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“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.

Brandon pulled back a little at the resounding shout, but he had to smile as he followed Jake back to his office. He remembered that bellow from the football field—Jake had been the star quarterback, of course. “You don’t sound much different, you know that?” he said before thinking about it.

“Different?” Jake asked in confusion as he went to the free-standing aluminum locker in the corner of his tiny cinderblock office. “Different than what?”

“You used to yell like that on the football field. I remember. I could even hear you from the far end of the bleachers,” Brandon said, hands in his pockets as he watched Jake rifle through the locker.

Jake looked over his shoulder as he pulled out a spare pair of pristine white baseball pants. “Oh,” he responded with a slight blush. “I didn’t know you ever went to any games,” he went on uncomfortably, uncertain of how else to respond.

“A few,” Brandon admitted. “Wanted to see what all the hubbub was about when you won regionals,” he said. He still didn’t know much about football, but it had been an experience.

“Did you?” Jake asked curiously. He remembered the ‘hubbub.’ The crowd roaring in excitement, the marching band blaring music from the stands, the crunch of pads and the grunts of tackles, the cold, the bright lights and the smells of sweat and grass and perfect fall nights. God, he had loved it. Lived for it.

“Yeah,” Brandon said quietly. “It was a world I didn’t have any part in. It was exciting to watch.” He saw the faraway look in Jake’s eyes, so he just stayed quiet until the other man was done reminiscing. He wished he had memories like that. The best he had was the blank calm he’d get when running miles and miles cross country, over flowing fields and through leafy forests. He knew he’d been in the zone then.

Jake looked at the man strangely and nodded. Brandon was an unusual one in that he’d always had the physique to be an athlete, but Jake had never seen him play anything. They’d not even been in freshman gym together because Brandon didn’t get to Parkview until their sophomore year. Even back then, Brandon had been one of the larger kids, nearly as tall as Jake himself and filled out through the shoulders, though lanky. He had just never had the desire to use it, losing himself in his intellectual side instead, Jake supposed.

“Well,” Jake huffed. “These should fit you,” he said as he handed over pants, a shiny blue long-sleeved Under Armour shirt, and a loose-fitting jersey of the same color. “What size shoe are you?” he asked as he lifted his own foot and looked down at his trainers with a distracted frown. “Eh, first day you’ll be fine with tennis shoes,” he amended. “Hey, thanks for running interference earlier, by the way.”

Brandon stuck the clothes under one arm, confused until he remembered Rhonda. “Ah, yeah. No problem. I’ve seen Rhonda when she’s really fixated on something. Granted, it’s always been projects or grants or something. But she was getting this scary look in her eyes.” He paused. “And size 12.”

“You can borrow my spares,” Jake nodded. “They’re twelve and a half cause I have to wear this lift thing in one of them for my ankle,” he rambled as he picked up one of the cleats and poked inside it. It was battered and scuffed, but had a well-loved look to it as he held it in his big hands. “The lift is still in here, actually,” he muttered, poking at the thick pad. “They’ve got stickers on them, I never try to pull them out,” he muttered distractedly, “and I sort of walk on the outsides of my feet so the soles wear down funny, but they should do you okay if you don’t want to buy a new pair. They run about fifty bucks, I think.”

“Thanks, I’ll see how they fit,” Brandon said. “I’ll just change. The locker room’s across the hall, right?”

“Yeah, but,” Jake cleared his throat and flushed a little. With a little huff and a smile he bit the bullet and asked, “Boxers or briefs, man?”

Brandon held up the pants, looking at them appraisingly before looking back to Jake. “You’re not telling me I’m supposed to wear something under these, are you?” His voice reflected his real amusement. There was no way he’d be able to get these pants on with underwear.

“You’re supposed to wear sliding pants under them, but since we’re not playing you’d look a little funny. White briefs are best,” Jake answered as seriously as possible. He’d gotten a sudden image of the man standing before him going commando, and he’d rather liked the idea quite a bit.

