Page 4

Blinking at the sharp segue, Brandon stopped the car at a light and looked at Jake, one brow raised. “Yeah. In college. How did you know that?”

Jake shrugged and looked out the window. They were at the intersection he’d been crossing this morning when his heel had suddenly decided to have a shit fit. “You have the look,”

he answered vaguely. It was difficult to describe how one athlete was able to spot another. “Sorta like gaydar for athletes,”

he offered, laughing a little.

Brandon’s mouth pulled into a smile. If only Jake knew how true that was. “Nobody’s ever told me I had ‘the look’,”

he commented, starting to drive again at the green light. “I wanted something to do at school to counteract the classes and workload, and my adviser introduced me to some guys on the track team. Figured running was good for focus. Turned out I was better at the endurance races, so I switched to cross country.”

“You still run?”

Jake asked, glancing over at the man. To be honest, he had never had much respect for track and field. In high school and college the joke had been that they had no “balls.”

“Yeah, I try to get in at least an hour a day. Seven, eight miles maybe. Helps me clear my head,”

Brandon said distractedly as he made a turn into a nice neighborhood. “Usually in the park at home or around the lake if it’s nice. It’s a chunk of time I really need for other things sometimes, but I try hard to resist skipping it. I feel like shit if I do.”

He had no idea why he was chattering so much. Maybe it was because it had been so long since anyone asked about him directly. He didn’t have friends outside a few teachers at the school because he worked too much to socialize. It didn’t look like that would be changing anytime soon.

“I never got much out of running,”

Jake admitted. “I always wound up talking to myself,”

he said with a slight blush.

“Yeah, I had that problem at first. Too much going on in my head. To really get into it you have to get past that, sort of zone out. For distance running, I mean,”

Brandon said as he pulled the car into a driveway. They were about a mile from the school, half a mile as the crow flies, in an older, upper-class subdivision with large, wooded lots. It reminded him of Mountain Park a little. He leaned forward to look at the house with green trim. “Nice house,”

he complimented.

“Thanks,”

Jake responded, reaching for the door handle. “You want a drink or something?”

he offered as he popped the door open.

Brandon’s stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. His lips twitched. “I’m thinking I better go look for some dinner. Thanks, though.”

He tilted his head, a thought occurring. Surely Jake was just as hungry as he was. “You going to eat?”

“Sometimes I do, yeah,”

Jake laughed softly. Truth was, if he didn’t eat dinner then whatever he took for his aches would hit him quicker. But he didn’t say that. “I’ve got sandwich stuff,”

he offered with a shrug.

“Well, I was going to suggest Mimi’s after you got some ice, but sandwiches would be fine,”

Brandon said. “I’m not much of a cook myself. Cold cuts, microwave. Roll-out cookies from a can,”

he said self-deprecatingly.

“Hey, I’m a great cook. All I need to fix a meal is a phone and someone to answer the door,”

Jake responded as he got out of the car and closed the door. He opened up the back and retrieved his bag. “I need beer,”

he added before closing the back door.

“Unless Mimi’s got a liquor license, you’ll have to provide that,”

Brandon said, climbing out of the car. “But if you want to get your ice, I can make the sandwiches.”

“Sounds like a plan,”

Jake agreed as he straightened his back and popped it slowly. “I’m not helping you do teachery things,”

he warned with a wave of his finger as he dug out his keys and turned to head for the door.

Brandon paused at the hood of the car. “Teachery things?”

he asked, wondering if that was a hint that he could bring his grading in to work on while they ate.

“Yeah, you know, with pens and papers,”

Jake said with a wave of his hand over his shoulder as he mounted the stairs. “I don’t do those,”

he said with a shake of his head.

Figuring that was as close to a sign as he was going to get, Brandon ducked into the rear seat to grab his back pack and jogged to catch up. “How can you not do pens and papers? I remember taking tests in P.E.,”

he said, curious. How could he get away with giving grades without giving tests?

“Tests?”

