Caught Running (2 page)

"Health? You want me to teach freshman health?” Brandon asked for the third time, utterly stunned. He stood in Mr. Berry's office—the same Mr. Berry who had been his geometry teacher—and just shook his head. “I've got honors biology, a sophomore and a junior biology class each and freshman quantitative physical science. I don't have a block for a health class,” he pointed out triumphantly.

"But you have a block for the A.P. biology class you applied for,” Tom reminded with a small smile as he rocked back in his chair. With a roll of his eyes and a sigh he shook his head. “Look, I know this isn't your cup of tea. But we have no one else even remotely able to teach the course, and we can't get rid of it because it's required. You remember health, Brandon,” he went on in his gravelly voice. “You put in a videotape of Rescue 911, and you sit and do your planning while the kids sleep."

"You're cutting the A.P. bio class? Tom,” Brandon pleaded. “Can't you hire a sub? A temp to work an hour and a half a day? I do remember health class, that's what scares the hell outta me. CPR dummies and lurid descriptions of diseases and putting condoms on bananas!"

"They got rid of the condoms,” Tom retorted with a wry smile. “Parents made a fuss."

"Aw hell,” Brandon muttered, sitting down hard in the chair and slumping. “Great. Just great. Freshman health. Jesus, Tom. Fine. I'll do it. It's not like I have much choice, do I.” It wasn't even a question.

"Well, I suppose technically you could quit,” Tom offered with a shrug. “Unfortunately, health is already scheduled during the last block, so you'll have to shift your planning to second since the A.P. class isn't happening.” He pursed his lips in disapproval. It was obvious he wasn't happy about asking Brandon to do this. He just didn't have a choice. “We've lost some staff over the Christmas break, you know that. A few maternity leaves, a few unexpected retirements ... We were also short a baseball coach until someone volunteered,” he went on with narrowed eyes. Brandon just grunted noncommittally, already working out the changes he'd have to make in his planning to allow for the change of classes. He wasn't really interested in staff turnover. “Thanks for volunteering, Brandon,” Tom went on pointedly, smiling slightly as his eyes danced with affectionate amusement.

Freezing in place, Brandon blinked and looked up slowly at the man who had shepherded his teaching career along for years while becoming a good friend. “What?” he drew out slowly and balefully.

"Don't worry,” Tom was quick to go on. “That varsity team is a well-oiled machine, so I hear. They just need an extra set of arms, you won't be doing much. Hell, I don't even know what you'll be doing, but it won't be hard. And since you've got the background to be the team trainer as well, you're the best qualified person on staff. Actually, you're the only qualified person on staff."

Brandon looked at him incredulously. “How in the hell do you figure that?
What
background?” he asked, his voice higher than usual.

"You're male and big enough to keep the boys in check,” Tom said before hurrying on. “And you did study anatomy and physiology, did you not? Trainer."

Finally becoming aware that his jaw was hanging open, Brandon snapped it shut. He stared blankly at Tom a bit longer and then rubbed both hands over his face. “Anything else, Tom?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Brandon,” Tom said softly. “I know this isn't your thing, and I am truly sorry. But I know you understand that the school needs you to be a team player. It's all for the kids."

The science teacher sighed, and his shoulders relaxed. It was the one thing that was unshakable in him and dammit, Tom knew it. Brandon would do anything for the kids. It was why he got up at 4:45 a.m. and drove 40 minutes to come in at six o'clock to tutor, a task almost all other teachers avoided like the plague. “All right, Tom,” he agreed wearily.

"Thank you, Brandon,” Tom responded sincerely as he stood and extended his hand over the desk. “And unlike the tutoring, you do get paid extra for the coaching,” he added optimistically.

Brandon chuckled and stood to shake Tom's hand. “Well, that's something. I'm guessing the health class is already in session with a sub?"

"Jake Campbell has been doing double duty on the health class and senior phys ed until we could find someone permanent. And he's the man you need to talk to about baseball,” Tom answered. “Hey, didn't you two graduate close together?"

"Yeah, same year.” Brandon said with a small nod. “You still taught geometry then,” he added with a smirk.

