Play Date (Play Makers Book 3) (9 page)

Walking over to the little boy, Rachel asked, “What is he this time?”

“It’s his birthday. So he’s the Birthday Boy. Mom says to tell you she’ll bring treats.”

Rachel sighed and took the carrier from Kyle. “Hey, Mr. Whiskers, happy birthday,” she said through the grate. “We can’t wait to party with you.”

She didn’t need to ask what the treats were. She was legendary in her disapproval of anything with refined sugar or potential allergens, recommending that all snacks be fresh fruit or juice. Every once in a while cupcakes or cookies showed up, but always with elaborate proof that they were “legal” in Ms. Gillette’s eyes.

And since she was still in the mood for cake, she wouldn’t complain if Mrs. Abrams just happened to bring something white and frosted for Mr. Whiskers’ party.

• • •

It was a good day despite the odds.

And when she arrived home that evening, ready to collapse on the couch, it got even better. Two surprises awaited her in the mail—a padded envelope from Sean Decker and a letter from her father.

Ordinarily, a package from anyone, much less an NFL hunk, would have earned her full attention. But she set it aside in favor of her father’s monthly missive. Each one was a window into his world so far away. Page after page of heartfelt, honest and beautifully written language. So she eagerly brewed a pot of tea then curled up with it, already beguiled.

His current mission in Kenya absorbed his every waking moment, he reported. So different from Honduras, where he had been stationed for almost eight years. South America itself had stayed vibrant, but Dr. Gillette had grown stale. He needed new challenges, language and otherwise, and Africa provided them.

Sipping her tea, she marveled at the change from the father she had known during childhood. Her earliest memories were of a type-A dynamo. On the go, twenty-four seven. Rarely home, always exhausted by the time she and her mom saw him. Obsessed with saving lives and getting rich. Being a hero to everyone but his wife and child.

His work as a pediatric surgeon had been deadening to their lifestyle, providing every household luxury they could desire except the presence of a patriarch. Luckily, her stay-at-home mom had taken up the slack. Not that she had any choice in the matter. And at least in those days they had had a fine income, so staying home was an option.

Then Mom had gotten sick. Something strange and sapping and un-diagnosable. Over the next few years, Rachel’s father had morphed into a caregiver, not just of the daughter but of the mom as well. Eventually his wife’s disease progressed to the point where institutional care was deemed imperative. But he wouldn’t hear of it, and instead turned their house into a nursing home, with round-the-clock RNs, bizarre and costly equipment, and exorbitantly expensive experimental drugs.

By the time Rachel was sixteen, it was really just hospice. And since her father wasn’t working anymore, and her mother slept so much, it was an eerie environment for a teenager. Oddly enough though, it had been perfect for her parents. They had reconnected, fallen in love again, become impoverished and giddy together.

There was no money left by the time Rachel went to college, which didn’t matter since she secured scholarships to supplement her financial aid. A few months later, her mom passed away and her father liquidated the house and other assets to pay off their debts. He had become a true ascetic, even spoke of joining the priesthood, and probably would have done so if seminary work didn’t take so long. He was anxious to be a full-time doctor again, but only for those who, like her mom, really, really needed him.

Finally he had discovered his true calling: setting up clinics in underserved and impoverished areas around the world. It was his life now, and he rarely returned to San Diego. Rarely returned to his daughter in person, but in thought? In everything that mattered? His letters brought them closer than ever.

As she read now of his accomplishments and frustrations, her heart ached. His patients led such desperate lives, especially the little ones. Of all the illnesses and wounds he treated, starvation was the most unimaginable. So barbarian. She thought of her own students and thanked God they had juice boxes and fresh pears and granola and peanut butter sandwiches. She even gave thanks for the McDonald’s on every corner, although in a more perfect world she would have led the charge against such fatty, sugary, salty food.

At least it was food.

Wiping her eyes, she mocked herself, saying,
“Your
biggest problem is that guys don’t hit on you?”

Then she had to laugh, because one guy had done more than that. He had “banged” her and offered to take her to Cabo to
re
-bang her for a full weekend. So much for first-world problems!

