She let her gaze drift down his body, then up again. “Not particularly,” she said, knowing she’d kept her voice cool and uninterested when his mouth tightened.
“Fine. I’m here, you trust that gangster, and I’ve already broken most of your rules. What’s next?”
Why me, Sarah? I don’t have time to babysit a spoiled jock.
“You can leave or you can help. Do you know anything about math? Algebra, specifically?”
“Some,” he said cautiously, rolling his shoulders and glancing at the kids and their textbooks.
Did he think it would hurt his tough image to admit he was good at math? “Great. Math isn’t my strong suit. Go on over to the homework tables and find out who needs help. Someone always does.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Good.” With any luck, he’d stay there until the kids left and she could get rid of him permanently. “One other thing. The kids call adults by their last names here. If someone calls you Caleb, you don’t react.”
“It’s Cal.”
“Don’t answer to that, either. You’re Mr. Stewart to them. They need to respect adults.”
“Respect. Right.” He straightened his shoulders and sauntered toward the kids bent over their books.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Frankie was helping Harley Michaels with her English assignment when she heard whispering at the other end of the tables. Cal was leaning against the wall, texting.
She hadn’t told him about the no-cell-phone rule.
She wanted to ignore him. He’d be gone after today, and she wouldn’t see him again. But with the kids all watching, she had to take a stand.
“Work on your last paragraph, Harley, and I’ll be right back,” she said quietly. But instead of bending over her assignment, Harley joined the rest of the group, waiting to see what would happen.
Cal’s thumbs flew over the keyboard as she approached. “Mr. Stewart, we don’t use cell phones at FreeZone,” she said in a low voice.
He looked up, his fingers poised above his iPhone. “What?”
“No texting,” she said.
He nodded as his thumbs began moving again. After what felt like an eternity, he hit the send button and slipped the phone into his pocket.
Was he being irritating on purpose? Or did he just not care? “Maybe we should talk about this in my office.”
“Sure.” He strolled toward the corner of the room as if he owned the place, and her chest began to burn as she followed him.
She closed the door and held on to the handle. “I don’t allow phones for a reason,” she said. “I want the kids to focus on their homework, or actually talk to other people. They’re on their phones constantly otherwise. I ask the adults who help out here not to use them, either, because I need their attention on the kids.”
He shrugged. “Fine. I’ll have to do a couple more tweets today, but I’ll come in here next time.”
Remembering the reporters outside, Frankie frowned. “What were you tweeting about?”
“What I’m doing, of course.” His fingers tapped the phone in his pocket. “My agent’s orders. I need to do six updates a day.”
“Part of your publicity shaping?” She tried to keep the contempt out of her voice, but realized she’d failed when he glared at her.
“Yep. Training camp starts in a month and a half. I need to…” He swallowed. “I need to be visible. Get the fans behind me.” His foot tapped a staccato rhythm on the floor.
She knew what training camp was. After the judge told her who she’d be getting as a CS placement, she’d studied up on the subject. Why was he nervous about training camp? She nodded. “Fine. Do your tweeting in here. Just don’t tweet about where you are.”
It was impossible to misinterpret his expression.
“You already did, didn’t you?” She grabbed his arm, not bothering to hide her irritation. A star athlete like him would have thousands and thousands of followers on Twitter.
“Of course I did. That’s the point. People want to know what I’m doing.” He glanced at her hand on his forearm.
She let him go, his short, blond arm hairs tickling her fingers. “Oh, my God.”
“What’s the problem? It’s publicity for you.”
“That’s very considerate of you, but I don’t want my kids used that way. Did you not get that message when I told you to get rid of the reporters?” If there were throngs of people here, the reporters would come back, too.
“Fine. I’ll keep the kids out of it. But look at this place. You need the publicity. You need money.”
“Yes, I do, but I’ll get it my own way. A way that won’t make the kids run a gauntlet of people when they come and go.” A way that would let her deal with Bascombe on her own terms. “Besides, I doubt your groupies are going to be making contributions to FreeZone when they show up to fawn over you.”
“They’re not groupies. They’re fans.”
“Same difference. They’re not part of my donor profile.”
He leaned against the desk as if it was his. “You have a lot of rules, don’t you?”
“Yes. In this neighborhood, rules are all that stand between civility and chaos. These kids need to have at least one stable thing in their lives, and for a lot of them, this is it. The kids who come here need rules.”
So did Frankie.
She gestured at his phone. “Tweet again and tell them you’ve left.”
“You want me to lie?”
“Like a rug.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m not one of your kids, Frankie. And you’re not my coach. I’m not going to ask how high when you tell me to jump.” He gestured toward the pocket he’d put his phone in. “If you want that tweet to go out, you’ll have to send it yourself.”
So it was going to be a pissing contest. It wouldn’t be the first time with a community-service volunteer. Holding his gaze, Frankie slid her fingers into the snug denim, releasing the subtle scent of fabric softener. The muscles of his thigh were rock hard and coiled like a spring, ready to explode.
