Free Agent

by Catherine Gayle

  Seemed like she ought to be telling me her rules, then. How the hell was I supposed to follow her rules if I didn’t know what they were?

  But instead of filling me in, she turned to her computer monitor and clicked her mouse a few times, then started typing.

  I couldn’t just sit still for this long. Especially not in that chair made for miniature humans.

  My eyes scanned the room again, almost of their own accord. There was a large bulletin board on the other side of the room. Orange paper had been stapled over it, but the brown, red, orange, and gold leafy border was only half in place. The end of it was dangling, and a stapler was resting on a step stool.

  The clatter of her fingernails on the keyboard and her occasional sighs were the only sounds in the classroom. It was enough to make me crazy. Well…crazier than I already was, which was more than enough to be getting on with, thanks. I couldn’t freaking deal with the silence and the lack of anything to do with myself, so I got up and crossed over to the partially finished bulletin board. No reason I couldn’t finish this up for her while she was working on something else, right?

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, but I already had the stapler in hand, and I was shoving her step stool out of my way because I didn’t need it. The damned thing would only make me trip.

  I didn’t bother to answer, because anyone with eyes could see that I was taking over the job she’d left unfinished. Lifting the border into place with one hand, I opened the stapler and pressed it into position, then pushed down hard so it would shoot out a staple.

  “You can’t just—”

  “Are you going to tell me your rules or not?” I demanded, cutting her off and slamming the stapler a bit harder than was necessary.

  “Fine,” she said. “Rule one: you don’t pick up items that could be used as projectiles or weapons unless I give you permission to do so.”

  “Used as a weapon? Seriously?” I spun around, stapler in my hands, and let the border dangle again. “I’m trying to help you out.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “So I’m going to be punished for tackling a job for you? You just told me there aren’t enough hours in the day for you to get all your work done. I’m trying to cut down on all the work you have, since you haven’t given me anything else to do.”

  “Doesn’t mean I want you to touch anything in my classroom without my permission.”

  “It’s not like I grabbed your ass or anything.”

  Well, hell. And there I went again, letting my mouth get ahead of my brain.

  She glared so hard I was glad the stapler was in my hand and not hers, because I could envision it flying straight for my head. And yet I was the one supposedly in danger of launching things as projectiles? Whatever.

  But then a timer of some sort started making noise on her desk. She reached for it and pressed a button to make it stop beeping. From a cabinet behind her desk, she took out a pill minder and a protein bar. She tossed back a handful of pills, took a swig of water from a refillable bottle on her desk, and ripped open the bar.

  Then she glared at me again. “Put the stapler down where you found it, and let’s go.” Without waiting for me to comply, she backed away from her desk and headed out the door.

  “Time to pick up the kids?” I asked, fumbling to remember where the stapler had been when I’d picked it up. Was it on the table next to the bulletin board, or on the step stool?

  Fuck if I knew. I closed it and set it on the table, and then I busted ass to catch up with her since I didn’t know where anything was in this school, and I’d never be able to find my way around, otherwise.

  Hell, I didn’t even remember where she’d said they were. Art? Phys ed? No telling.

  Once again, she was power-walking through the halls, this time eating her bar. I couldn’t exactly ask her questions now since she had her mouth full. Besides, I doubted she’d give me a straight answer even if she wasn’t trying to eat.

  I kind of liked walking just a bit behind her, though. Gave me a nice view of her ass. Her pants hugged it in all the right ways, and the bright-orange cardigan she wore didn’t hide it completely from my view.

  I wanted to squeeze that ass—a thought that had no business cropping up into my thoughts just now. Hell, there was no appropriate time for a thought like that.

  Because she sure as hell wouldn’t ever be allowing me to squeeze her ass or any other part of her. This chick wanted nothing more than to turn me into roadkill.

  We arrived at another classroom and she spun around so suddenly that I almost ran into her back. “Wait right there,” she demanded, pointing to a spot next to a couple of water fountains. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t go anywhere. Definitely don’t open your mouth to speak to anyone, because I don’t know what sort of awful things you’ll say. Just stand there. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I bit off, returning her glare in equal measure. I wasn’t any happier about this than she was, but I didn’t have much choice.

  She scowled and then opened the door to the classroom. A cacophony of bells, chimes, and recorders greeted my ears in the few moments until the door closed behind her. Music class, apparently.

  Somehow, this was becoming even worse than I’d imagined at first, and that was saying something.

  I KNEW WHY he couldn’t sit still, so there wasn’t any good reason for me to keep snapping at him. It was the ADHD, plain and simple. The man needed something to do, and if I asked him to sit quietly, I was asking for trouble. That meant it was on me if he couldn’t follow my simple directions, because I was asking him for something he couldn’t give me.

  It was the same with my students. I could always tell when it was time for us to switch gears, maybe get them up out of their seats so they could move around a bit, because their inability to sit and focus would have half of them fidgeting—or worse.

  Yet, despite my knowledge, I’d tried to force him into doing something I’d known he couldn’t do, and then I’d snapped at him when he’d tried to use his restless energy to help me.

  Did that make me a bitch? Maybe.