Returning her attention to the padded envelope from Sean, she tried to imagine what it was. A check for fourteen hundred dollars would have been appropriate, but she didn’t really want that.

She actually had no idea what she wanted from him. Or why he was contacting her again. Did he still want a relationship? A friendship, maybe? She would like that, she admitted, despite his ineptitude.

But if he wanted more? That was intriguing, because he was the most adorable guy she had ever met. And he wasn’t intimidated or otherwise put off by her. Wasn’t afraid to kiss her, but rather, just didn’t follow through when he had the chance.

You’re an idiot, Sean Decker,
she told him fondly.
You lust over Erica and sneak around with that curly-haired blonde when I’m yours for the taking. Or at least,
she added pensively,
I was.

She didn’t want her thoughts to drift to sex with giant strangers, so she tore open the mysterious package, then had to smile. It was a goody bag from the wedding, forcing her to acknowledge his thoughtfulness. He really was a great guy.

If only he could be
the
guy. But he was already in love with two women, so what were Rachel’s chances?

Laughing at herself, she took the Cal bottle opener to the kitchen to open some organic lemonade. When a fight song blared over the tinny built-in speaker, she decided she’d bring the clever tool to class next Monday for show-and-tell. After that, she’d ship it to her dad.

Hopefully he’d get a kick out of it. Or at least he’d find some genuine amusement in the PG-rated version of the story behind it.

• • •

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, Rachel was in good spirits. The week had gone well, her period had been light, and while it seemed crass to admit it, her body was in a blissful state because, after far too long, Ms. Gillette had gotten laid.

She would treat this like a new beginning. Get out more. Mingle with men in hopes of meeting another one who could excite her the way Vince Bannerman had, but hopefully without the swagger.

She was just settling the children down for story time when a knock sounded at the classroom door and the school principal, Mrs. Rayburn, poked her curly gray head in.

“Are we interrupting?” she asked brightly.

“Of course not. Please come in.” Rachel turned to the children. “Let’s say ‘Good afternoon’ to Mrs. Rayburn.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rayburn,” they chorused, waving cheery hands at the principal, their faces beaming.

Then a second person stepped into the room—a humongous gladiator of a man—and Rachel stared in disbelief, her jaw hanging by two threads. His hair was still long and streaked with bronze, but paired with a black polo and tan slacks, seemed less outlandish than at the wedding.

He also looked tremendously larger, partly because Mrs. Rayburn was so small, but also because he was apparently just huge. And while she knew she should be furious, she had the same idyllic reaction she had felt the first time she laid eyes on him.

He was nothing less than a sexy time traveler from another, more barbarian world.

Mrs. Rayburn continued cheerfully. “Children, this is Mr. Bannerman. He’s a football player for the National Football League. Ms. Gillette arranged for him to speak to you today. Can you welcome him?”

The children started valiantly with “Good afternoon,” but when they reached his name, they all said it differently. Brannanerman, Bananaman, Brammamam.

Rachel loved it. And to her relief, the halfback’s broad smile assured her he too was amused, not offended.

“So I’ll just leave you to your fun,” Mrs. Rayburn told them. To Rachel she added under her breath, “I’m pleased you arranged this. But remember to let the office know when you’re expecting visitors.”

Rachel grimaced. “I’ll remember. I promise.” Then she turned her confused attention to Bannerman.

“Hey, teach,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bannerman.”

She didn’t want to make further eye contact, but going lower was a minefield. His mouth? Absolutely seductive. His shoulders? Chest? Worse?

So she just stared at his nose and hoped for the best, even though repressed memories surged through her. His mouth, his hands, his rumbling laugh and massive penis, and most of all, the way he could reduce her to a blob of quivering, X-rated goo.

Undeterred, he turned back to the class. “Hey, short stuff. Sounds like you’re having trouble with my name. So let’s try it this way.” He commandeered a wheeled white board, dragging it over until it was right in front of them. Then he said, “Can any of you read?”

Several hands went up, and Tommy Martinez called out helpfully, “We can read letters. And tiny words.”