“Okay, you would know,” Brandon said, looking uncertainly at the pants. “I’ll be right back.” He left the office and crossed the hall, dropping the clothes on the bench in between the rows of lockers and starting to strip down. Maybe it was fate, he thought wryly. He’d worn white spandex shorts instead of briefs today, planning to go running in the park once he got home. At least he wouldn’t look like a total nerd with red or black showing through the white pants.

He pulled on the Under Armour shirt, surprised that it was so stretchy and comfortable. Stepping into the pants, he blinked in surprise when they got really close-fitting, really fast. He had to shimmy several times to pull the damn things up, and for a moment he was sure he wouldn’t get them over his hips without baby powder or something. Finally they were on, and he looked in the mirror, almost horrified. Second skin had nothing on these pants. He tucked in the shirt (as best he could) and slung the jersey over one arm, walking back out to Jake’s office barefooted.

“If you’re ordering pants for me, I’m thinking these are maybe a size or two small,” Brandon said as he re-entered the office.

Jake looked up from his book and blinked at the man. He looked him over appraisingly, noticing for perhaps the first time just exactly how fit Brandon really was. The Under Armour stuck to him like wet paper, outlining muscles Jake had never thought to see on a biology teacher, and the pants were in fact a perfect fit; just loose enough to allow for the usual protective gear but not so loose as to impede movement on the field. Jesus. “No,” he murmured as he cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “No, they look perfect to me,” he answered distractedly.

Brandon looked down at himself and then shrugged, combing his hair back behind his ears with his fingers. “If you say so. They’re going to take some getting used to,” he commented, sitting in the other chair and pulling on the blue socks Jake had set out.

Jake watched him with a series of stupid blinks before pulling his eyes back down to the Sudoku puzzles on his desk. Another hobby he hid while at school. Slowly he moved his clipboard over to cover them up and then glanced back up at Brandon from under lowered brows. With his stuffy dress shirt and tie replaced by the tight blue shirt and the clean white pants, he actually looked like an athlete. He looked like someone Jake would try to pick up in a bar. Looking away again, Jake slowly reached for his paperback to put it out of sight as well. When you were a P.E. coach in any high school, no one gave you credit for having actual brains. If you were caught doing something that could be considered intelligent, like reading a book, you were prodded at for trying to ‘look smart’. It was more the ‘that one doesn’t have illustrations, dimwit’ kind of thing that he usually got, instead of someone asking if it was a good book. He didn’t want to hear any jokes from Brandon.

Jake cleared his throat again and nodded. “Trust me, you’ll be glad to have them. We practice from 3:30, when the kids get out there, to anywhere from 5:30 to 7 at night. It’ll be cold when the sun goes down. It’ll be wet sometimes. Only time we don’t practice is when there’s lightning, and then we’re in the weight room.” He picked up a pencil and began to tap it on his desk thoughtfully. “What else ...” he murmured to himself as he looked around for guidance. “We do a good bit of traveling, have a few overnight stays, so might want to prepare your girlfriend or wife or whatever,” he went on as he dug out a schedule and glanced over it. “We got some Friday and Saturday games,” he muttered. “We have a tourney in Florida over spring break, and usually during that first week of May we take the kids to Turner Field for a game or two, that’s an overnight thing as well,” he went on as he handed the schedule over to Brandon.

“Coaching is a full-time job,” Jake murmured softly. That was one of the things most regular teachers never understood. They had the kids from 7:30 in the morning to 2:30 in the afternoon. Most left it at that. Some sponsored clubs or did tutoring, but then they wiped the school smell from their shoes and headed home. The coaches spent nights, weekends, and summers with their kids. They helped them shop colleges. They fielded phone calls from drunken parties and gave advice on love lives. They kept in touch with kids long after they walked and got their diplomas. When Jake had been in college and come to the realization that he might be bisexual, his football coach from high school had been the first person he had called.