Jake asked incredulously. “No, no, they moved that to health and somewhere else,”

he answered as he pushed the door open and stepped into his house. It smelled cool, with an undercurrent of something that might have been a melon of some sort. He snapped on the lights and headed for the kitchen, trusting that Brandon would follow. “The only tests we do in P.E. are the President’s Fitness tests, and those are usually 8th grade, I think,”

he added. “P.E.’s just pass-fail.”

Brandon looked around as he followed. It was a really, really nice house. Not at all what he would have expected for a ... Brandon winced at the track his thoughts were taking. He figuratively kicked himself and entered the kitchen behind Jake. Once another set of lights flipped on, he slung his backpack onto the bench of the breakfast nook. He needed to work on changing his preconceptions. They’d already been tilted several times today.

“I grew up here. My parents moved to Florida about five years ago,”

Jake told the man, knowing he had to be wondering how he afforded this house on a teacher’s salary. “I took the house in exchange for hauling all their shit down there for them,”

he smiled as he went to the refrigerator and opened it. “Want a beer?”

“Sure,”

Brandon said, looking around a little more and out at a rolling, wooded back yard. The neighbors looked to be a good fifty yards or more away. “Got my house pretty much the same way. Well, inherited it, I mean,”

he said, pausing for a moment as he remembered his parents, some years gone now. He turned back to Jake abruptly. “Okay—ice? Blender? What do you need?”

he asked efficiently.

“Heh,”

Jake laughed as he tossed Brandon a beer. “Rookie,”

he scoffed as he opened up the freezer and pulled out a frozen gel pack. He plopped it onto the counter and reached in for another, and with it pulled out a wrap that was specially made to have one of the gel packs inserted into it and then fit over his ankle.

Brandon nodded—he’d seen braces like that before. “Modern technology is a wonderful thing,”

he commented, setting the beer on the table. “Sandwich fixings?”

Brandon was trying very hard to distract himself from looking at Jake’s close-cropped dark hair, the curve of his neck. Oh, not a good thing. Nope. Move on, Bartlett. Nothing here to see. He walked over to the bread box, lifting the door experimentally and pulling out the loaf he found there.

“Everything else is in the fridge there,”

Jake said with a nod at the stainless steel appliance as he lifted his foot onto a stool and gave his sore ankle a brief rub before sliding into the compression pack. He gave all the Velcro pieces some tugs and made sure the ice was on his heel, then slid around Brandon and reached into the freezer again for a wrap that went around his knee.

Brandon had mayo and mustard in the crook of his arm, and he was picking up packages of deli meat when he felt the other man’s body close, so he shifted his hips over so Jake could open the freezer door. He rifled through the cold-storage drawers, finding a couple kinds of sliced cheese, some shredded lettuce, even a few tomatoes. He pulled it all out in a huge armful and spread it out on the table, nabbing the bread. “Plates? Knife? Cutting board?”

he asked as he watched the coach adjust the wrap. By the looks of his movements, he was very well-versed in putting the things on. He suddenly wondered if Jake had continued to pitch in college, or if he’d played outfield or first base instead.

Jake tapped a drawer to signify the knives were in there and reached behind him as he stood on one leg, his hand holding the knee piece together while he plucked out a cutting board and set it on the counter. “I’ll get the plates in a sec,”

he muttered as he pulled the compression brace tight and felt the cold of the ice pack within press around the inside of his knee. He smoothed out the Velcro and then sighed heavily as he straightened back up.

Watching the production, Brandon began to understand a little bit of what Jake was going through all without saying anything. He would never have thought the coach hurt that much until less than an hour ago, but now it was getting obvious. He’d learned this afternoon, though, that with Jake silence was more valued than chatter, so he kept quiet about it, taking the cutting board and a knife he’d pulled out to the nook table where he started slicing the tomatoes.

Jake glanced up at the man as he reached into one of the glass-fronted cabinets and retrieved the plates. “I blew out my knee freshman year,”

he told the man in answer to the unasked questions. “It still aches on me sometimes, when it’s cold like it is now.”

