Has it really already been a year since our lives were turned upside down?
It feels like mere days and endless centuries all at once. I still can’t imagine life without her, but it feels like she’s been gone so long that she was never even here to begin with.
Sometimes I catch Ryan staring at her photo and I wonder how the little man is taking it. He was only five then, but now he’s six and reminds me so much of Jenny that it’s hard to look at him at times. He’s a good kid, nothing like myself when I was that age. He’s smarter than I was. Probably because he had Jenny as a mother, and she’s the smartest person I ever knew.
She was a lot of things to a lot of people, and all those things were good.
She was good—an angel in human form.
And now she’s gone and I'm the legal guardian of her son, my nephew.
Together, Ryan and I moved some of the things from their old apartment into my penthouse. At the time, I swore up and down it was only because I wanted Ryan to feel as comfortable in his new home as possible, but it was also because it’s nice to feel close to Jenny, like some part of her still lives on in her belongings.
Her framed photos are now tacked on my walls, pictures Ryan drew on the fridge, and Jenny’s favorite photo of me in my football gear as a sweaty ten-year-old beaming after practice on the desk.
Ryan moved his secondhand racing bed and soft as silk pillows into what used to be my office. I’ve done what I can to make it feel like a little boy’s room, but the walls are still white and boring. They don’t quite fit Ryan’s personality, but if he minds, he hasn’t mentioned it.
I’m sure he has more pressing things on his mind—like missing his mom.
While Jenny was alive she rarely let me help her with bills, even after I made it big in the world of professional football. She was always determined to make it on her own. The one thing she did allow me to pay was the tuition to some fancy school in Manhattan for Ryan. While she would never accept cash or expensive presents on her own behalf, nothing was too good for her little boy.
I was glad to do anything to help her and Ryan. It was the least I could do after everything she did for me when we were kids . . .
The ding of the approaching elevator disrupts my swirling thoughts.
I finally collect myself enough to move safely into the gold-plated lift. Once inside, I turn to press the button to my floor while absently thumbing through the rest of the stack of mail. The rain-streaked world floats by as the elevator climbs the glass channel to the penthouse. I gaze out the windows to the streets below as an eerie feeling settles over me.
The rain is still coming down in sheets, making the windows fog.
A shiver curls up my spine, just like it always does every time it pours like this.
The weather was just like this that day—the day that changed everything.
I remember it like it was yesterday . . . I was in the middle of running drills when we stopped for a water break. I don’t remember the specific conversations I’d been having, but I remember laughing with the guys and Coach. I remember being so proud of myself for how I was performing. It’d only just begun to rain, water and sweat soaking me through.
Then I saw I had over a dozen missed calls from numbers I didn't have saved. I was used to the odd fan calls or messages, but there was something about the sheer number that made my entire body go cold. My stomach was in knots before I even picked up the phone, Coach’s whistle fading into numb emptiness behind me. I didn't hear him shouting my name to get back on the field as I listened to voicemail after voicemail. At some point I sank down to my knees, all energy zapped from my body.
The unknown calls were all from reporters asking what I would do now that my sister was dead and my nephew was orphaned.
That’s how I found out my best friend, my sister, the woman who raised me, was gone forever.
Jerked back to reality by the memory, I wheeze slightly and grab hold of the elevator rail to keep myself standing.
It’s been almost a year and that wound is as fresh as the day it ripped through my heart.
I can tell Ryan is still struggling too. He’s just a little guy but he’s already been through so much.
The elevator finally rises high enough that the windows disappear, replaced with solid walls that block out the rain. I return my attention to the mail. I come to a stiff envelope within the small pile. It feels like it was starched at a laundry mat, but the swirling handwriting on the front is surprisingly delicate. I don’t realize it’s from Ryan’s hoity-toity school, where he’s recently started first grade, until I rip open the envelope and see the familiar St. James emblem embossed across the top of the letterhead.
Good afternoon, Mr. Eckhart, the letter begins in that same warm scrawl. I'm writing this because I’ve attempted to leave a message with you a few times, but your voice mailbox is full.
Fair point. I stopped allowing messages after the horrific day when I found out about Jenny.
I’ve also sent home a few notes with Ryan that were meant to be signed but I have a feeling you haven’t seen them.
That was also true. I didn't nag Ryan. I liked to let him feel like he had control over some things in his hectic life.
I urgently need to speak with you regarding Ryan. If you could call St. James Academy at your earliest convenience, I would deeply appreciate the chance to speak with you. Thank you, Miss Davis.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I finish reading the first-grade teacher’s letter.
No kid is perfect, especially a six-year-old who’s gone through what Ryan has, but I know I have to at least try to take this letter seriously. Jenny would want that.
She was the kind of person who would give anything and do everything to make sure the people she loved succeeded. That’s what made her such an amazing parent—something I am not.
It’s just that becoming a father was never something I’d even considered before now.
My focus was football, women, parties and my bachelor lifestyle. I loved and cherished Jenny and Ryan too, but that was a separate kind of love.