All that muscle generated a lot of heat. She tried to ignore it as the tip of her finger touched plastic, and she plucked out the phone with a shudder of relief.
She palmed the phone, warm from his body, and touched the Twitter icon. When his screen popped up, she typed a few words, then hit the send button.
She slipped the phone back into his pocket and tapped it into place. “Don’t call my bluff.”
He watched her hand retreat. “Do you touch everyone this much?” he asked. “Are you always so…physical?”
Heat washed over her and she knew her skin flushed, but she managed to raise her eyebrows. “Asks the guy who knocks people down for a living.”
He held her gaze for a moment too long, and sweat trickled down her sides. Yeah, she was upset and emotional. But also insane. There was no other explanation for why she was poking at Cal Stewart.
“Yeah, I’m a physical guy, Frankie.” His voice was a low, pissed-off rumble in the intimacy of the office. As he leaned forward, her heart thundered, but she refused to back up. “And it’s not always smart to yank the dog’s tail. Sometimes he’ll bite.”
“Thanks for the life lesson.” His chin was inches from hers, close enough to smell spearmint on his breath and see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. She stepped away from him and her heart slowed. “I need to get back to the kids.”
He nodded. “Fine. Don’t yank my chain again.”
CAL WATCHED FRANKIE walk out of the office and sit down beside a redheaded girl as if nothing had happened. Adrenaline churned in his veins, making him edgy and revved up. She should know better than to bait a guy like him.
She should know better than to touch him, too. He coul
d still feel those small fingers, burrowing through his pocket. She’d been quick and had barely brushed the denim of his jeans, but the memory burned.
After the fight, the team psychologist had explained that Cal needed to learn control. Which had told him everything he needed to know about that pompous ass. Cal maintained control every minute of his life. The only time he let it go was on Sunday afternoons.
And on one ugly Saturday night at a club, after a guy had been needling him for hours. Even then, Cal had managed to hold back until the guy started shoving a woman around.
Loser was lucky he’d escaped with only a broken jaw.
One moment of lost control, and he’d ended up at this place, with a bunch of punk losers and an irritating woman.
And now he had to convince the irritating woman to let him stay. The judge had said he had one chance or he would go to jail. So he’d better look busy.
The front door opened and a slender African-American boy walked in. He carried a backpack that seemed as if it weighed about as much as the kid. As Cal watched, he hurried over to the tables, greeted a couple of kids and pulled out a book. A math book. Count to ten. Focus. Cal headed toward him.
“Hey,” he said as he reached the table. “You need some help with that?”
The boy glanced up at him, pushing his glasses up his nose almost absently. “No, I’m okay. But thank you for offering.” He paused, staring at Cal for a moment. “You’re Cal Stewart.”
“Yeah,” he said, studying the kid more carefully. “I am.”
“Are you going to be playing for the Cougars this year? Bummer about your knee, but my dad and I read in the paper that you’re doing good with your rehab.”
“It’s going well.” He hesitated. “What’s your name?”
“Sean. Sean Green.”
“Thanks for asking, Sean. I expect to be out there when training camp starts. After that? It’s up to the coaches.”
Sean looked down at his paper and wrote out an equation. Calculus. “I’ve heard you say that on the news.”
It was Cal’s standard response to the question half the city of Chicago had been asking him. So why did the kid look disappointed? Had he expected Cal to reveal a secret? To tell him what the doctors had said and Cal refused to believe?
“It’s tough coming back from an injury like this,” he heard himself say to Sean.
God, now he was spilling his guts to a teenager. This place was messing with his head. He had to get out of here. He’d started to rise when Sean nodded.
“If it was just your ACL, you’d be okay,” Sean said matter-of-factly. “But tearing the lateral collateral ligament at the same time isn’t so good.”
Who was this kid? Cal sank back onto the chair. “God, you sound like my doctor.”
Sean’s eyes brightened. “That’s what I’m going to be. An orthopedic surgeon.”
“Yeah?” Cal tapped his left knee. “You going to figure out a way to make this as good as new?”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Stewart.”
“Hey, you can call me Cal,” he said without thinking.
Sean glanced at Frankie out of the corner of his eye. “Not here, I can’t.”
Another broken rule. “Right. Sorry. I’m going to get in trouble, aren’t I?”
Sean grinned. “I won’t tell on you.”
“Thanks, dude.” Cal held out his fist, and Sean bumped it. “If I need help with math, I’ll come and talk to you.”
Sean stared at him for a moment, then went back to his equations. “I don’t think you’ll need help from me, Mr. Stewart. You got a degree in math from UCLA.”
Cal froze, then struggled to smile. “Hey, I needed to know how to count my money,” he said.
He’d never hidden his degree, but he hadn’t flaunted it, either. He didn’t want to be the geek freak on the team. He just wanted to be one of the guys.
“I think it’s chilling,” Sean said.
“Yeah. Thanks.” He shoved away from the table. This wasn’t going to work. He’d come close to a fight with a couple of punks, he’d had an uncomfortably intimate conversation with a too-perceptive kid, and he’d butted heads with a woman with a major attitude problem. A woman who was supposed to be his boss for the next six weeks.