"I still had all my hair then, too,” Tom shot back with a quick grin. “You want me to have someone track Jake down after the class is over?” he offered with a gesture to the public announcement system in the outer office.

Brandon grimaced. “No. I'll wander out to the gym. I think I know where his office is,” he said, squinting a little at the school map on the wall.

"If you find him in his office then good on ya,” Tom laughed with a dismissive wave. “Kid never could stay in one spot even when he was younger. Thanks again, Brandon. I won't forget it."

Nodding, Brandon headed out and turned toward the athletic complex, walking through the empty halls, his rubber-soled loafers not making much sound. He found the hallway of offices and checked the doors until he found one with a “Coach Campbell” sign tacked up in the window, but the office was closed and dark inside. The science teacher turned around and headed to the gym itself. There were older kids sitting in the bleachers and some shooting baskets, but no teacher in sight. Brandon frowned in consternation before belatedly recalling what Tom had said about health taking his planning period and moving planning to the hoped-for A.P. class slot in second block. Jake was pulling double duty with the health class. Brandon figured this must be the coach's senior P.E. class, left unsupervised as he watched over the freshmen. So the science teacher made his way to the health class and checked his watch. Five minutes until afternoon announcements.

Inside the classroom located just off the gymnasium complex, Jake watched a ball of wadded up paper fly through the air and hit the rim of the wastebasket. It teetered there, seeming to almost cling to the plastic trash bag. Jerome—freshman, wrestler—leaned sideways from the table seven feet away and blew on it frantically as Jake chuckled quietly. The wad of paper wavered some more and then fell with an anti-climactic plop onto the ground just beside the trash can.

"Aw, snap."

"Oh ho!” Jake shouted with glee. “And it's a dollar to teacher for the brick shot.” He laughed as he held his hand out and made the universal gesture of ‘gimme my money.'

"Man,” Jerome whined as he dug into his pocket and pulled out four quarters. He got up and trudged over to slap them into Jake's palm with a sheepish smile. “I got it next time,” he said confidently with an inclination of his head before tossing the paper in the can and heading back to his seat. Jake had told the perpetually lazy freshmen that if they shot a trash basket and made it, he'd acknowledge their brilliance in an appropriate manner according to the difficulty of the shot. But if they missed, it was a dollar fine for being too lazy to get up and walk the ten feet to the can.

Brandon stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching the little scene, hard pressed to keep a smile off his face. He wondered what Jake had offered to do if they made the can shot. Then a couple of girls started whispering loudly and looking his way. He blinked, wondering if he had something on his shirt or tie. Glancing down, he remembered he'd taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves after his last class, and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt in agitation as he'd dropped his glasses on the desk before going to see Tom. He'd even dragged his fingers through his hair enough times while talking to the principal to pull it out of the tie that usually held the shoulder-length dark hair neatly at his nape. Christ. He must look like hell.

When Brandon looked up again, three girls were whispering and pointing and blushing. He raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced to the teacher at the front of the room. Jake followed the whispering and turned to look at the open doorway with a raised eyebrow. “Mr. Bartlett,” he said, covering his surprise and confusion with his usual friendly, somewhat cheeky style of greeting. “What can we do you for?"

The girls squealed quietly, and a few of the boys snickered, while Brandon just shook his head. “I'm the new health teacher,” he answered, which caused even more of an uproar amongst the girls. God! Why were they doing that?

Jake frowned at the squeaky little freshmen girls and looked back at Brandon with a slightly confused smile. “My apologies,” he offered wryly with a smirk, earning him a few playful boos as he stood up and strolled to the doorway. “Oh boo hoo, go practice your bank shots,” Jake drawled to the class. “They're all yours,” he said to Brandon softly as he stepped out into the hallway. He stopped and leaned against the wall by the door, peering back inside. “They're a generally good group,” he murmured to Brandon softly. “You shouldn't have much trouble.” He paused, looking the man over. Something was different about him, but he couldn't figure out what it was, besides looking a little rumpled. It wasn't the glasses. The missing tie maybe? The slightly annoyed glint in his eyes? Jake gave a mental shrug and pushed off the wall. “Want me to stick around through announcements?"