Now, I'm completely lost, adrift in a sea of parenthood I never could’ve seen coming.
Jenny and I don’t have any other family. Growing up we only had each other to depend on, and with her being six years older than me, she raised me with a hand way more delicate than our mother’s ever was. While alive, our parents wanted little to do with us. When they died while I was still fairly young, I barely noticed the transition to my sister becoming my fulltime guardian.
It’s strange to think that I’m now following in her footsteps. Did she feel this ill prepared? She was younger than me when she had to step up and raise me, but someone I doubt she ever felt lost, like I do now. I close my eyes and Jenny’s fierce dark eyes sear my memory. Ryan has those same eyes.
God, Jenny, I don’t want to fail you, but I need some help here.
My sister always knew what to do. She was the one who pushed me to go to football practices even when I didn't want to and she was the one always at my games cheering me on. I owe my entire career and sense of passion for the sport to her.
So when it came down to Ryan either being forced into foster care or me stepping up to the parenting plate, I had no other choice.
I took him in, believing that I had enough money to make this whole ‘dad’ thing easy enough. I could buy nannies (who may just happen to be gorgeous) and that would be good enough. Right?
I stare down at the letter from Miss Davis.
Apparently not.
I’m finding out the hard way that to be a dad, you actually have to know a thing or two about kids. I’ve always believed money solves everything, but it hasn’t helped heal the holes in our hearts.
When the elevator doors glide open, I step out and nudge my cell from out of my pocket. Even after all this time I wince when I look at it, still seeing all those voicemails on my phone even though I’d replaced my old cell with some fancy new high-tech
device that tells me where Ryan is at all times.
For Jenny, I’ll call Miss Davis and I’ll hear her out.
I dial the number printed on the school’s letterhead. The phone rings in my ear, the hollow sound knotting my stomach.
I'm amazing at football. That’s just the solid truth. But it’s only because I follow the playbook Coach lays out for me.
Why can’t being a father be that simple? Where’s my playbook now?
Chapter 2
Stacy
Even though my back is turned toward the flock of six to seven-year-olds while I scribble away on the white board, I can hear their giggles and the flick of paper notes being tossed from one corner to the other, whispers quietly rippling in their wake.
I bite back a laugh of my own, continuing to write simple math equations across the board. I remember what it was like to be that young; more interested in chatting with my friends than in what the teacher was trying to demonstrate. But I'm determined to connect with these young minds and help them learn a thing or two while they’re part of my class.
This is my life now. I can hardly believe my dream has finally come true.
I’ve spent many long hours studying and working as hard as I could to get here, and now I'm a teacher at one of the most exclusive private schools in the state of New York.
My family thought I was insane when I went back to school for my master’s in education, claiming that I could get a job that was ‘just fine’ with a regular bachelor’s degree.
But I knew I wanted more than just fine.
I wanted to go beyond public school. I wanted to be part of an education system like this one. Not to mention that the paycheck is better.
It’d better be, if I plan to ever pay off my endless student loans!
It’s not like the St. James job has me rolling in cash, but at least I can finally contribute my fair share toward rent for the apartment I share with my model roommate Morgan and her rockstar boyfriend, Eric.
Most days it feels more like I live alone since Morgan and Eric are constantly traveling across the country for his gigs and her modeling jobs. They’ve even had a few international tours, sending me photos of them in Ibiza or the beautiful Italian countryside.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little jealous of their success both in life and in love, but I'm also really happy for them, as well as our other roommate Chloe, who moved out a while ago to live with the billionaire love of her life.
I sigh as I write equations on the board that make me start to tally up how much I owe my roommates. It’s not like Eric cares about covering the rent for our apartment. He’s probably making as much as Chloe’s boyfriend does with how well his band is doing . . . but that’s not the point. I don’t want someone else to have to pay my way, even if it’s not a big deal to them.
Growing up as one of eight children to a set of very overworked and budget-conscious parents, I learned to provide for myself early on. I grew to love that self-reliance. I'm proud of it. And now that I finally have the means to do so, I intended to pay Eric back for all the months of my rent he covered over the last summer.
Setting down my marker, I turn back to the children. They all straighten in their seats as angelic smiles light most of their faces. They’re hardly innocent, but I’ve got to admit they’re pretty adorable and good at playing the part.
Most of them, anyway—except for Ryan Eckhart.
He sticks out like a sore thumb, his mop of dark hair turned toward the window, his chin in his palm. He noisily taps his pencil against the wood of his desk, the point already worn down. A few irritated glances are thrown his way by the other students. His school uniform, supposed to be pressed and clean, is wrinkled and smudged with dirt from where I saw him playing in the grass before school.
I watch his deep brown eyes follow the trail of raindrops slithering across the glass window panes.
“Ryan,” I say gently, waiting for him to blink and come back to reality, but he just keeps tapping his pencil and staring out the window.
The other kids watch my interactions with Ryan like a hawk, eager to see if there’s any sort of weakness in my methods of discipline. Growing up surrounded by nannies and pampering, the students at St. James Academy are used to manipulating those around them, but I refuse to let them see a chink in my armor. If I'm going to connect with them, they can’t see me as someone they can walk all over.