Brandon looked up at Jake, face even. He didn’t pity the man. He was sure Jake was doing something suitably athletic at the time, but he wouldn’t wish that sort of pain on anyone. “Saw that happen to runners a few times. Painful,”

he commented quietly, going back to slicing. “Ligaments, anyway.”

Jake raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He doubted many runners got tackled from the side by wild bears in thick pads as they trotted down the trail or something, but he left it alone. He also hadn’t explained the bone spurs in his ankle or the utter destruction of his shoulder that his dumbfuck high school baseball coach had wrought by pitching him too often and too much. He just let it go at the knee and twisted open his beer. It didn’t occur to him that most people used bottle openers to do that.

“I’m guessing since this stuff is in your fridge, you’ll eat it all,”

Brandon said as he built two large sandwiches, heavy on the meat and cheese. He stole glances at Jake, seeing the play of emotions across his face. He was curious, but it wasn’t right to push. For all that he’d gone to school with and now worked with him, Brandon barely knew him. It felt awkward standing in his kitchen making him a sandwich.

“I’ll eat anything,”

Jake responded automatically. “I’ll eat bark if you put beer on it,”

he assured the man as he popped a few pills and took a long gulp of his beer to wash them down.

“Bark?”

Brandon asked with a snort. “That would certainly take care of your fiber for the day,”

he joked, setting the plate with the bigger of the two sandwiches in front of Jake on the bar that faced the nook. He sat at the table and rifled through his back pack to pull out a folder of papers. Then with a glance up—though he wasn’t sure why he was embarrassed, he wore them all day when teaching—he pulled his glasses out and slid them on. “Good with the sandwich?” he asked.

“Mm hmm,”

Jake answered as he straddled the nearest bar stool. He watched Brandon silently as he ate, glad that he didn’t have to deal with grading papers.

Nodding and taking a bite of his own, the science teacher started reading and marking, scribbling a grade at the top of each paper and circling it before setting it aside. He kept eating as well for several minutes, pretty much caught up in what he was doing until he glanced up to reach for his beer and saw Jake watching him. He froze in place. How had he not felt the weight of those black eyes on him?

“What?”

he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,”

Jake answered with a small smile. “Just another one of those times where I’m glad I’m me,”

he laughed softly with a gesture of his beer at the stack of grade papers.

Brandon cracked a grin. “You already said you wouldn’t help with the teachery things, too. Bastard,”

he muttered under his breath.

“That’s the rumor,”

Jake answered with a shit-eating grin as he pushed his empty plate away and finished his beer. He plunked it down on the counter and leaned back on his stool, trying to reach the refrigerator without having to get up.

“I’ll get it,”

the science teacher said, pushing his glasses up with one finger and crossing to the fridge. He took out a beer and pressed it into Jake’s hand, then went and sat back down, going right back to eating and grading.

Jake frowned a little. “Thanks,”

he muttered, looking at the man closely. He wondered how much of a doormat the guy really was, or if he was just too nice. There was such a thing as being too nice.

Back at his marking, Brandon made a noncommittal noise. “Just don’t get used to it,”

he said, not even looking up from his papers. He wondered how long Jake would let him stick around before kicking him out. He was getting a decent start on his grading now.

“Hmph,”

Jake offered as he twisted off the top and kicked back a large portion of the beer. This was his nightly ritual. Get home, get ice, take drugs, and chase them with alcohol. He knew he likely should have been embarrassed to be doing it in front of Brandon, but frankly, after ten years he had lost the capacity to care. In fact, he had rarely cared what people thought of him; it was one of the qualities he supposed had made him so popular everywhere he went.

“That reminds me, every Wednesday the coaches all gather somewhere under the guise of team meetings,”

he said as he watched the pen move. “Usually we drink and make fun of the Dugout Club, but it’s always a good time. If you’re interested.”