  Get through today, I thought to myself as Mrs. Cutler supervised the kids putting their instruments back into their proper homes. Get through this next hour or so while he’s here, and then the rest of the day will be better. And then tonight, I could call Dani Williams to moan and complain about my predicament. She’d be on board. These early months of her pregnancy had her hormones all out of whack, so she was always down for a good gripe session, just as long as chocolate was involved—and her husband had been making sure to keep her in a fresh supply at all times lately.

  Once the kids were in a line, I held one hand straight up in the air, started a countdown of my fingers, and pressed the forefinger of my other hand to my lips. By the time my fingers were all tucked into a fist, my class had quieted down. For it being so early in a new school year, I had to admit, I was impressed. But then again, as soon as they realized we had a guest in the room, all hell would break loose. I’d been mentally preparing myself for a chaotic afternoon since last night.

  And that was when I’d still been expecting Riley and Mackenzie Jezek, who were well used to the needs of my students.

  “We have a special visitor today,” I said once my class was attentively looking my way. “But I need each of you to be on your best behavior so we can all benefit from his visit, all right? Can everybody do that for me?”

  Fourteen heads bobbed up and down in answer. I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something about the fact that Blake Kozlow hadn’t agreed to be on his best behavior, even though my kids had. But that wouldn’t help matters, and I needed to present some form of professionalism into the situation.

  “All right, then,” I said. “Restrooms first. Let’s form two lines, one for the boys and the other for the girls.”

  The kids sorted themselves out readily enough. But gradually, I felt the weight of fourteen pairs of eyes falling on him, and the
n the whispering started. And the pointing. At least a few of them knew exactly who he was, and their excitement was starting to get the best of them.

  But then I caught a glimpse of his response to their reactions. He was shifting in place, alternatively crossing his arms and then trying to hold them straight down at his sides. Something told me someone in his past had constantly told him to keep his arms straight, that putting them in front of him made him seem standoffish. But whatever was behind it, he couldn’t handle their scrutiny just now.

  I had to wonder what was going through his head and how the kids’ excitement and curiosity was striking him. But instead of trying to find out, I sent my students into the restrooms in groups, focusing on my job, even if he couldn’t focus on anything.

  When Tanner Watson came out of the boys’ room and went for a sip at the fountain, I couldn’t help but notice the awe in his eyes—and the discomfort in Blake’s.

  “Are you a hockey player like Mr. Jezek?” he asked.

  Blake shot a glance over at me, as if asking my permission to speak. Good grief, I had to have been beyond horrible to him if he was scared to even answer a simple question from one of my students. I needed to get myself in check, every bit as much as I needed to keep an eye on him. It wouldn’t help anyone if the man was too nervous to answer a simple question when asked.

  I gave him a curt nod of encouragement, hating myself for the mingled look of relief and worry that passed through his expression. The man was freaking out about every tiny question, every simple response.

  Yeah, I wanted him to be aware of himself and his actions, and of what sort of effect he could have on the other people around him, but I didn’t want him to panic.

  “I am,” he finally croaked out, and I turned my back so I could keep an eye on the rest of my kids while still listening in on their conversation.

  “I’m gonna be just like you,” Tanner said. “I’m gonna play hockey. For the Storm. Mom said I could. She said I could do anything.”

  It took a long moment for Blake to respond, which made me wonder what offhand response he was forcing himself to keep inside. But then he said, “Bet you will. And your mom’s right. You can do anything.”

  I couldn’t stop myself; I shot a look over my shoulder at him, but for once, it wasn’t a glare.

  Maybe there was a kernel of a decent human being inside him—somewhere deep inside, granted, but it was there.

  Didn’t mean I was ready to forgive him. And it definitely didn’t mean I would be leaving him with any of these kids unsupervised.

  But for the first time, I had a smidge of hope that this wouldn’t turn out to be as awful as I’d first imagined.

  ADMITTEDLY, ONCE I gave him a task to work on, he was fine. Better than fine, actually. He focused in on what I’d assigned him to do and helped the kids, and everything that I caught coming out of his mouth was perfectly acceptable.

  That didn’t mean I wanted him to ever pick up scissors or staplers or—God forbid—a paper cutter while he was in my classroom. But I had put his chair at a table where he’d be surrounded by some of my students, and I’d shoved him down into it. Then I’d asked the kids to work on coloring some artwork for my walls and assigned him to cut out the leaves and pumpkins the kids had finished shading (using a pair of blunt safety scissors, of course), and then he’d stopped fidgeting quite so much.

  Yes, he was still far too large to comfortably fit in the chair or at the desk. And yes, he reminded me of an overgrown toddler in countless ways. But he had a job to do, and the kids at his table kept asking him questions about playing hockey, and that meant he was occupied and engaged, and everyone was happy. Or at least almost everyone was happy. I wasn’t sure I could count myself among them.

  Still, I walked among the tables, answering questions occasionally or reminding a couple of my students to stay on task, but mainly I was just keeping an eye on things. Except I kept being drawn back to the table where Blake was seated.

  “What color is a pumpkin?” Sasha asked him earnestly, reaching for a green colored pencil.

