Caught Running (4 page)
Both Brandon's brows rose, and he stifled a snort. Jake was laughing quietly as he listened, shoulders shaking and hand covering his mouth, hissing a little as he tried not to laugh out loud. “Wasn't me,” he managed finally.
"I'm running with this,” Troy said accusingly. “All blame will be placed squarely on your impressively built shoulders, darling,” he warned before hanging up.
Jake practically guffawed. Brandon joined in with a chuckle. “That was funny,” he commented, eyes dancing. He was quickly discovering there was a lot more to Jake Campbell than the jock stereotype.
"Hey, I've got to entertain myself somehow.” Jake snickered as he grabbed his clipboard and stood. “Now the real fun will come when we see how many people actually do it,” he practically giggled as several sheets of Sudoku puzzles fluttered to the floor.
Brandon leaned over to gather up the papers, looking at the filled-out puzzles. “God, I hate these things! I have the worst time figuring them out,” he said as he offered them back to Jake. “You must have more patience than I do. I get frustrated with them. Give me a crossword instead."
Jake laughed a little uncomfortably and nodded as he took the papers back. “Crosswords require a bit more knowledge than one through nine,” he murmured as the bell rang for last bus—that meant it was 3:10. “Shit, I gotta get dressed,” he huffed, putting his clipboard back down and moving around Brandon in the small space to grab his bag.
Frowning slightly at Jake's awkward and self-deprecating reply, Brandon stood up. “I'll wait outside at the main diamond.” The school complex had three fields, two baseball and one softball, as well as the football field and track, two soccer fields and six tennis courts.
"Yeah, yeah, we're all meeting there this week. Then the teams get split,” Jake answered distractedly as he stripped off his shirt and tossed it into his chair. “Hey,” he said quickly. “Thanks,” he added softly as he looked up at Brandon and began to undo his shorts.
Brandon stopped, surprised—not to mention blindsided by the ripped chest suddenly bared to his eyes—but he managed to give Jake an honest, open smile. “Sure thing,” he said. He closed the door behind him and moved outside, a little bemused on how seeing that chest had surprised him so much ... and why he was still enjoying it now. Oh
man
.
Several minutes later Jake was tucking in his shirt as he jogged toward the fields. He made it there before any of the kids, and found the three college guys who were assistants this year standing with Brandon and the freshman team coach, Jonathan. They were waiting for someone with a key to the storage room off the home dugout, and the head coach grumbled as he jogged up and fished the key out of his bag.
"I swear, my office gets further away every year,” he growled as he jammed the key in the lock and opened the door. The assistants began to drag the equipment out and set up the field, and Jake turned to Brandon and glanced around the complex with narrowed eyes. “Where the hell is Troy?” he asked with a frown as he pulled a pack of sunflower seeds out of a bulk sell box and shoved it into his back pocket. A stream of blue-clad kids began to filter out of the building in the distance, and Jake growled softly. “He's gonna get a bat up his ass if he's not here before they get here."
Brandon decided right then and there that keeping his mouth shut was probably the best idea, although the thought of Jake going postal on golden boy Troy was funny as hell. Golden boy Troy—the other popular king of the castle—homecoming king when Jake couldn't be, the known ‘playboy’ of the school, light to Jake's dark. The unholy duo. Brandon shook his head and stood to one side, watching the college guys in case he needed to know how to set up sometime in the future. They were quite friendly, not knowing Brandon from anyone else. None had been Parkview students, they said.
A squeal of little bitty tires and the clink of the electric golf cart shutting off signified Troy's arrival, and Jake growled under his breath as he watched the man hop the chain link on the other side of the dugout and jog out to where Jake stood at home plate. The man was grinning as if he'd somehow dodged a bullet, and Jake smacked him on the side of his head with his glove. “Ow,” Troy huffed as he rubbed his ear and sulked. “Is that Bartlett?” he asked suddenly in surprise, looking over Jake's shoulder at the suited-up science teacher.
"That's the new member of our coaching staff,” Jake answered in a hard voice, all of his usual good humor gone the second he had stepped onto the grass. “If you want to stay on it I suggest you get your ass in gear,” he warned seriously. Troy looked at him, sighed, and nodded, head down as he moved to help set up the equipment. Troy knew how Jake got when he was on the field, whether it was football or baseball. He was like a different person. There was no bullshitting out here. The fun wouldn't start until the teams were set.
Jake stood there and met the boys as they jogged out onto the field. “Take your laps!” he boomed in a voice that carried over all three fields and made the freshmen flinch. The older boys immediately ducked their heads and started into a warm-up trot around the field, leading the new kids by example. There was no first day of practice greeting. There was no explanation of what Jake expected of Parkview's baseball players. There was no lecture about being on time to practice or remembering their gear every day or grades or attendance. The kids already knew all of it. And if they didn't, they'd learn or quit within the next two days. Jake's seniors would make sure of that.
