Just to See You Smile (8 page)

The locker room door swooshed shut behind Britte, muting the riotous whoops of 11 girls riding high on a solid Saturday afternoon win. She walked down the hallway, grinning and slipping into her black blazer. The answer to Wednesday night's missing ingredient was coming together.

As she glanced ahead to where the hall opened into the commons area, her steps slowed and her grin faded into a half smile. Separate from the crowd lingering near the concession stand, Jordan Hughes' parents waited. The back of her neck tingled. She knew this dad was ready to pounce.

“Lord,” she breathed, “help.”

“Coach!” Gordon Hughes called from a distance, not leaving things to chance. It was his way of publicly announcing that he had first dibs on Coach that afternoon. “Good game.”

She smiled at him and his smiling wife. When she reached them, she didn't stop completely, but edged her way into the commons. She wasn't about to be cornered in the hall where the teams would soon be filing out.

They stuck beside her. “Britte, we need to talk.” Mr. Hughes' voice took on a familiar quality, as if they were friends who lunched together. He was a tall man in his 40s, with large facial features, hands, and feet. In the seven years she had known him, he was always neatly groomed, his brown hair brushed back off of a high forehead. Strutting peacock came to mind, especially next to his attractive but demure wife.

Britte halted on the fringe of the milling crowd. Mr. Kingsley stood across the way, talking with students. He wore a blue sweater today, a school color. Of course, he probably wore it for the boys game, which would begin in a couple of hours. “How about an early Monday morning appointment?” she said. “Seven? Six-forty-five? Or Tuesday evening would work.”

“No, I don't need an appointment. It won't take long.” He stepped nearer, leaving no room for doubt that he had recently eaten a hot dog with onions. “You changed your lineup.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?”

“Yes, you may ask why.” Her jaw muscles tightened as she stubbornly waited for him to ask why.

Lights glinted off his wire-rimmed glasses, and his smile flattened into a grim line.

She bit her tongue before suggesting he go ahead and
ask
why.
Choose your battles, Britte. Answer the man's question, even though he hasn't asked it.
“I thought it best for this particular opponent.”

“Jordan didn't start.”

She blinked in reply.

“Liz caused seven turnovers.”

Britte glanced away. The principal caught her eye. He had moved into her diminished line of vision. She looked back up at Mr. Hughes. “I haven't studied the stats yet.”

“Well, believe me, it was at least seven.”

“And your point is?”

He lowered his head and whispered, “Jordan wouldn't have made those mistakes.”

Britte pressed her lips together. Jordan had been directly or indirectly responsible for nine turnovers in the last game, but that wasn't the point either. “This is about playing time.” As
most coaches did, she explained at the preseason parents' meeting that she would only discuss with the girls themselves the subject of how much time they were given out on the court.

He straightened again. “It certainly is not about playing time.”

“I do not discuss playing time with parents.”

“It's about coaching.”

Britte's entire face felt hot. She glanced away again. Other parents were watching, unease clearly written on some of their faces. “This really isn't the time or the place, Mr. Hughes.”

“Britte.” He held out his hands, palms up. “I'm just trying to help. No offense, but you're young.”

She knew for a fact the man had never played basketball in his life. “That's true, I am young. And I'm doing my best. We won today, and it wasn't a squeaker. Second half, the girls were finding a rhythm. It was an outside game, and Liz is an outside shooter.”

“All I'm saying is…” He droned on, emitting onion scents across her face.

Why was she having this conversation? Mr. Kingsley shifted completely into view now, behind Mr. Hughes' shoulder. She certainly didn't want him in on this, too! “Mr. Hughes,” she interrupted him. “I appreciate your help. I'll think about it. Now I've got to talk to Coach Carlucci before he gets away.”

“I could come to practice—”

“Mr. Hughes.” She pasted on her best placating smile. “If you did that, every dad would want to help. You know what they say about too many cooks spoiling the soup. Excuse me.” Lightly touching his wife's arm, Britte made a deliberate sidestep around her and walked away.

The crowd had thinned. The girls were trickling through the commons, calling out plans to meet at the Pizza Parlor. They had time to eat before coming back to the boys game, something they often did as a team. Several girls and parents invited her to join them.

“I'll see,” she wavered.

Were Jordan's parents going? Last year they seldom attended such group outings. The thought of sitting across a pizza from them disturbed her. She had to go home, sort this out. Talk to somebody.

Where was everyone? Brady hadn't made it today. Ethan had, of course, but he didn't offer much in the way of technical support. She scanned the commons. He was gone by now anyway. She needed Anne, but she had left immediately after the game, something to do with her family schedule. Anne knew how to run interference for her. She would have been right there with her, reminding Mr. Hughes in her kind but straightforward manner that they did not discuss playing time. Where was Tanner Carlucci? No way could he replace Anne, except perhaps on the bench. He had a good grasp of the game. If she could talk to him now—

“Miss O.”