  He looked over at her hand and the manila paper for the briefest of moments—such a quick glance that she probably hadn’t noticed—and pointed a finger at the stem and leaves. “These should be green. But the pumpkin itself should be orange, don’t you think? Like the one in this picture?” He pointed to a photo I’d placed at the center of the table for the kids to use as their inspiration.

  She scanned it, gave him a serious nod, and started shading in the stem with her green pencil.

  Then Will passed his paper into Blake’s hands. “I’m ready for you to cut it out.” Will’s rs tended to sound like ws, as did his ls. He’d been working on it in speech therapy, but so far, he hadn’t made too much progress.

  But Blake didn’t seem even remotely fazed by the child’s speech impediment, making me wonder how much time in a classroom such as this he might have spent when he was growing up.

  He took the sheet of paper from Will and started cutting along the lines, effectively hiding the blemishes of Will’s handiwork by removing the places where my student had colored outside the lines.

  I bit back something that felt like approval. I didn’t want to approve of Blake Kozlow. I wanted to hate him with every fiber of my being, just as I’d been doing for close to a year. It felt good to hate him, didn’t it?

  Somehow, I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “Mrs. Castillo!” Connie said, bouncing in her seat and only remembering to raise her hand once I turned in her direction. “I need to pee.”

  “Didn’t you use the restroom after music class?” I asked, even though I was relatively certain I knew the answer. She had definitely gone into the restroom. What she’d done in there was anyone’s guess, though. Connie tended to go in and wash her hands repeatedly but never get down to the business of relieving herself. In fact, this bid for a restroom break might just be another ploy to go in and wash her hands some more. I had tried offering hand sanitizer before, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy Connie’s obsessive-compulsive need to wash her hands. She needed actual soap from a soap dispenser and the sound and feel of running water.

  I wished that my paraprofessional were already here, but Janice Yates split her day between my classroom and that of one of my colleagues—and she wasn’t due to join us for another two hours. Which meant I had two choices: I could take the entire class back to the restroom so that Connie could possibly relieve herself and definitely wash her hands a few more times, or I could take her on her own and trust Blake with the rest of my class.

  Frankly, neither option was appealing. But disrupting the entire class again just because Connie hadn’t relieved herself when she should have would mean it’d take another thirty minutes to get them to settle down again.

  I supposed that made up my mind for me.

  He was so engrossed in conversation with the students at his table that clearing my throat behind him wasn’t enough to catch his attention. Reluctantly, I put my hand on his shoulder.

  His head whipped around so fast it caused a breeze. Or maybe the breeze was due to my pulse kicking into high gear because of the way my students were so actively engaged and listening to him tell stories about his teammates (child-appropriate stories, I hoped). Then he flashed a grin up at me that made my heart flutter until I remembered I wasn’t supposed to be letting his charms have any effect on me.

  I tamped that physical response down, wishing I could stamp it out entirely.

  “I have to take Connie to the restroom,” I said, forcing my brain back into compliance even if I couldn’t do the same for my emotions. “You’re in charge until I get back. Don’t do or say anything I’ll have to explain away later, got it? And don’t pick up anything other than what you all have out already.” Nothing sharp came through in my tone even if I didn’t speak the words aloud.

  He nodded, a bit of his grin fading under my admonishment, and I felt a twinge of regret for being so short with him. But
only a twinge. He’d earned the way I was treating him.

  “We’ll be back in five minutes. Do not say anything that you shouldn’t say.” I gave him a sharp look, hoping to convey through my expression what I couldn’t in words.

  “Got it,” he said, and his tone was filled with as much irritation and annoyance as I’d been feeling since I’d first laid eyes on him today.

  With far more reluctance than I’d care to admit, I guided Connie out of my classroom.

  When we returned, I was prepared to encounter World War III being carried out by thirteen small humans and one overgrown man-child—I fully expected the floor to be covered with shreds of paper and for there to be glue all over the desks, and I was almost positive at least three of my kids would be bleeding openly.

  Instead, I found things exactly as I’d left them.

  I let out a sigh of relief, guided Connie back to her seat, and clapped my hands to get everyone’s attention. “So why don’t we all come over to the reading spot?” I suggested.

  “Is Mr. Kozlow going to read to us like Mr. Jezek did last year?” Tanner asked.

  Blake shot a panicked expression over to me.

  Would reading to the kids be an issue for him? He hadn’t mentioned dyslexia or any other disabilities that might cause problems with reading, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have them.

  “We’re not going to read just now,” I said, reassuring him and making a mental note to ask him for more specifics about his disabilities later—when we didn’t have a classful of students hanging on our every word. “We’re going to have a question-and-answer session. I’m sure you’ve all got lots of questions about playing hockey and being in the NHL, right?”

  Fourteen heads bobbed up and down again, and all the anxiety seemed to melt away from Blake’s shoulders. He shot me a look as if to say, Thanks for throwing me a bone.

  I bit back the urge to tell him not to get used to it.

  “Everyone settle down, now,” I said. “Crisscross applesauce.” At my reminder, fourteen children took a seat on the story-time rug and crossed their legs in front of them, sitting attentively.