by Rachel Lee
“Not exactly Van Gogh,” he said.
“It’ll do. Thanks so much,” she said with a smile and a warm hand on his shoulder. It was the first time she’d touched him, not counting the quick and awkward hug at his house the other day, and the spark down his spine got his full attention.
“Yeah, well, it looks nothing like its subject, but there you go, and you’re welcome.” He handed the wax pencil back to her and scratched his forehead as he stood and stared at the butcher paper body rather than connect with her gaze.
She giggled. He glanced in her vicinity. She smiled a warm, pleased smile, light glistening off her lip gloss. The look and those lips felt like sabotage. “Maybe we should draw a happy face on it?” he said, a sorry attempt at humor.
“Nah, I have to leave room for the brain.”
Speaking of brains, he wondered where the hell his had gone. A quick survey revealed it hovered somewhere below his belt. If he sprinted home, it wouldn’t be fast enough.
Chapter Four
Lucas completed the Wednesday-afternoon pharmacy run for his father by driving past Whispering Oaks High. Track practice was in full swing, and he spotted Jocelyn in a bright blue warm-up jacket and shorts, running a group of athletes through baton handoffs in front of the bleachers. He pulled to the curb, parked and got out of the car.
Hands tucked in his back jeans pockets, he started across the grass. He wasn’t supposed to help every practice. What was his excuse today? He could give her an update on the fund-raiser, tell her how his dad had lined up a batch of vendors willing to donate money for some advertising space. Heck, he had the list in the car, so he trotted back to retrieve it. With a solid reason to barge in mid track practice, Lucas stood taller and headed straight toward Jocelyn.
The air was warm and the sky sunny; only traces of last week’s fire scented the air. He’d forgotten how consistent the temperature was here at home compared to the huge swings in the desert. He never wanted to carry fifty pounds of gear in a hundred and twenty degrees ever again. He used to complain about the nearly constant wind in Whispering Oaks until he had his face pitted with sand in sixty-mile-an-hour gusts over there. Funny how getting out in the world changed a person’s perspective.
Halfway to Jocelyn, a scream came from the right. He spun into the sound. A squat, muscular kid jumped around in obvious pain. Jocelyn ran to the agonized student.
“He was practicing starting out of the blocks and he twisted his hand,” a taller boy with mayonnaise-white skin said while lingering beside his friend. “His finger’s sticking out all weird.”
Jocelyn reached for the student’s hand as Lucas got closer. Even from here he could tell that, by the way the finger aligned perpendicular to the palm, it’d been dislocated.
“Oh, Brandon, this looks bad,” Jocelyn said just as she noticed Lucas. “Hi! Hey, Brandon has jammed his finger. Can you take a look, see if it’s broken or anything?”
Switching into medic mode, Lucas took the teen’s hand in his, then looked him square in the eyes. Brandon’s contorted face said it all. He was panicking, in pain and really worried about what would come next.
With a steady gaze, Lucas waited for the kid to notice him. One eye peeked out from tightly squinted lids. “It hurts like a mother...” he said, voice cracking.
“It won’t hurt for long,” Lucas said, studying the finger, positive it wasn’t broken. How many times had he reduced fingers in the field? He couldn’t count. Hell, he’d fixed dislocated shoulders too. “But you need to let me put it back in place.”
Terror flicked through the boy’s gaze. “No way.” He yanked his hand back, then immediately regretted it as the pain must have surged, causing the boy to hop around and whimper again.
“Don’t swing your hand,” Lucas said. “It’ll make it worse. Just let me fix it.”
A crowd circled the two of them. Peer pressure and the need to look cool probably influenced Brandon’s decision to listen to reason. “I gotta sit down first,” he said, looking more like the mayonnaise color of his friend’s legs by the second.
“Everybody back off,” Jocelyn said, pushing the air with her palms and making the circle wider so he could take the few steps to the bleachers and sit. Even from this distance, and under these circumstances, Lucas noticed the fresh scent of her body gel—marshmallows and flowers. Focus.
