coach Noble, huh?”

“Pardon?”

“Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of good teachers here. But it's like...most of the time, they give up on kids like me and Zach. If we get what they're talking about, fine. If we don't...” He shrugged. “Not their problem. And they
really
don't give a crap about us outside the classroom. Sure, I get it, it's not like we're their kids, they're not responsible for us. But Coach Noble... He does care. Like he did about my older brother, when he went here. Like he cares about all of us players.”

He slugged his hands into his team jacket. “DeVon, he got in some trouble his sophomore year. Coach Noble, when he found out? He came to our house so he and my parents could figure out how to get DeVon's head back on straight, so he could stay on the JV team. 'Cause that's the kind of dude he is. You screw up, though, he will definitely let you know he's not happy. Coach don't take crap off of nobody. And, yeah, I know that's not correct English, it's just how I talk. Street, you know?”

Claire chuckled. “Trust me, it was the same when I went here. As long as you know the difference, it's okay. Since ain't nobody gonna give you a real job if you talk like that, yo.”

He laughed. “And that sounds totally whack coming out of a white lady's mouth. But what I'm trying to say is, you going out of your way like you're doing? It reminds me of Coach.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Hell,
yeah,
” the kid said with a swat of his hand, then started toward the door.

“Roland?”

He angled back. “Yeah?”

“Your brother—what happened with him?”

His grin lit up the whole room. “Got himself a scholarship to Rutgers. Made dean's list two years running. And yeah, I know what you're gonna say—if he's that smart, I've got no excuse.”

“That would definitely be my take on it, yep—”

“One more thing, though.”

“And what's that?”

“I take it you don't go to the games.”

“Oh, I did when I went here, back in the dark ages. But recently...” She shook her head. “No, to be honest.”

“Then...if we do this for you, then you gotta come see us play. I mean, that's only fair, right?”

A smile tugged at her mouth. “I promise, I will come see you guys play. Because you're right, that is only fair.
But,
” she said when another grin flashed, “you are not doing this for me. You're doing it for yourselves.
Capiche?
”

“Whatever you say, teacher lady,” he said with another grin before ambling out of the room.

Which somehow felt a lot brighter than it had ten minutes before.

Awesome.

* * *

By the time rehearsal was over and she'd forced herself to go grocery shopping—since unfortunately she was not on the food fairy's route—Claire was so tired she could barely manage a smile for her landlord when she got out of her car. Although Virgil Kane hadn't performed in years, he'd once been a staple in Maple River's community theater, so he was beyond thrilled to have a fellow thespian living upstairs. Now, bundled up like a steamship passenger crossing the North Atlantic, the little man was wedged into an old Kennedy rocker on his porch. Rain, shine or freezing weather, come six in the evening Virgil was at his post, although what he expected to see in the pitch dark, Claire had no idea. But routine kept him sane, he'd told her, especially after losing his partner of nearly five decades the spring before. And the cold, he insisted, kept him from becoming a wimp.

“Hey, Virgil,” she said, setting down the bags on the top step and rummaging around in them until she found the package of cream cheese–frosted cinnamon rolls. “Got something for you while I was at the store.”

“Oh, now, honey,” he said, the barest breath of Southern caressing his words, “you didn't have to do that—”

“Hush, they were on sale. And I know how much you love them.”

“You are such a sweet girl, honestly,” he said, taking the plastic container from her. “What do I owe you?”

“Please, they were two bucks. But you might want to zap them in the microwave for a few seconds, soften 'em up a little.”

“Gotcha,” he said, gently setting the package on his lap, then adjusting a slightly ratty cashmere scarf around his jowls. “Oh! I talked to Gary today, he said he's directing the Little Theater's
Streetcar
in April and I immediately thought of you. Because, honey, you were
born
to play Stella.”

Claire sucked in a tiny breath.
A Streetcar Named Desire?
Hell, she'd kill for a role in the iconic Tennessee Williams play.

“When are auditions?”

“After Christmas.” Virgil smiled. “Shall I tell him you're interested?”

“Absolutely. Although we'll be doing the big spring musical then—
In the Heights,
although I haven't told the kids yet—so I can't jeopardize that.”

“No, no, of course not...”

But as she let herself into her apartment—where the cat looked up from the sofa and yawned, clearly perturbed at having his nap interrupted—she was actually goose bumpy. Not that she'd necessarily get the part, but—

Her cell rang. She hauled it out of her purse. Local, but unfamiliar. Frowning, she cautiously answered. “Hello...?”

“You told the guys they could call you anytime?”

Ethan. In a low, rumbly, slightly pissed voice that made her goose bumpy all over again.

As well as a little pissed herself, frankly. Righteous male incredulity tended to have that effect on her. But as weary as she was, she sank onto the sofa beside the cat, who hauled himself out of his nice, warm, kittified corner to drape his purring self across her lap. Whatever Ethan Noble had to say, she was ready.

“I did,” she said.
Bring it on, buster.

* * *

Ethan's first thought, when Roland and Zach told him at practice about their meeting with Claire, was that the woman had lost her mind, giving her private number to kids she barely knew. But before he could say as much, she said, “And how, exactly, did
you
get my number?”

From the kitchen, he heard the sounds of the twins' bickering, Juliette's lame attempts to shush them, Bella's screeches about God knew what. Barney wedged his nose through the cracked-open door to what had at one time been Merri's office, clearly seeking refuge. “It's on file. Not like it's any secret.”

“Oh. Right—”

“For the staff. Not for students. Seriously, what's up with getting that personal?”

“Says the guy who apparently staged a very
personal
intervention a few years back to save DeVon White's butt.”

Crap. “Roland told you that?”

“He did... Omigosh—what was that?”

The crash was loud enough to make Ethan's head vibrate. But loud like a pot hitting the wood floor, not the ominous shattering of glass. “The kids are in the kitchen. Gravity happens. And DeVon saved his own butt. All I did was...” He paused.

“Light a fire under it?”

The dog stood on his hind legs to paw Ethan's lap, grinning blissfully when Ethan scratched his head. “Something like that, yeah. But that was different. Their dad's younger brother and I were on the team together, we hung out at each other's houses. So we already had a history. You don't know these boys from squat—”

“I somehow doubt they're gonna stalk me, Ethan. And my ex used to sigh like that, jeebus.”

“I'm beginning to see why. And that's not the point—”

“I'm not an idiot, Ethan, it's not like I invited them home. And anyway, you want them to stay on the team, I want them to pass my class. And maybe, as a side benefit, to realize their heads are useful for something besides filling out a football helmet. I'd call that a win-win, wouldn't you?”

Ethan rubbed the space between his brows. What clearly he—or anybody else, he suspected—wouldn't win was an argument with this woman. Except then something occurred to him. “Nobody's ever gone out of their way like that for them before.”

“Other than you, you mean?”

“That's different.”

“How?”

“Because my job depends on my performance. Meaning it depends on my team's performance. So I have... Whaddyacallit. Incentive. To, you know, stay employed. So my own kids don't starve.”

Her laugh startled him. “And you are so full of it. You think I don't hear how those boys talk about you? See how they look up to you? Because they know you care about them. As
people,
not only players. So don't give me this saving-my-job crap, 'cause I'm not buying it.”