She half turned. Mr. Kingsley was at her elbow.

“Good job, Coach.” A brief smile touched his lips, and then he was gone.

Stunned, she almost didn't notice two players waving as they walked past her. “Oh, see you later!” she shouted halfway across the open space.

She felt her shoulder muscles relax, her jaw unclench, the heat in her cheeks dissipate. Of course she'd go to the Pizza Parlor. Why would she miss an outing with her girls?

Warm fuzzies from the principal? Hardly. But, she smiled to herself, it was just what she needed. The General would never say “good job” unless he meant it.

“Amy,” Anne called to her daughter down the church hallway, “tell Dad I'll be out soon. Britte and I are going to talk back here.” Her daughter waved an acknowledgment as Anne ducked into a vacant Sunday school classroom. “What's up, hon?”

Britte sat on a table, swinging her legs and chewing her thumbnail. “Gordon Hughes.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you for abandoning me yesterday.”

The lump that had taken up permanent residence in Anne's stomach rolled, collecting another layer of discomfort. Everyone was hurting these days, and she was beginning to feel responsible for all of their unhappiness.

“Annie, I'm just kidding. I kept thinking, what would Anne say? That helped. I didn't bite his head off.”

“You're growing up. I'm proud.”

Britte filled her in on the details. “What do you think?”

“I thought the game went very well. You didn't play Jordan or Janine or Tasha and Katie as much as you could have, but that's your prerogative. It's that fine line we talked about. Do you play to win or play everyone equally?”

“I don't want to straddle it. I want to be fair, but I've got to use this talent we've been given. Everyone would be disappointed if we didn't win like we should.”

“It's not your style to keep the fans and parents happy.”

“Gordon Hughes knows that for sure.”

“What I mean is, in the past, you haven't played to win. You've concentrated on giving all the girls game experience.”

She didn't reply, but her legs stopped swinging.

“Is there something personal going on? If so, understandable. With a dad like that, after all these years, I'd have a hard time being civil to Jordan.”

“Not you.”

“Yes, me. You've got your work cut out for you, Coach. Is it personal?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, you probably should ponder it awhile. Pray about it.”

“It'd be a crime to let this team go to waste.”

“Agreed.”

“Thanks, Annie. Don't let me lose track, okay?”

Anne stifled a sigh. Why was it she had to keep everyone on track? “Britte, I applied for a job this week.”

Her friend's eyes widened.

“I won't quit coaching. It's just… Things are getting to Alec. He keeps adjusting our budget. He's angry at his boss. He's losing confidence in his ability to provide. He doesn't listen to me.” She held up her hands.

“Ahh, the ever-present male ego.”

“I know. At any rate I want to do what I can to support him. Which probably isn't much, even though he thinks I can make a difference. The temp office lady practically laughed me out of the place, politely of course. I'm going to be a little stretched over the next few weeks, whether I get a job or not.”

“I'm sorry.”

Tears glistened in Anne's eyes. “It'll all work out.”

Although his Sunday evening schedule didn't accommodate a party, Joel considered the faculty Christmas gathering obligatory and therefore he attended. After two trips to the buffet table, he felt rather pleased with his decision. The event was hosted by the home ec—make that the domestic science teacher. Instead of suggesting a potluck, she collected money from everyone and then proceeded to prove her expertise in the field of cooking.

Her family room was wall-to-wall teachers in festive clothing who were laughing noisily and enjoying a rare moment when students weren't the main topic of conversation. He made the rounds, meeting spouses and evading the perky little divorced French teacher who had recently progressed from subtle innuendoes to outright flirting with him.

Christmas was not his favorite time of year. It was an interruption to real life. Growing up, it hadn't been a big deal. Santa came and went with hints of frivolity; more importantly, needs were met in the modest Kingsley home by his hardworking parents. When he was in the Marine Corps, it had been easy to ignore it. Military training and missions did not always accommodate holidays. Now, his parents spent two weeks with his sister in Florida. Once again he begged off making the trip and promised to visit them in the spring.

Becoming a believer hadn't changed his attitude. To him the commercialism of the season destroyed the symbolic recognition of Christ's birth. Regrettably, even he was
induced to shop. Most of it was accomplished online. One evening surfing the Internet took care of his siblings, nieces, and nephews, but for his parents he made a rare trip to the mall. Not that he lingered. Just as he did every year, he bought his father a book and his mother a special piece of jewelry. At least the purchase for the faculty gift exchange had been taken care of at the same time. All of this so-called Christmas-related nonsense fell under the heading of an obligatory nuisance.

