Redhead Blitz

This is a work of fiction.
 
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
 
All rights are reserved by the author.
 
It is illegal to copy or reproduce any portion of this book without the written consent of the author.

Copyright © 2012 by Jane Conner.
 
All rights reserved.

First Kindle Edition:
 
February 2012

Web site:
 
www.JanieMason.com

Cover design by Rachel Conner

Dedication

To my talented daughter and cover artist.
 
I’m so proud of you.
 
Also thanks to my author friends, Marcia James, Becky Barker and Lisa Cooke, for their invaluable input.
 
And always, to my best friend, husband and number one fan, David.
 
I love you more.

Chapter One

“I understand, Mr.
Turnell
, and I agree.
 
The college recruiters will definitely be watching Butch this season.”
 
Pulling the phone a good four inches away from his ear, Sean Fitzgerald paused at the colorful ranting of his starting quarterback’s father.

Between the school cafeteria burrito he’d had for lunch and this phone call, Sean’s gut churned.
 
He snagged an open roll of Tums from his desk drawer and popped a couple into his mouth.
 
Only three months into his position as Newtown High School’s head football coach and he was already wondering if the small stipend to his teaching salary was worth an ulcer.

“I’m wondering if you lied on your job application about coaching experience,” Beau
Turnell
said.
 
“You know the Lions don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of making it to the state championships without my boy as quarterback!”

Anticipating when the man would stop his tirade to breathe, Sean nestled the chalky antacids into his cheek and plowed back into the conversation.

“Again, I understand your frustration, but I have no choice but to comply with the school district’s policy.
 
If Butch can’t bring his grades up, he’ll remain ineligible.”
 
Sean backed the phone away again and resumed his chewing as
Turnell
blasted the school system and all its administrators for their
ridiculous
regulations.
 
Expecting students to complete homework assignments and not skip classes, what ogres.

Echoing the marching band’s bass drum as the group paraded past the window toward the practice field, the pounding at his temples steadily intensified.
 
He pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowed the remains of his antacid and muffled a burp the size of
Cleveland
.
 
Not that Mr.
Turnell
could have heard.
 
He was too busy taking more late hits at Sean’s coaching abilities.
 
He propped the phone between his shoulder and ear and fished his bottle of Tylenol out of the drawer.

“Yes, Mr.
Turnell
.
 
I’m listening.”
 
He shook two caplets from the dwindling supply and swallowed them dry.
 
Which was a challenge since every drop of saliva in his mouth had been used to dissolve the Tums.

“For years, football has been the only sport at Newtown High worth a shit, and now with you calling the shots that’s gone to hell.”

Sean checked the clock.
 
Maybe letting the man vent hadn’t been such a good idea.
 
Just like teaching a classroom full of kids, once control was lost, it was next to impossible to regain.
 
Time to assert himself.

“Although it would mean getting to school earlier, I mentioned the school’s zero period tutoring opportunities to Butch.
 
They are also available during his lunch period.
 
Do you know if he’s planning on taking advantage of any of them?”
 
Since dear old dad never seemed to emphasize academics, Sean was pretty sure the kid wasn’t.
 
He probably thought his father—who was treasurer of the school’s athletic boosters—would be able to bully his son’s way back into the line-up.

Beau
Turnell
avoided Sean’s question and instead resumed his argument about how
Spellcheck
negated the need for twelfth grade English.
 

The man’s ridiculous arguments, as well as his mind-numbing volume, were sucking Sean’s flagging mental energy right out of his body.
 
Time to put an end to this and get outside to practice.

“As I mentioned earlier, Mr.
Turnell
,
Butch’s
teachers can and will recalculate his grades on an almost daily basis.”
 
His next sentence died in his throat when Beau threatened to call his attorney and disconnected.

Crap.
 
That didn’t go well.
 
At least the guy hadn’t slammed down the phone.
 
Must have been on his cell
.
 
Sean swiveled his Eisenhower-era wooden chair and hung up his own receiver.
 