The P.A. crackled to life, and Brandon smiled a little. “If you don't mind hanging around, Tom said I should talk to you,” he said below the front office secretary's voice blaring out of the speakers. When the bell rang, the kids were off like a shot, walking between them, though several of the girls walked more slowly. “Bye, Mr. Bartlett.” “See you tomorrow, Mr. Bartlett.” “I'm looking forward to health class, Mr. Bartlett.” Brandon's face got more and more mystified as the classroom emptied out.

Jake grinned as the last of the class trailed off down the hallway. “You certainly wowed them, Stud,” he laughed. “What did you need from me?"

Brandon's brows shot up. Stud? He'd certainly missed that message. “Ah, Tom Berry dropped this class on me like a ton of bricks about half an hour ago—and then he steamrollered me with another small tidbit. I'm supposed to be a coach, too."

"A coach?” Jake asked with a frown. Was his leg being pulled here? “For what team?” he asked suspiciously.

"Your team,” Brandon said, a little annoyance creeping into his voice. “He said you were short a baseball coach. And pretty much that I'm the bottom of the barrel.” He muttered that last.

Jake blinked. And blinked again as his mouth fell open slightly. They were short a coach? Who? “Do you know anything about baseball?” he asked incredulously.

"I do watch the game. I happen to be a Braves fan, thank you very much."

"Good for you, Sport,” Jake responded in slight irritation. “Do you know enough to coach it, though?"

"I would say no. Which is what I tried to tell Tom, only his cheeks and nose were already turning red, and you know what that means.” Brandon crossed his arms. “He said something about me being ‘male and big enough to keep the boys in check', so I guess that has to count for something,” he said, eyes downcast. The comment had stung, actually, intimating that he
couldn't
coach—never mind that he was an excellent teacher. “So. Since it's that bad an idea, you can tell Tom no way, and that'll be it,” he proposed shortly.

Jake frowned at the man. “I didn't mean to insult you,” he said with a sigh. “It's just that we're looking at state this year, and I didn't even know I was a coach short. I'm sorry,” he offered, his tone slightly frustrated and huffy. “God, who did we lose?” he muttered almost to himself.

Brandon looked up at him and saw the truth of his words, and he again shrugged. “Guess I'm the bearer of bad news. Don't kill the messenger?” he asked, a tinge of humor creeping into his voice. “Surely there's something I can do to help. I do happen to be an above average teacher. It can't be that far off to coach, at least small things,” he offered seriously. “A shot at State is nothing to sneeze at."

"It's certainly not,” Jake responded in a hard voice. “This ain't just a sport here. We've got eight kids who should be scouted this year. We're talking their futures at stake."

"Then don't throw away my offer,” Brandon said just as firmly, face set.

Jake met the man's eyes and nodded finally with small sigh. “Just remember to at least act like you know what you're doing. Since you just got this dumped on you, you'll need clothes, won't you?” he asked with a wave of his hand at the man's attire. He was a step away from wearing tweed. Christ, he could almost see the lab safety goggles on the guy.

Brandon blinked at the about face. “Clothes? I've got running shorts, T-shirt and shoes in the car."

"Nah, not workout clothes,” Jake huffed. “The coaches dress out every day just like the players do. I'm talking cleats, baseball pants, Under Armour, jersey. You got a number you want?” he asked as an afterthought as he gestured for Brandon to start walking with him.

Baseball pants? “No preference,” the science teacher answered. “You know, the whole ‘act like you know what you're doing’ thing probably isn't a great idea. The kids, especially yours, being so good, will see right through it. It might be better to say I'm observing or something."

"Nope. Then you'll get plowed over,” Jake countered. “They have to respect you or else you're just wasting your time. We'll figure something out. Third base coach, maybe, all you'll need to learn are the signs and know the basics of base running,” he mused as they entered the gym to head for his office. A few kids were loitering amidst the bleachers, and Jake narrowed his eyes. His class should have cleared out by now. “Where are you supposed to be!?” he bellowed suddenly, his voice echoing around the gym and causing the kids to jump and scatter.