Brandon glanced up—Jake was inviting him to hang out? How wild was that? His glasses had slid down enough that he could look at Jake over the frames. “The Dugout Club?”

he asked, smiling a little.

“Yeah, you know, the parents who can’t keep their noses out of the game long enough to let us breathe?”

Jake answered with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t get me started on the Diamond Girls,”

he warned.

Smile getting bigger, Brandon chuckled. “You know I’m gonna ask,”

he pointed out. “Better I know now than look like an idiot if I have to ask later,”

he pointed out reasonably.

“Cheerleaders for the baseball team,”

Jake grunted. “Baseball shouldn’t have cheerleaders,”

he protested grumpily.

The science teacher’s eyes got really big. “We have baseball cheerleaders?”

he asked in utter disbelief. “Oh God. Don’t tell me it was one of Misty’s ideas. I knew she wanted to figure out a way to be around the field in the spring, but this?”

He threw down his pen and leaned back with a groan.

“Don’t say that name to me,”

Jake warned good-naturedly. “I tried to fight it, but the girls started shouting discrimination.”

He grunted in distaste.

“Oh, good Lord. Does the softball team have cheerleaders?”

Brandon asked, tossing his glasses to the table.

“Not that I know of,”

Jake answered wryly. “As long as they stay away from the dugouts we deal with it,”

he added. “That’s another thing. When you’re in the dugout with the guys, make sure they know you’re willing to smack them around if they get out of line,”

he advised as the warmth of the beer began to flood through him.

“You know why you have a cheerleading team, right?”

Brandon asked. It was an open secret, really. Misty ran her mouth about it even in the ladies’ room—or so Rhonda had told Brandon. The cheerleading coach was gunning for a handsome husband; specifically the Prom King to her Prom Queen.

Jake leaned back warily and narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

he asked with a slight touch of dread.

Brandon looked uneasy. He’d never been one to pal around with the guys, comparing cock length and notches in bedposts. He wasn’t really comfortable with that kind of talk. “You remember how Rhonda was looking at you like an appetizer?” he asked.

Jake blinked at the man and then shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, that,”

he muttered. “Misty’s tenacious,”

he huffed uncomfortably.

“She looks at you like you’re a side of high-grade beef, man,”

Brandon said with more than a tinge of sympathy.

“She always has,”

Jake shrugged. “Senior year I thought she was going to kill me if I didn’t take her to the prom. I skipped last period one day, drove over to Berkmar, grabbed the first girl I saw and asked her to go with me. Just to save myself the trouble.”

Brandon’s jaw dropped. “Wow. No wonder she was so pissed. I remember that hissy fit very clearly, and I was all the way across the cafeteria. Sure as hell went a long way to making me swear off ... “He snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. “You were smart,”

he finally added.

Jake cocked his head questioningly at the truncated sentence, but left it alone. He smiled fondly at the memory. “I almost married that girl later,”

he told the man with a small smile. “She couldn’t take the ‘brutality’ of the sports, though. And I couldn’t take ... well, the thought of being married.”

The smile reappeared. “Almost married, huh?”

Brandon tilted his head, looking over Jake. “You’ve got closer than I have,”

he added with a shrug, finishing off his sandwich.

“Too busy with the learning, huh?”

Jake ventured.

Brandon played with his glasses, tapping them on the papers. This discussion wasn’t where he wanted to be—it edged too close to dangerous territory. “Yeah, I guess. College, grad school while teaching, moving back here. That and no real interest in dating,”

he said. “I wasn’t exactly coveted by girls in high school, as I’m sure you know.”

“Nothing bad about that. You don’t have Misty on your tail fifteen years later, hmm?”

he pointed out.

Shaking his head, Brandon made a face. “How someone that pretty can be so ugly, I don’t know,”

he said, his voice filled with obvious distaste.