“Not married,” was Brandon’s only quiet comment as he considered the practice time, the weekend games and tournament trips. He’d already committed himself, he knew, so there was nothing to do but give his best. He quickly calculated the amount of sleep he’d be getting and inwardly winced though outwardly he looked calm. Long days. Even longer days. He started each weekday at 4:45 a.m., tutored from 6 to 7 and carried a full class load from 7:30 to 2:30 p.m. Now, instead of working on his doctorate research in the late afternoons, he’d have baseball practice and games, and another skim of the schedule convinced him that his personal classwork would have to shift to after 9 p.m.—after daily planning, grading papers, writing up tests—and with several Saturdays gone, his only free day, Sunday, would be taken up as well. Exercise, he had no idea when he’d fit that in. Maybe after the doctorate planning, late. He could run around the lake at home.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asked the coach.

“You look a little green,” Jake observed without answering. “Practice is actually fun after you weed out the whiners,” he said, trying to offer some condolences as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk.

Brandon had to chuckle, and he relaxed a little. “Whiners, huh? Whining about what? Taking ground balls in the groin?”

“That’s what cups are for,” Jake answered instantly, his standard retort to any complaints about impact pain in that particular area. “And if they get knocked in the nuts it’s ‘cause they didn’t have their glove down and they deserved it. We don’t baby these guys,” he insisted vehemently. “I know you academics think we treat them with kid gloves, but if they don’t pull their weight on a report card they’re off the team. If they get hurt, they play through it. If they get sick, they show up anyway. I guarantee you my boys are some of your only students with perfect attendance. And I guarantee you any day of the week you have at least one kid in at least one of your classes with taped fingers, ankle brace, knee brace, or some sort of hellacious bruise they’re trying to cover up.”

He was bristling protectively now. He knew what student athletes went through. They got labeled with the ‘jock’ title, put in the easy classes even if they should have been honors students, and when they did do something spectacular academically it got chalked up to luck. Not to mention the injuries, grueling practice schedules, and heartbreaks that could only come with loving a sport. Jake snorted noisily through his nose to calm himself and rocked back in his chair, rolling his sore neck and closing his eyes.

Brows rising as Jake seriously soap-boxed, Brandon knew he’d hit a sore spot, one possibly dating back to their own time in school. And the more Jake talked, the more he made sense. The biology teacher nodded slowly. The coach was right. As much as the nerds had felt put down and razzed for not being athletic or good looking—the jocks had been razzed about grades and attendance. He thought maybe both groups had gotten the short end of the stick. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Jake stared at the man for a moment and then broke into a disarming smile. It was another thing he was good at, glazing over bursts of emotion and pushing it back until it was quickly forgotten. He was also good at playing up the dumb brute image when he needed to. The everyday game face. “I get carried away,” he offered, his usual wry smirk back in place and his eyes warm brown again. “It usually happens when they don’t give me my juice at lunch,” he joked with a sheepish grin, reaching behind himself to rub the back of his neck and roll his head, forcing his spine to crack loudly.

The phone on his desk began to ring demandingly, and Jake glared at it. He held up his hand, indicating for Brandon to wait, and removed his feet from the desk to reach for the speaker button. “This is the Literacy Self Test Hotline,” he drawled in a deep, businesslike voice. “After the tone, leave your name and number and recite a sentence using today’s vocabulary word. Today’s word is supercilious .”

“Is there a student sitting with you?” Troy Peterson’s voice asked warily over the phone.

“No,” Jake laughed with a wink at Brandon.

“Go fuck yourself then,” Troy muttered. “Did you send in this announcement to be read with the morning report tomorrow?”

“What announcement?” Jake asked in an attempt to sound innocent, barely able to keep his voice from wavering in amusement. Brandon tilted his head and smiled at the change in the other man. How bizarre that he could switch so quickly from one mood to the other.

“I quote,” the speech teacher and fellow coach responded, obviously reading from something, “At precisely 11:42 this morning, maintenance will be blowing the dust out of the phone lines. All teachers should cover the earpiece of their classroom phones with a bag to catch the dust.”

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 .