Lucas stayed calm, confident. He knew how to end the pain right now, but he needed to get the kid to agree to let him reduce the dislocated joint back into place. “I’m a trained medic from the army, and I can fix this for you right now. Will you let me?”
Brandon locked eyes with Lucas and must have seen what he needed to see because he gave a slow nod.
The instant Lucas got the nod, and before the boy could nod a second time, he used one hand to stabilize the base of the finger, holding the fingertip with the other hand, and in one quick jerk pulled in opposite directions, quickly realigning the pinkie finger back in place with a single crack. Brandon squealed like a girl, but the deed was done. Success.
Lucas smiled at the stunned boy. “You okay now?”
As if waiting to see if the pain was really gone, Brandon stayed perfectly still for a second or two. “Yes,” he whispered, probably regretting the noise he’d just made in front of the entire track team. Lucas could imagine how many times his buddies would remind him of it and imitate his shame over the next few days. Teenagers were ruthless.
He kept hold of Brandon’s hand as he searched for Jocelyn. She was right at his side. “I’ll need the first aid kit so I can tape his fingers together. Don’t want this baby to slip back out.”
“Sure.” Off she trotted to the bleachers, a stream of flowery scent in her wake. She was back before Lucas had a chance to thoroughly check out her legs.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him the thick white tape.
He smiled his thanks and went right to work taping Brandon’s pinkie and ring finger together. “Ice it tonight. Twenty minutes on and twenty minutes off for as long as you can,” he said, popping and activating a ready-made ice pack from the first aid kit and handing it to Brandon.
“Can I go home now, Coach?”
“Not until you thank Lucas,” she said.
“Thanks.” The kid stood to leave, squat muscular legs still wobbly.
“No problem, man.”
“I think I need to lie down for a while first.” Mayonnaise buddy escorted Brandon to the bleachers.
“Keep the ice on your hand for ten minutes,” Lucas shouted, giving the student an excuse to stick around until he got some color back in his cheeks and a way to help the kid save face in front of his team.
As Brandon reclined on the hard bleachers, Lucas followed Jocelyn back out onto the track field, whistle around her neck, ready to blow. She did. Unprepared, he flinched. “Hey, everyone, show’s over. Get back to your assigned practice station.”
Once the small crowd dispersed, she sent Lucas an appreciative glance. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“No biggie. I can do that in my sleep,” he said.
“See? You’re a natural. You’ve got all this experience, and it seems a waste not to use it.”
“I’ve used it enough,” he said, trying not to think about all the ways he’d been called into action as a medic over the past several years.
They walked side by side toward the high jump. “Ever think about sports medicine?” she said.
He laughed. “I think you’ve mistaken me for my sisters. I’m the slacker Grady, remember?”
She shook her head, disappointed in his self-deprecating routine. “You could do it, Lucas. You can do anything you put your mind to.”
The sun glared above, forcing him to squint. A strong scent of freshly cut grass made his nose itch, and he let a sneeze fly. “I just put my mind to not sneezing, but I did, anyway.”
“Bless you. And you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”
The sneeze jolted his memory. “Before we get
in a debate about what I will or won’t do, I actually came here for a reason. Dad has lined up all the donors for refreshments, food and decorations.” He handed her the list from his back pocket. “You’re free to stop by the party store and pick out whatever you want, ’cause he set up an account for the high school.” He fished in his other back pocket. “Oh, and here’s the menu from Mindy’s Diner. Look it over. Let Dad know what you decide. He already told me what he thinks you should get, but I suggested he let you pick since he’s making you run the whole thing.”
“Thanks for having my back,” she said, her usual easygoing smile back in place.
“You’re welcome. He needs that info by Friday.” He turned to leave.
“You really should consider something in medicine, Lucas,” she said, sounding far too much like a high school counselor than the woman next door.
He cocked his head. “Says who?”
“Says me.” Sassy and sweet.