And he’d been here for only a couple of hours.
Maybe she would sign off on his community service if he gave her a chunk of money, enough to pay someone else to do the work. He’d be able to concentrate on football; she wouldn’t have to deal with him.
With an extra four hours of rehab every day, he’d make the team with no problems. He’d have plenty of time to take those last few steps to complete recovery.
Win-win for both of them.
CHAPTER THREE
CAL LEVERED HIMSELF OUT OF the chair, hating that he needed to push off the table. It was the last step in his rehab, his therapist had told him. Being able to get up from a chair without help. She’d warned him it would be hard.
Yeah, it was tough. But it was a breeze compared to the prospect of never playing football again.
He glanced at Sean to see if the kid had noticed, but he was doing his calculus. Good thing. Cal had let his guard down for a minute with the kid, and that probably made him think they were best friends now. Even so, if he saw Cal struggling, he would probably post it on Facebook.
Cal helped two kids with their math, getting more irritated and antsy as the time crawled by. He was stuck here talking about equations when he should have been working on his knee or studying his playbook. And on top of that, he’d probably have to grovel to get Frankie Devereux to let him stay. Unless he could convince her to take his money.
He had a bad feeling about that. She was probably way too righteous to take a bribe.
He’d just have to make sure it was big enough to trump her principles.
Suddenly he heard chairs scraping against the floor, and the kids all rushed over to the deli case. Two girls—the ones who’d been crying earlier—were setting cupcakes on a cloth-covered table. A plastic container of cut-up carrots, celery and cucumbers sat next to the treats. Two of the boys carried milk jugs and paper cups over.
Frankie was leaning against one of the homework tables, watching them. Her shoulders drooped, but she was smiling. Now that she wasn’t bristling at him, he noticed the lines of weariness around her eyes.
This place was a lot to run and organize. And she seemed to do it by herself, since there were no other adults here. She needed help. Maybe she would be receptive to his offer of money.
At the very least, he should be able to convince her to let him stay.
“Hey,” he said as he got closer to her. “I helped three kids with their math.”
Her shoulders straightened as she faced him, and the vulnerability he’d seen a moment ago disappeared. “I noticed. Thanks,” she said, her voice cool.
He nodded toward the kids, who were discussing the cupcakes. “Cupcakes for a snack? I figured you’d be all about healthy food.”
To his surprise, her cheeks got pink. “There are healthy things there, too, and they know they have to eat the vegetables if they take the cupcakes. But the cupcakes make them smile.”
“Kind of a pricey snack, aren’t they?”
“A local bakery donates the day-old ones that don’t sell by noon.” She rolled her shoulders, as if she was uncomfortable, and continued to watch the kids.
“Ooh, they’re pretty today, Ms. Devereux,” one of the girls said.
Cal stepped closer and saw cupcakes decorated with elaborate long flowers. One featured a lion looking over his shoulder and winking. Another held a frog, amazingly lifelike. There were dancing cows and laughing horses. All of them were whimsical. Fanciful. Made by someone who
knew exactly what would catch a child’s eye.
As Cal watched, one of the girls rushed over, clutching a pastry as if it was a prize. “Ms. Devereux! Did you make this for me?” She held the cupcake with a frog.
Frankie smiled. “I might have had you in mind.”
“Thank you!” Holding her cupcake carefully to the side, the girl threw her other arm around Frankie’s neck for a fierce hug, then scampered back to the group.
“You made those cupcakes?” Cal asked.
“I did,” she replied without looking at him.
Tough, take-no-prisoners Frankie Devereux had a whimsical side? He studied her more carefully, trying to see past her prickly exterior. “They’re amazing.”
“Thank you.”
He frowned. “But you said they were leftovers from a bakery.”
“Yes.”
“So you work there? I thought this was your full-time job.”
“Donations to FreeZone barely cover the insurance and rent on this building.” She shrugged, but a shadow crossed her face. “I don’t take a salary. We need every penny we get.”
“So you work two jobs.”
“A lot of people work two jobs.” Her voice was cool again. “I work at a neighborhood bakery so I can spend my afternoons at FreeZone.” She shifted on the chair and ended up a little farther away from him.
“Those things are works of art. They look like they should be sold at one of those upscale cupcake joints.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Thanks. But they’re only a means to an end.”
He spotted the girl with the frog cupcake nibbling around the edges, as if saving the frog for last. “But a frog? On a cupcake?”
FRANKIE SHRUGGED AGAIN as she watched Lissy. She tried to give the girl extra attention. Her mother worked long hours, and she’d recently remarried. From what Lissy said, her stepfather was no prize.
“I knew Lissy would like it. She has a thing for frogs.” If making her a frog cupcake made the girl smile like that, Frankie would do it more often. “She has a stuffed frog she carries around in her backpack. Her father got it for her when she was a baby. Just before he was killed in a drive-by shooting.”
A Safe Place Page 3
