The Last Strike by A.R. Henry

Chapter 5

I. Was. Nervous.

Heaven help me.

We’re talking—sweat stain armpits, should have worn a sweater, I need deodorant—nervous.

A few of the students’ parents were already in my classroom, but let’s be honest there was only one parent that I cared about seeing. A six-foot-two man—with the hottest beard that I’ve ever seen—was about to invade my safe space. I’d seen him more times over the last few weeks than I ever thought possible. I hated that we were even breathing the same air each time, and if you told me that I would be freaking out this much to see him again I would have told you that you were nuttier than a five-pound fruit cake.

He probably won’t even be bothered to look me in the eyes anyways, right?

 

Wrong.

I was so, so very wrong.

Sweet, little, naive me.

Oh, to be young and dumb again.

I only went and made the biggest fool of myself today. Which is exactly why I’m sitting across from Ash at a bar—drowning myself in dirty martinis—hoping to forget how much of a disaster today was. As I go over what happened for the millionth time in my head, I collapse over the table with my face buried in my arm to hide the blush on my cheeks. Something about that man just makes me lose my dang mind.

Unfortunately, I’m the kind of person that will torture myself by remembering how awkward I can be. I’m still haunted by the memory of presenting my fifth grade “character day” project in front of my classmates. I stuttered so much, and I’m sure no one in who was in that class can even remember my hideous Catherine of Aragon outfit, but my brain likes to torture me occasionally and forces me to remember embarrassing moments like that.

I can feel Ash’s gaze on my heated face. Before she can say the words, I roll my head to the side to look at her.

“No, I will not repeat the story again,” I groan. She full on belly laughs at my humiliation. Tomorrow I’m posting an ad on craigslist for a new best friend. The requirements will be simple: cannot laugh at my embarrassment, must be loyal, must have an island I can live on alone.

She snorts and says, “Bu…bu…but it’s…so…good…you…have…to…tell me again.” She’s seriously laughing so hard at my expense she can’t speak a whole sentence without stopping to laugh and breath between each word. Witch. Just for that I’m changing her sugar to salt when we get back to her apartment.

I gulp down the rest of my drink, and cringe as the memory flashes through my head again of what happened earlier at career day.

My nerves never really did ease up, but by the time Mr. I’m-Too-Sexy-Baseball-Coach-Man walked into my classroom I was putting on a good enough show that he wouldn’t notice.

If you’re wondering if I played the “I don’t know you” game—ding ding ding we have a winner—you would be correct. I acted like I had never met the man before. Don’t ask me why. I blame the nerves.

I had each of the parents introduce themselves to the class when they got up to speak and didn’t allow any of them to talk to me directly until after everyone was done and leaving. I thought the play-it-cool act would be just fine. There was no way in hell the man who ignored me last night would voluntarily speak to me in front of all these people today.

How wrong I was about that.

I was speaking with Timmy’s dad, Michael, a lovely man who wore glasses and a bowtie, when Satan’s brother approached us. Now, normally if I notice someone approaching, I would acknowledge them like a perfectly sane person would. However, today my body was possessed by a woman who moonlights as a kindergartener.

Why, you ask?

Mr. Baseball.

That’s why.

So, when Michael started telling me all about his work as an accountant?

I giggled.

Like a child.

When he suggested maybe we should have another parent teacher meeting that isn’t actually a parent teacher meeting but a date?

I giggled.

And when Mr. Baseball walked up to suggest that he would like to bring the baseball team to the school to meet the kids?

I giggled.

What. The. Hell.

I somehow managed to get the giggling under control long enough to tell Mr. Bell that he would need to talk to the principal. He apparently didn’t like that answer because his response was to just grunt then glare at Michael long enough to make him so uncomfortable that he turned and walked away. Weston’s glare followed Michael until he was out of the classroom, and unfortunately for me, that piercing gaze made its way back to my face.

“I’m not dealing with that circus clown. I’m dealing with you.”

Who is he calling a circus clown?

“Michael?”

He rolls his eyes and huffs in frustration. “No, not that half-wit. The principle. The man looks like he belongs under a big top somewhere, stuffing his face with a hot dog.”

Ohh. Well, that’s rude, but also a very accurate description. I can totally see it.

“Okay, um, first of all that’s incredibly rude of you to say. Secondly, I can talk to Mr. Pond, but I’m sure he’ll just ask me to direct you to him.”

“No.”

The freaking nerve of this guy. I ball my hands into fists, and try to breathe through this, but I just keep getting angrier the longer I look at his handsome butt face. How could he ignore me last night then have the nerve to speak to me like this today?

I finally sputtered, “What do you mean no? You can’t just say no. He’s the principal, and he’s my boss.”

“I’ll only coordinate this through you, or we won’t come. They won’t turn this down. Here’s my cell. Call me Monday morning, and we’ll work out a time for the team to drop by next week.”

My mouth is doing an impression of Ash when it plummets to the ground. I dumbly take the business card he hands me.

“Um, okay. You know I have your number in the school directory, right?”

Dumb. I am so dumb. Of course, he knows that. Why did I tell him something he already knows? I’m supposed to be arguing a point here, but I can’t seem to remember why or what it is.

The corner of his right lip slowly comes up to a smirk, and I wonder what he would look like if he broke out into a full smile. I bet he would be beautiful, and if he laughed? I bet the sound would impregnate every female within a five-mile radius with the sound alone it would be so devastatingly wonderful.

“I know,” is all he responds back.

“Okay then, I guess I’ll call you.”

“Good.”

And with that, the most talkative man I have ever met turns and leaves the room. Making me wonder, yet again, why he sought me out.