“Tiny words? Okay, let’s break it down. Then you can say it with me.” He chose a red marker and started at the far left of the board using capital letters.

BRAM

“Can you say that? Bram?”

Rachel watched in confusion as the children repeated the nonsense syllable. Then he wrote:

MAM MER ANA MAN

Then he sounded it out as, “Brammammeranaman. Say it with me now.”

When the children’s attempt to repeat it ended as adorable babble, Rachel had to bite her knuckle to keep from screaming with laughter. Which reminded her of the last time he made her scream that way, laughing her way through his crazy assault.

Get it together,
she begged herself. She wanted to be strong. To rebuff him. But instead, she wished she could run home and change into something sexier than her dull little Friday outfit: a soft, flowing skirt of medium blue chambray paired with a lacy top that had three-quarter-length sleeves and a scoop neck barely hinting at cleavage.

In other words, spinster schoolteacher attire.

One of her most garrulous students, a tall, gangly girl named Alicia, raised her hand. “Mr. Brannanerman?”

The halfback chuckled. “Yeah?”

“Are you a giant?”

“Yep. Any other questions? Or should we play football?”

Everyone jumped to their feet, yelling, “Yay!”

“Wait!” Rachel stepped over to him and tried not to blush. “I thought you were going to
talk
to them.”

Bannerman turned to his audience. “The teach wants me to talk, not play. So let’s vote.”

“We don’t vote in here,” Rachel assured him, adding under her breath, “Please call me Ms. Gillette.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’m gonna call you that all night long.”

She wanted to throw him out, but instead melted just a bit. “Be good. Please?”

“Don’t worry. My plan is to keep you happy.”

“Ms. Gillette?” Kyle was waving his hand frantically.

She took a slow, calming breath, then turned to the child. “Yes, Kyle?”

“We want to play football with Mr. Brannanerman. Please?”

When everyone shouted in agreement, she arched a disapproving eyebrow even though they were so adorable, she would honestly give them anything they wanted.

And God help her, she’d give Bannerman anything he wanted too. She only prayed he didn’t know it.

Once the class settled down, she said, “Football can be fun but it’s also very dangerous. We can’t play it in here. But maybe Mr. Bannerman can show you how the professionals throw the ball. And catch it. Just the techniques,” she added firmly in the halfback’s direction.

“Sounds good,” he said, unzipping his gym bag and pulling out a junior-sized football. “Get up here, Cargo Boy. You’ll go first.”

Cargo Boy?

He was clearly speaking to Kyle, and Rachel realized he was referring to the child’s cargo shorts, which was surprisingly perceptive. Kyle wore them every day, usually khaki—like today—although sometimes gray or brown. And the umpteen pockets were always crammed with fascinating miscellany. Food for Mr. Whiskers, movie stubs, trail mix. Kyle had it all and would display it at a moment’s notice.

The little boy jumped up and joined Bannerman, and she could see why the children thought the visitor was a giant. It was almost comical, yet the disparity—the sheer wall of muscle next to that breakable little frame—jolted her back to duty.

“Okay,” she said, stepping between the two males, then eyeing Bannerman coolly. “This is just a demonstration. No rough stuff.”

“I’ll be careful. I promise.” To Kyle, he added, “You heard the teach. No rough stuff. Plus, I’ve got a bad back, so go easy on me.”

“Your back hurts?” she asked, genuinely sympathetic.

“Yeah, someone jumped me at a wedding.”

“Oh, be quiet.” She felt her cheeks blaze with embarrassment. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“It’s never over, Ms. Gillette.”

“Oh, really? Because it’s
definitely
over for
me.”
She forced herself to glare straight into his laughing eyes. “So let’s play ball, shall we?”

“Sure thing.” He handed the ball to Kyle, then told the class, “Here’s how we’ll do it. Cargo Boy’s my quarterback. He tosses it to me, then I try to get past my opponent—who in this case is the lovely Ms. Gillette. If I connect the ball to the back wall, my team wins. If she stops me,
she
wins. Got it?” He leaned down to Kyle and showed him how to position his fingers on the laces, not that it was really possible. Even a junior football was too big for these children.