He made his way now across the room toward Britte Olafsson, whom he hadn't yet greeted. She sat in a corner with Ethan Parkhurst, laughing hilariously. Joel wondered if the two of them were dating. Lynnie Powell, the school secretary who kept him informed of all the community gossip, hadn't mentioned that they were. They appeared, at the least, to be close friends. As far as teaching went, they fit each other. Ethan was well on his way to becoming an excellent teacher. Britte was already there.

Before Joel reached their corner, Ethan strolled off. Joel slid into the armchair the young man had vacated, just the other side of a lamp table from her chair. “Miss O.” The nickname hadn't originated with him. He'd overheard students calling her that the first week of school.

“Hi, Mr. Kingsley.” She smiled. She looked different tonight. Her blonde hair hung in loose waves just below her shoulders. “What do you think of the party?”

“Best food I've eaten in a long time.”

“Theresa's the greatest cook.”

“Mind if we talk shop a minute?”

She groaned. “We're supposed to take the night off.”

“I bet you don't take much time off.”

Those close-set eyes of hers zeroed in on him. “Bet you don't either,” she challenged with a smile.

“Does it show that much?”

She laughed. “Um, just a little. You're worse than I am.”

“You think so? How about a contest to see who's the worst? We could have a live-at-the-school marathon. I'll scrounge around for some funds so we can hire Theresa to cook for us.”

“Now that sounds heavenly. But how would we measure who accomplishes the most?”

“Good question. We can't have quantity without quality.”

“Assign a committee!”

“I'll get right on it.” He smiled briefly. “In the meantime, I didn't want to lose sight of your little confrontation with Gordon Hughes.”

“Maybe we could have another contest. First one to
not
talk shop for five minutes wins.”

“Wins what?”

“A day off.”

“Not interested.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Me neither. All right, tell me about Mr. Hughes.”

“Why don't you tell me? Any problems you'd care to discuss?”

She shrugged. “There aren't any problems really. I've known his daughter for years through our camps and leagues. And through all those years he has been giving me coaching advice. Free of charge, mind you. He thinks Jordan is headed for the Big Ten.”

Joel winced. “Seriously?”

“Well, a Division II school anyway. Therefore, he wants her to play all the time.”

“That's his coaching advice?”

“It's the main theme of it, yes.”

“He called me this afternoon. He made an appointment to talk basketball on Wednesday with me.”

She pressed her lips together and glanced away, simultaneously crossing her arms and her legs. When the girl wasn't speaking her mind, her body language did it for her. She wore a soft, bulky sweater, long skirt, and boots. He noticed even a hint of makeup. Typically she wore a warm-up suit or khaki slacks and sweater, her hair in a ponytail, her face unadorned.

Those eyes turned again, nailing him to the wall. “Will you back me up?”

“I don't know the situation yet.”

“I just told you the situation.” Though her voice maintained a reasonable tone, her eyes blasted missiles his direction. “He won't be happy unless his daughter is the star of the team, and, unfortunately, she's not star material in basketball.”

Women and sports do
not
mix,
he thought, not for the first time. “I'll listen to what Hughes has to say. See if I can't smooth things over.”

“It shouldn't be a political thing.” She swung her crossed leg back and forth.

“Smoothing things over is in everyone's best interest. The community pays our salaries.”

“That doesn't give Gordon Hughes the right to interfere with
my
team. Will you back me up?”

“My job is to do what's best for the students. Therefore, I've got to hear both sides.”

“Well, you've heard mine.” She said it matter-of-factly, with only a vague hint of sassiness. Sassiness he could handle. Pouting sent him through the roof. Thank goodness she wasn't a pouter.

“I'll get back to you after our meeting.”

“I'd appreciate that. Excuse me.” In one quick motion she stood and brushed past Ethan, who approached carrying two plates.

Ethan lifted one plate toward her retreating back. “Apple pie à la mode? No, I guess not. Joel? I've got apple pie here and a mystery dessert exhibiting oodles of whipped cream and chocolate. Which do you prefer?”

He shook his head, baffled at what had just taken place. “Women and sports and politics. There must be a connection, but I certainly don't get it. Oh, thanks, Ethan. I'll take the apple pie, if you don't mind. I've had enough surprises for one evening.”

“There you go.” Ethan handed him the plate and sat in the other chair. “What'd you say to Britte?”

“I told her Gordon Hughes made an appointment to see me this week.”

“Eww. Not a good subject, sir.”

Joel chuckled. “Next time, do me a favor and warn me. I like to know when I'm about to face a firing squad.”

Britte gulped a cupful of lime sherbet punch. The icy drink cooled her down.

She really had harbored such grand hopes for the man. Despite his “General's” approach to life, he was effective. He was, as Anne said, magnetic. And yes, all right, he was attractive.