The coach watched them with intent black eyes as he stood like a king at home plate, seeming to tower over the entire complex. He picked out the kids who were lagging at the end of the lap. He remembered them. He picked out the kids who were talking as they ran, and he remembered them. He watched with narrowed eyes as he mentally began weeding out the kids who were already proving themselves to be JV material and no more.
"Who wants to take the running today?” he asked his coaches softly, pointing to his heel in explanation of why he couldn't do it himself.
Brandon looked around at the other coaches. The three assistants were shuffling their feet, a younger coach he didn't know looked unsure, and Troy was oblivious—or at least acting that way. “I'll do it,” he volunteered. How difficult could it be?
Jake raised an eyebrow at Brandon and looked him over carefully. He certainly had the look of a runner, but looks could be deceiving. Hell, if Troy could look like he knew what he was doing, then Brandon could look like an athlete, right? “All righty,” he said as he waved Brandon closer. “To warm them up we make them run suicides against a coach,” he informed the man as the first of the herd of ballplayers began to come down the third base line. “If they beat you, they get bragging rights. If you beat them...” he trailed off and smiled wickedly as he waved his hand at the field.
"Suicides?” Brandon murmured.
"Oh, yeah,” Jake answered as he pointed down to the third base line. The assistants were setting up cones marking lines across the field as the older players filed up obediently at the painted white line and instructed the younger boys to follow suit. “Start here at the line, run to the first cone line and back, run to the second line, then back, and so on with all five lines,” he told Brandon as he pointed out the cones. “I can make one of the kids do it,” he added in a lower voice as he waved his hand at the college kids. “That's what they're here for, after all. $9.50 an hour for me to torture at my whim."
The science teacher chuckled. “No, I don't mind. So is the point speed or endurance?” he asked curiously. “Do I just do it once the fastest, or over and over?"
"Speed,” Jake answered immediately. “If you beat them, they know what comes next. So they'll be gunning for you,” he warned as he wagged a finger and walked toward the dugout to grab his bullhorn.
"He thinks he needs that thing to be heard,” the freshman coach murmured from Brandon's side. “What a joke, man, he could whisper and these kids would hear him. Hey,” he said as he stepped up next to Brandon and offered his hand to shake. “Whatever you do, just don't
let
them win. Don't pull your punches, right? He hates that."
Smiling, Brandon shook his hand, then grabbed one foot at a time, stretching a little by pulling them up behind him. “I'm Brandon. New assistant coach. Of some kind,” he said with a half grin.
"Jonathan,” the man offered. “Freshman head coach. I go by ‘hey you,’ mostly,” the man offered as Jake's voice boomed over the field. The bullhorn hung unused at his side.
Leaning over at the waist to stretch, Brandon chuckled as he looked over toward Jake. “You were right about the bullhorn,” he said, standing and turning his waist each way in a slight warm-up. He saw the kids trotting in their direction. “Do you teach?” he asked as Jonathan walked with him over to the starting line.
"Over at Trickum, the middle school up the road, yeah,” Jonathan answered as he watched the boys line up. “Here we go. Good luck, Coach,” he offered with a pat to Brandon's hip as he jogged away from the starting line.
Brandon blinked at the familiar touch, but didn't say anything as he moved to stand at the line. At least there was someone here who wouldn't judge him by his past, unlike Jake and Troy. And as the students lined up around him, he realized he would be new to some of them, too. He only had one class of freshmen this year, whereas most upperclassmen he'd taught sometime in the last three years.
Some of the older students and seniors nearly matched him in size, and they were in great shape. Brandon hoped to be able to at least keep up with them. This sort of running was new to him. He glanced over to Jake, squatting slightly to keep his weight balanced. Just like starting any other race, he told himself. Take deep, even breaths.
Jake stood near the plate, his eyes scanning the line to make sure there were no cheaters leaning forward. He placed his whistle in his mouth, met Brandon's eyes briefly, and blew a sharp blast.
Whether it was because he was a teacher or something else, none of the kids crowded him, so Brandon got off to a swift start, reaching out with one foot to touch the first line as he stretched back into the run, trying to use his long legs to his advantage. At the second line, he was keeping up. By the third, most of the younger kids had fallen behind. As Brandon ran for the fourth, he hit his stride, his breathing settling in, and he was hard put not to laugh as he swiftly ran back toward home plate, matching a handful of seniors.