He let out a long breath, hoping to relieve the tension in his chest, then looked up at the poster of a classic Corvette on the wall in his corner of the coaching office.
 
The shiny image was almost identical to his car, which he and his dad restored before Sean left for college.
 
Those had been some of the best times of his life. Sean closed his eyes, allowing the pain reliever a bit more time to kick in.

When Heidi
Callihan
—who was now Mrs. Joe Rafferty—gave the poster to him, he’d mistaken her friendly gesture for a more personal interest.
 
Of course he’d been disappointed to learn differently, but he could consider her a new friend.
 
The school staff had also accepted him as one of their own, and the parents of students he’d met were warm and accommodating.
 
Sean chuckled, the sound one of resignation more than humor.
 
Okay, so Beau
Turnell
was one blaring exception.

With the throbbing subsiding, Sean scooped up his duffle bag and headed toward Al Matthews’ office.
 
Before he went out to the practice field he should let the athletic director know about Mr.
Turnell’s
call.

“I
so
didn’t need this.”
 
Gigi
Thompson lightly ran her crimson thumb-nail over the tiny flecks of yellow paint marring the black car’s sleek finish.
 
She’d known the parking spot would be a tight squeeze but, it had been the last available space in the lot.
 
She glanced at her watch and felt her blood pressure escalate.

Great
, she was going to be late for her job interview.
 
But what else could she have done?
 
Blowing past a funeral procession would have been heartless.
 
Damn.
 
And she’d wanted to make a great impression today.

Frustration threatened to boil out of her, and she silently mouthed a string of curses.
 
She’d gotten her rude vocabulary from her father and the wisdom not to let the nastiest of those words pour out of her mouth from her step-mother.
 
The momentary indulgence did little to help cool her bubbling temperament.

“If this jerk hadn’t practically straddled two parking spaces, I would’ve had plenty of room.”
 
Seeing that the paint from her bright yellow Escort wasn’t scraping off, dread sank in her empty stomach.
 
Suddenly she regretted the decision to skip lunch.
 
She straightened and dug in her purse for a pen, scribbling her name and phone number on the top page of her legal pad.

“Not only am I late, but my insurance rates are going to skyrocket if they have to repaint this car.”
 
Whoever owned an automobile like this would definitely notice the result of her door’s little love-tap.
 
She ripped the paper from the pad and stuffed it under the car’s windshield wiper.

Gigi
couldn’t help but glance one more time at her wristwatch while power-walking toward the building’s rear entrance, not an easy task in three-inch heels.
 
Her interview was supposed to have begun two minutes ago, and she still had to locate Al Matthews’s office once she got inside.
 
Gigi
as if she’d run into an invisible barricade.

Could Mr. Matthews be the owner of the sports car?
 
No way would he hire someone who’d just dinged his car.
 
Nausea threatened and she forced two deep, slow breaths.

She needed calm.
 
She needed cool.
 
Her stomach growled.
 
She needed a
Cinnabon
.

And she needed this job.

Deliberately measuring her inhalations,
Gigi
concentrated.
 
She recalled Mr. Matthews repeatedly knocking on her friend and neighbor’s door last week.
 
Annie Marcum had pretended she wasn’t home and, after he’d left, apologized to
Gigi
for the disturbance.
 
The memory of him pulling away in a green SUV filled
Gigi
with relief.
 
That relief wasn’t as physically satisfying as a warm, gooey cinnamon roll, but she felt markedly better.

She lifted her gaze to the heavens.

“Thank you.”
 
Then she hiked up the strap of her shoulder bag and reached for the door.

Even though the coaches’ mailboxes were housed inside the athletic director’s office and the door was always open, Sean tapped his knuckles on the frame. “Got a minute?”

Focused on his writing, Al wordlessly waved Sean in with his free hand.
 
Sean crossed to the sturdy wooden desk and Al looked up, stern-faced.
 
Although the school’s athletic director physically reminded Sean of his college football coach, with his thick salt-and-pepper hair and tall muscular physique, this man had shown no interest in developing the same informal manner his old coach had shared with his players and staff.