It was his discipline that had caught her attention, a characteristic she always admired in others. Intense discipline absolutely oozed from him. It molded his posture, the set of his lined jaw, the muscular arms and shoulders, the trim haircut, the furrowed brow, the energy. But he carried it way too far! His smile was infrequent, distracted. His eye color still remained a mystery. Even now, focused as he was on their conversation, his gaze had continuously scanned the
room, his mind almost audibly clicking her situation off his list as it scrolled down to the next item. In the dim lamplight his eyes appeared a hazel, a mixture of colors, nothing definite.

The only thing
definite
to come out of their conversation was that they disagreed on his responsibility. His adamant refusal to unconditionally defend her made her feel as if she'd been pushed from an airplane without a chute. It left her feeling, to put it mildly, vulnerable.

His job was to catch her, to prevent her from falling flat on her face, wasn't it? It was all she had known in almost six and a half years of teaching.

When she first began her career, the same warm teddy bear of a principal she had known as a student was still at the helm. He retired the end of her second year. Since then, two fly-by-night administrators had filled the post, a brief stopover on their way to positions at larger schools. Then along came Joel Kingsley. She suspected he possessed the same intentions. Get his feet wet as head honcho, and then skedaddle off to a higher-paying situation and hunker down for the duration. With an average of only 400 students, the school had not attracted a leader dedicated to joining the community for the long haul. Still, the three former principals had always backed her. Even the one who disliked her had backed her.

The Gordon Hughes issue didn't matter all that much. There would always be disgruntled parents. That was a given with the job. She welcomed the news that Gordon Hughes planned to talk with Mr. Kingsley—and there was no doubt in her mind that it concerned her—because it took some of the direct heat off of her. The principal could defend her right to make teaching and coaching decisions.

And then he should back her on those decisions.

Britte poured another cup of punch and reminded herself it was Christmas. This was the evening to bask in camaraderie, not review the principal's inadequacies. The faculty members were her friends, a handful of whom had taught her when she was a student at Valley Oaks High.

Sipping the drink, she allowed the ambience to wash over her. Twinkling tree lights. Warm, soothing crackles from the fireplace. Soft candlelight. Cozy quarters. Laughing friends. The enchantment of the season, so eloquent in Theresa's home, worked its way again into her mind-set.

The gift exchange was under way, growing, as always, riotous. She joined the two other math teachers sitting on the plush carpet.

“Britte, it's your turn!”

She eyed the plain, brown paper grocery bag set before her on the floor. The handwriting on the name tag gave no clue as to the giver's identity because Theresa wrote all of them. The gifts were given anonymously, a custom which made the giving fun and the receiving a foreboding experience. The only guidelines were that it be appropriate to the recipient and
cheap
. Of course, the gifts were, more often than not, jokes that poked fun at personal idiosyncrasies. It became a guessing game throughout the year trying to figure out who had given what to whom.

Among the gifts Britte had received to date were one repulsive, fluorescent orange sweat suit, obviously second hand; a trophy with a plaque reading, “Most Losses in a Season BUT Best-Dressed Coach in the League”; and a jersey with letters across the back spelling “1—Bratte.” She was still pondering that last one.

And now…she peeked in the bag. A gold megaphone! She pulled it out. “This is great! I love it! Ooo.” She turned it on and held it to her mouth. “Batteries included!” Her voice boomed across the room. “Thank you, Anonymous!”

There were boos and guffaws. “Take that thing away from Olafsson! She doesn't need it!”

She laughed and reached back into the bag again. Something else was on the bottom… Out came an elegantly wrapped, long, narrow box. She peeled away the royal blue foil, careful not to smash the tiny gold bow. Lifting the box lid, she saw beneath it a black velvet jeweler's box. How bizarre! She glanced around the room. Someone must be enjoying this joke she didn't yet understand. She tilted the lid back, and her breath caught. This didn't look like a joke.

A necklace twinkled back at her. There was a delicate gold chain. Even without the jeweler's name imprinted on the satin cover, she recognized it as a nice gold, as in 24-karat. In its center hung a small, teardrop-shaped, multifaceted stone. A sapphire? It was blue, at any rate...a blue similar to the school color.

“It's beautiful.” Whistles and laughter drowned her murmured words. She felt her cheeks flushing. Who would give this to her? Why—?

“Britte's got an admirer!”

“Way to go, Olafsson!”

The rampant teasing continued until someone called out, “Perfect gift! Britte's speechless. That's gotta be a first!”

She grabbed her megaphone and spoke into it. “I am not speechless! If you'd all be quiet for two seconds I could—”

The room fell instantly silent.

“Uh…okay. Thank you again, Anonymous. This is absolutely beautiful. And you're in big trouble for
nearly
making me speechless. Trust me, I
will
find you out.”