Page 4 of Caught Running
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 hecouldn’tcoach—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. Hewas 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,” Brandonsaid, 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 Armourshirt, 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?”