“Looks can be deceiving,”

Jake crooned with another gulp of beer. “I mean, for some reason I’ve been thinking about high school a lot lately,”

he admitted. “Thinking about what shits all kids are and how many friends I could have had but didn’t ‘cause I wore a letter jacket. You still see it today.”

Among the teachers as well as the students, Brandon added silently. “Well, I can honestly say I never thought I’d be sitting at your kitchen table grading papers and drinking a beer,”

he said, thinking back to how defined the cliques had been when he was in school. Except for very few, those lines just didn’t get crossed, and the groups didn’t mix. “In high school, you just don’t know how to break those walls down,”

he added quietly. He knew from experience, and now he sensed Jake knew, too. “But I’m sure I was just as much a shit as you were,”

he poked, trying to lighten the tone of their discussion.

Jake bristled mightily and then sighed, the beer and pills loosing his tongue more than he would appreciate when tomorrow came. “I wasn’t such a bad guy,”

he mumbled defensively.

Brandon looked at him closely when Jake dropped his eyes.

No.

No, he hadn’t been, not really, not compared to many.

A sudden tenseness filled Brandon, and he knew he needed to leave.

He wasn’t sure he liked this sudden interest his body seemed to be taking in Jake’s body. Gah . “It’s late, I need to get home and get more work done. I’ve got baseball practice after school tomorrow. Imagine that,”

he said, standing and shoving all the papers in his back pack, that whole shell-shocked look returning.

Jake looked back up and watched Brandon with his dark eyes. “Something I said?”

he asked curiously.

“Something you ...? No,”

Brandon said, sinking back into the booth, sliding on his glasses to hide behind them just like he did at work. “I’m just not really good with people,”

he said. “This whole baseball thing will be a real challenge for me. And not just learning the rules.”

He’d been an introvert for so long, it was really hard for him to break the habit. Teaching was different.

“With people?”

Jake echoed, brow furrowing in deeper confusion. “Oh,”

he murmured as if trying to understand but not really getting it. “Yeah, no. No, I’m sorry,”

he went on as he stood up slowly. The gel pack on his ankle made a loud squishing sound in protest but he ignored it. “I’ll walk you out,”

he offered.

Standing up again, Brandon grabbed his back pack and headed to the door, feeling awkward once again. This was why he didn’t do social things. He stopped outside, turning to look at the tired man in the doorway. “Thanks for the sandwich. I hope you feel better tomorrow.”

“Heh,”

Jake responded as he leaned against the door frame. “I’m sure I’ll be right as rain come morning,”

he asserted with confidence. “Hey, don’t forget to bag your phone tomorrow,”

he told the man with a cheeky grin.

Brandon just stared at him, totally at a loss for what to say. Bag? His phone? He blinked in confusion. Oh! It clicked, and he chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Sure. I’ll have to remember not to laugh when Troy announces it. It would be supercilious of me not to follow instructions,”

he teased, shuffling a little.

“Like I know what that means,”

Jake scoffed with a grin. “See ya tomorrow, man. Don’t forget your clothes.”

Starting down the stairs, Brandon raised a hand and nodded.

He got settled in the car and drove off, all the while feeling very self-conscious because Jake stood there in the doorway, watching him the whole time.

Jake waited until the headlights were gone, then turned back into his house and shut the door slowly.

It was a habit learned from his father, to watch a visitor leave until they were out of sight.

He didn’t even know that he did it.

With a sigh, he trudged toward the stairs and the shower on the upper level.

Something about Brandon was ringing in his ears, but he couldn’t place it. It left him unsettled and cranky, and Jake didn’t like being either.

The drive home seemed to whip by because Brandon’s head was full of new images and ideas—baseball, tight white pants, health class, Jake Campbell.

He stopped the car in the driveway and climbed out automatically, looking at the rustic white bungalow surrounded by wild flowers.

So different from Jake’s house.

But tonight, Brandon thought they might have discovered they had at least a tiny something in common.

He headed inside, deciding to finish grading the essays and the other block’s work before taking a run around the lake.

It was going to be a long night.

The first of many.