Jake was momentarily shocked at the quick burst of speed from Brandon, and he watched the man in astonishment as he displayed that—in this case—looks were not deceiving at all. The man could run. He pulled his attention away enough to observe the boys, which ones ran well, which ones looked like Bambi on ice, and which ones were lagging too far behind. When the lead group came close to the finish, he dragged his eyes away from Brandon one last time in order to watch the finish. A couple of the boys, his speedsters, beat Brandon to the painted line by a fraction of a second, and Jake blinked again.
"Damn, that was close,” he muttered to the man at his elbow, who happened to be Troy, standing there to watch the finish.
"Dude can run,” Troy muttered in return. “Shit, who'd a thunk it, huh?” he joked softly, and Jake shook his head and smiled as the stragglers passed the line.
Brandon was grinning when they finished, only slightly winded, even more pleased when several of the older students who knew him came over to compliment him. “Wow, Mr. Bartlett, I didn't know you could run.” “Mr. Bartlett, you the man!” “Good job, Teach.” “How can you run when you spend all that time in the lab?” Brandon just laughed, pulling his feet up behind him again to stretch a little more.
"You all have Marshall and Tyler to thank for your sorry asses not having to run any more!” Jake boomed as he walked over and gave Brandon's hip an absent-minded pat, just like Jonathan had. He began to separate the boys by grade, sending an assistant or coach to go with each of them. When they had all dispersed, Jake turned to Brandon and grinned widely. “Nice run,” he said to the man with a smack to the arm, the compliment a rare and sincere one. “Stick with me today, you'll get a feel for it,” he went on.
The pat, the compliment and the smack all gave Brandon's ego a boost, and he nodded, flushed with warmth, pleased to have done well on the first day. At least there was something he could do—there wasn't much of a way to mess up running. He was sure there'd be plenty of yelling in his direction going forward, but running he could do. Brandon started watching Jake as he put the kids through practice, coming to appreciate that the man was not just a good teacher. He was a
great
teacher. It was an eye-opener.
As the sun began to set on their first practice, Jake sent one of the kids over to the control box to switch on the lights. They flickered on in the growing darkness, bathing the field with light once more. “If you're thinking about what momma has on the table for dinner,” Jake bellowed as he walked over the grid of kids now doing push-ups like they were in a boot camp, “then you can get your ass off my field and go home!
I
am your momma now! And
I
say when you eat!
I
am your daddy now!
I
say when you sleep! The only time I am
not
your momma or your daddy is when you want money for new shoes!” he shouted, his voice booming over up and out into the darkness. He walked the rows of panting, sweating, whimpering kids. They were the best, and this was how they got that way.
Brandon stood off to one side, next to Jonathan, just watching. The kids were tough, he had to give them that. But, he supposed, you didn't get to be a team that went to State if you weren't tough. He hadn't become a cross country runner over night. It had taken months and months of grueling, exhausting, mind-numbing running to condition himself properly, and even then it didn't stop. So yeah, he felt for the kids, but more in the way of having been there. He wondered how many would quit. Jonathan had told him earlier in the afternoon that these were supposed to be tryouts.
"The juniors have everything to lose,” Jonathan murmured. “They can't be on JV, too old. The seniors have the leg up just ‘cause they were all on varsity last year. The juniors are the ones digging in this week."
Jake let them go for another full minute before calling a stop to it. “Now!” he boomed. “Get your lazy hind ends up and into the showers! Go home!” he ordered amidst an array of thankful groans and moans. “And if there is one stitch of equipment left on this field, tomorrow you will all wish you hadn't been born!” he threatened, and kids scurried to put up the stuff they'd been using.
The science teacher watched them react to Jake and had to smile just a bit. It was obvious the coach didn't have discipline problems. Jake handled it in a totally different way than he would have, but it was extremely successful.
Hands on his hips and watching the kids like a hawk, Jake kept his presence big and hulking and threatening until the kids were all gone. Then he seemed to deflate a little, becoming less large, becoming more approachable. He looked over at his coaches and smiled slightly. “What do we think?” he asked no one in particular.
Brandon glanced among the other guys. He knew it certainly wasn't his place to say anything right now. He had a few opinions about some of the kids, but they were only based on what he'd seen tonight, so it wasn't a reliable sample. He needed more data to generate viable conclusions.
"Yeah, me too,” Jake agreed with the silence. “Go home, guys. See you tomorrow,” he told the men staring at him, heading for the gate a little stiffly.
Raising a brow, Brandon nodded a goodbye to Jonathan and made to follow Jake back to the gym. He had to get his clothes and head back to his classroom. He had two blocks of papers to grade and more planning. He was trying to decide if he wanted to stay here at the school to do the work or pack up and head home when his stomach growled.