Little Ms. Perpetual Cheerleader never gave up.
* * *
The next evening, Lucas heard the doorbell but didn’t race to answer. His mother was perfectly capable of getting it. Besides, he was in the family office on the computer, perusing the local community college’s online courses. He slumped in the chair, the weight of having to play catch-up feeling like a cement block on his shoulders.
Did he really want to start from scratch at his age?
He heard Jocelyn’s voice and quickly minimized the computer screen. The last thing he needed was for her to catch him following up on their previous conversation. He didn’t want to give her false hope. Maybe he would or maybe he wouldn’t follow through. The decision was far from being made.
When he heard mumblings of conversation, curiosity got the best of him and he wandered down the hall, deciding he needed a drink of water. His dad and Jocelyn were engaged in quiet conversation on the huge circular couch in the family room. Bart sat at alert in case food might be involved.
His mom sat nearby, engrossed with the topic, whatever it was. “That’s a great idea,” she said.
“I thought so, too.” Kieran beamed his I-am-a-great-man-with-great-thoughts smile, the kind that made deep grooves in his cheeks.
Lucas’s mouth twitched. He did everything he could not to react, not to be nosy, as he headed for the kitchen for a drink.
“Hi, Lucas!”
“Hey, Jocelyn,” he said, feeling like a teenager again, almost expecting his voice to crack.
“You and Jocelyn are going to have to do some shopping for plain-colored, multiple-sized T-shirts,” Kieran said.
Says who?
“Your dad got the shirtmaker to donate one of his tie-dyeing machines for our event, but his shirt prices are too steep. We won’t make any money if we go with him.”
“It was my idea to do tie-dyed shirts.” Kieran continued to beam.
Lucas filled a glass with refrigerated water, then leaned against the appliance door. “So you’re thinking high school kids are going to rush to make these sixties-style shirts?”
“If not them, their parents will. Remember, it’s a family event,” Kieran said. “Besides, it’s for a good cause.”
“The retro look is always in,” Jocelyn said. “I’ve seen a few kids at school wearing tie-dye and peace symbols.”
Lucas shook his head, realizing how out of it he was on the teen front. He didn’t have a clue what the trends in teen wear were, and he didn’t really care.
“I’ll buy one,” Beverly said. “Make sure you get some of those extra long T-shirts so I can wear it over leggings.”
“Good idea!” Jocelyn wrote it down.
These marvelous minds didn’t need his input, not that he had anything to put in, so he slipped out the kitchen door and headed to the garage for the solace of his Mustang.
* * *
“Hi.”
Twenty minutes later, with Lucas engrossed in installing the alternator, Jocelyn’s voice drew him out of deep concentration. “Oh, hey. Get all the planning done?”
She nodded, a willowy silhouette at the doorway. “A lot of it, but I’d like to run some things by you, if you don’t mind.” He liked what he saw: a ponytail high on her head, a snug yellow T-shirt, soft navy workout pants and flip-flops. She did casual well. But that wasn’t all—she was good with his father, knew how to handle him. He liked that, too. And Lucas had always admired her ability to know what she wanted, and to go after it. Sometimes he was downright envious.
“That’s your and Dad’s thing.” He didn’t stop what he was doing. “I think you guys have it all covered.”
“What I mean is...” She came into the garage, leaning on one side of the car while he leaned on the other, the raised hood between them. “This Saturday, Whispering Oaks is hosting its first track meet of the season, and I was wondering if you’d help out.”
He used a rag infused with pungent motor oil to wipe off the part he held. “Don’t you have assistant coaches?”
“If you count Mr. Nixon the math teacher and Ms. Finch from PE who always help out at the meets, but never make it to practice...”
“Then you don’t need me.”
“It’s a big deal to host the meet.” Her brows twisted and her forehead wrinkled. “I’ll have a lot more responsibility, and, I’ll be honest—I’m nervous.”
He stopped what he was doing and gave her all of his attention. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve got it all under control.”
