“Hi,” she said, glad of the two seconds of warning Lyssa gave her. She sounded normal, calm, professional. “Nice job in the assembly.”
“Thanks,” he said with a shrug, turning his hat in his hands. “It’s weird, being asked to speak to them. You’re trying to tell them things they can only learn by going through them.”
“Building character isn’t easy,” she agreed. “All you can do is show them the opportunities and stand with them while they try to grab them.”
“I saw you with your girls afterwards,” he said. “Brings back memories.”
She smiled at him. “Of me hanging on Coach Gould’s every word?”
He looked at his hands. “It’s good to remember the people who made a difference in your life. Keeps you humble.”
He always could surprise her. “You feeling like you need to be taken down a few pegs?”
His dimples flashed, then disappeared. “Any time you think you can, you’re welcome to try, Stannard.”
Meeting his eyes, she laughed, the kind of laugh she rarely heard from herself anymore. Being on all the time took a toll, one she willingly paid. But she’d forgotten how being with Jamie made her feel more than restless and worked up, wanting all the time. He’d made her laugh, too.
The air changed, took on a charged hum. She couldn’t tear her gaze away, couldn’t stop the heat rising in her face, the flash of desire making her clothes feel too tight, too warm. Jamie’s gaze softened, grew more intense, infused as it was with a boy’s desire and a man’s ability to fulfill it.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said helplessly.
His expression didn’t change. Some distant part of her mind recorded the look on his face, bare of any duplicity, just stark naked desire. “Meet me tonight.”
“I can’t talk about this here,” she said, and started straightening stacks of final papers on her desk, just so she wouldn’t have to look at him. Lyssa was watching, covertly of course, but watching nonetheless.
“Meet me tonight,” he said again.
She shot him a quick glance and was relieved to find humor in his eyes. “Just like high school,” she said.
“Except now we’ve got somewhere to go, and no one to answer to,” he explained.
She’d never had anyone to answer to. Her mother expected her to go out and have fun, cut loose a little, bring home a boy, any boy. But he was right. She had her own car, her house with doors that locked, a bed with eight hundred thread count sheets on it. She was on birth control, and had money, some security, if it failed. She could protect herself from everything except Jamie Hawthorn.
All he was offering was what she wanted, closure, a no-strings-attached opportunity to resolve a woman’s regret for a teenager’s refused chance. Her heart wasn’t in any danger. She was mature and experienced enough to know how to go about taking what he offered. But she wouldn’t be easy about it.
“We play for it,” she said.
An unholy light went on behind his eyes, so fierce and intense she thought she’d find herself pinned to the wall between her Albert Einstein poster and her filing cabinet. But he visibly pulled himself together. “See you on the court, Stannard.”
*
When the pretty twilight sky turned from lilac to purple, she pulled a clean pair of tights from her drawer, added a sports bra, zipped up a running jacket that fitted her from hip to chin, and laced up her sneaks for the walk to the court. A couple of blocks away she knew he was there, the faint arrhythmic thud of the ball coming to her faintly, then louder as she approached.
“One-on-one?” she said, tightening her ponytail.
He checked it back with a nod. They fell into a tentative match, playing with bodies ten years older, carrying an assortment of invisible injuries. Her right knee was well and truly fucked, while he was protecting his left ankle, pronating on it to avoid the pain of putting all his weight down. It gave her an opening to exploit, but she didn’t. Instead, she approached the game like she was coaching, just enough to harass and teach one level above her players’ skills. As she warmed up, she discarded her jacket, playing in her sports bra and leggings. A few plays later, he pulled his sweat-soaked shirt over his head, so that his bare chest slid against her back. The constant contact sent shiver after shiver down her spine to pool between her legs, his body hard against hers, elbows and hands and arms slapping, her back to his chest, the fabric of her tights and his shorts doing little to mask the musculature flexing underneath. She started sweating, then started breathing harder, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, watching him for signs of tiring. Saw none.
They hacked around, the score inched up by twos because neither of them had a three to save their lives anymore. “Who’s up?” he asked.