I move around my desk to look at the young boy, hands finding my hips. “Ryan,” I repeat. “Ryan Eckhart. The rain cannot possibly be that entertaining.”
He stiffens as the sound of my voice pierces the haze of his daydream. His eyes shift to lock on me but his face stays slightly turned away.
“What do you want?” he asks irritably, leaving me dumbfounded.
The students snicker, heat pooling to my cheeks.
As a new teacher, I’ve had a tough time commanding the attention of the children this year and this is not going to help. If only Mr. Eckhart would actually answer his phone once in a blue moon so we could work out some sort of plan for the poor, distracted kid sitting in front of me now.
Even though I expected the transition from public schools to an elite prep school to be bumpy, it’s been rougher than I could’ve estimated. It’s like the kids can sense that I don't belong amongst the other teachers who’d once been students here and were social elites themselves. They seem to sniff out that I’m from a lesser social status than them. It’s probably a skill they picked up from their parents while they lounge in their mansions and order around their maids and butlers.
Okay, I know I’m being a little ridiculous . . . but the kids here, even the well-behaved ones, are spoiled. It’s obvious by their Louis Vuitton pencil bags and the way they gaze at me down their snooty button noses.
But I'm not here to be a pushover or to be treated with disrespect.
I'm here to help these kids not only learn a lesson or two about education, but about how to be decent young people who can make positive changes in the world. They’re going to leave my class with a new definition of humanity whether they like it or not.
Before I can rebuke the dark-haired young man who’s gone back to staring out the window, I hear the sound of a throat clearing behind me—an all too familiar sound that makes my skin crawl.
I don’t have to turn around to know who it is, but I do anyway after arranging a polite smile on my face. I'm glad I set down my marker, otherwise I’d be gripping it so tightly it may have snapped right in two.
Principal Eugene Walton, about as attractive as his name makes him sound, glowers at me from the doorway. A ruddy and round man, he has perpetual dollar signs in his eyes. He doesn’t care about these kids as much as he cares about the ridiculous paychecks he receives from their parents for tuition. It’s tiresome to work under a man who cares so little about the children, but I know not every boss is going to be flawless and good-intentioned.
Sometimes you just have to pick your battles and bite your tongue, and I’ve been doing an awful lot of that with Principal Walton.
He and I have already had a few ‘altercations’ regarding the way I like to teach my students, but I’ve done the best I can to follow his strict set of rules, within reason.
* * *
I have no idea what I’ve done this time to bring him and his quivering jowls to my room.
“Miss Davis,” he instructs snidely, jerking his chin toward my door.
“I’ll just be a moment, class,” I say with a smile, hoping they can’t sense how much I dislike the principal, but I know that kids are more perceptive than most would think.
I follow Principal Walton out into the hall and close the door behind me. The hardwood presses against my spine as a lean against the door. I can hear the familiar sound of chatter and giggles from behind it.
“Miss Davis,” he hisses again, dropping all presumptions of niceness as his ruddy face blooms bright crimson, “how many times must we discuss the illustrio
us reputation that many of our students’ parents have?”
“Excuse me?” I ask, baffled.
“I'm speaking, of course, about Jacob Eckhart. He called this afternoon saying that you . . .” Eugene gulps in a rasping breath of air and fanned his face as though whatever I’ve done is unthinkable, “. . . that you mailed him a letter regarding young Ryan’s performance?”
“Oh. Yes,” I answer simply, brows lifting when Principal Walton folds his arms like he’s waiting for an explanation. “I mean, you’re aware I’ve tried to send Ryan to detention multiple times.” Tried being the keyword because Principal Walton always sent Ryan back within seconds. “He speaks back to me in class and refuses to participate. I thought maybe a conference with Mr. Eckhart would clear things up.”
“Mr. Eckhart is a celebrity and a renowned football player with the NFL, Miss Davis,” spits the red-faced man as though I’m supposed to be impressed, “and you will treat him as such.”
I try to remind myself to keep calm, but irritation fizzes in my stomach like a shaken can of soda that’s already starting to spring loose. “A celebrity? Meaning that he can’t be held accountable for Ryan’s actions? Ryan needs a guiding hand—”
Principal Walton lifts a hand and cuts me off, his eyes turning to slits. “I'm only going to say this once. You are not to personally contact any of the parents from this moment on without my precise permission. If you continue to behave improperly, I will have no choice but to dismiss you from my staff without further references. Are we clear?”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. I can’t lose this job. It means too much to me. I’ve worked so hard to get here and I don’t want to fail.
Plus, I know what Principal Walton is saying. He’ll blacklist my name if I piss him off, something I'm sure he’s done to countless other teachers before me. Now we’re not only talking about my future here at St. James Academy, but my future as a teacher anywhere. If I get myself fired, I’ll probably have to move overseas to try and find another teaching job, and that’s assuming Eugene’s ire doesn’t follow me across continents.
Eric: A Clean Billionaire Romance Page 12