She chewed on her thumbnail. “That’s how it looked when I was in college, too. Everyone assumed I was doing great, until I failed a couple of classes and still only gave a mediocre performance at the track meets.”
“Your scholarship?”
“I had a free ride to college and blew it, Lucas. I had to work to pay my rent, even with the scholarship, and track had to come first. I never had time to study.” She shook her head, as if reliving bad memories. “I couldn’t do it all.”
“That’s all in the past. Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?” Oh, yeah, look who was talking. If he were Jocelyn, he’d kick his own shins.
“I try, but it was a tough lesson.”
“And this relates to Whispering Oaks in what way?”
She sighed and rubbed her eyes with her palms. “I’m afraid I’ve taken on more than I can handle again. Teaching. Coaching. Now the fund-raiser. I’m scared, Lucas.”
“What you need to do is learn to say no.”
“I know, I know. But it isn’t every day the head coach gets laid up with a broken arm and leg.” She took a few steps closer. “Listen, I don’t want to beg, but it sure would be great if you could...”
“I’ll be there. What time?” Spoken like a man who hadn’t listened to his own lecture. Besides, now that he had learned about her fear of failure, he realized maybe she could relate to how he felt whenever he thought about starting college at twenty-eight. He could use someone around who could understand some of the lousy feelings he’d been having these days.
Relief, appreciation and one more thing flashed in her eyes. He could tell she wanted to hug him, but she fought it. She’d even started toward him but stopped and hugged herself instead.
“You’re the greatest. Thanks so much.”
“Not a problem,” he said as the third thing popped into his mind—adoration. As misplaced as it was, she’d always adored him, even when he screwed up, which was practically all the time back then.
How could a guy deserve respect from someone as intelligent and sweet as Jocelyn when he still didn’t know what he wanted to be when he grew up?
“Just your being there will give me confidence,” she said as she turned to leave.
He’d forgotten how to believe in himself, yet here she was cheering him on, making him feel like a superhero, an imposter superhero with fake superpowers and one who had absolutely nothing to offer her.
Whatever, Jocelyn. Whatever.
* * *
“Here, take this,” Kieran said from the ki
tchen Saturday morning as Lucas headed for the door. He’d just helped his father bathe and get dressed for the day. He snatched the whistle by the string as it hurtled through the air and went straight for his face.
Dad looked oversized for the motorized wheelchair, with one casted leg extending out so far they’d had to remove the footrest, and the opposite arm bent and in a cast dangling over the side. For a man meant to spend hours in the sun coaching his runners, and who had the craggy lines and sun spots on his face to prove it, being confined to a wheelchair seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. With another two to three weeks to go in that cast, according to the last doctor appointment, no wonder he was in such a foul mood most days.
“Make sure those Marshfield coaches don’t push Jocelyn around. You got that?”
“Got it.” The only thing Lucas was remotely interested in today was getting through the meet, being as much help as he could for Jocelyn. The reward included catching another glimpse at her legs.
“Oh. Take this too.” Lucas caught his father’s Whispering Oaks track coach ball cap and stuck it on his head backward just to bug the old man. Under Kieran’s death-eye glare, Lucas straightened the brim over his forehead and left.
Forty-five minutes later, because he’d dawdled at the car parts store to put off getting to the track meet, Lucas cut around the Whispering Oaks bleachers. He spotted Jocelyn in conversation with a handful of coaches from the other schools and felt a little silly with the ball cap on and whistle flopping against his chest. Talk about being a poseur. Soon the teachers fanned out, each heading in a different direction and looking purposeful. From what he could tell, she had things under control.
She noticed him, and he lifted his palm. She waved, then lined up the first batch of runners at the starting blocks. A man in a jacket and tie with a flat straw hat stood nearby, stopwatch in hand. The guy called out. “On your mark...”
“Hey, Coach Grady. How’s it goin’?”
Lucas turned to see Brandon, fingers still taped together and looking anything but anxious this time around. “How’s the hand?”
