The Back-Up Plan Read online

  “But it wasn’t your first career choice,” she nagged.

  “No,” he conceded. “But it was my choice.” Irritation pricked him. Why the hell was she attacking him? Most folks thought it was noble that he’d come back here, to his hometown, to support the community.

  She lifted her chin in challenge. “So you’d rather have two hundred and fifty pounds of sweaty, angry muscle charging at you than to be chasing a room full of kindergartners?”

  Now he was pissed. “That’s no longer an option,” he said a bit too sharply.

  Regret stole across her holier-than-thou expression. “I’m sorry.” She blinked furiously. “I meant that you’d probably be happier anchoring some sports program than wiping noses and teaching ABC’s.”

  A burst of frustrated air hissed past his lips. “But I’m not, am I?” He twisted his lips into a wry smile. “I’m a firm believer in making the best of things. Besides, I love the kids.”

  “That’s good to know,” she allowed before moving forward again, leaving Hank to wonder if that was her off-handed way of giving a compliment.

  They turned up the sidewalk to Donna’s house. The old Langford house. Hank knew it well. The house needed some work, but it had several redeeming qualities. A wide, sprawling front porch. Lots of fancy fret work that women loved and men hated to paint. Patty and her husband, Sam, had spent weekend after weekend painting the exterior of the place before Donna’s arrival. One of the neighbors told Hank that Patty’s sister, the doctor, had bought the house and would be moving to Huntley soon. Nothing stayed secret for long in a small town. And, of course, when school started, Patty set into her matchmaking mode.

  “So Monday’s the big day,” Hank ventured, hoping to reopen the conversation.

  “Actually, we have some electrical problems and open house has been delayed until Tuesday.”

  “Huntley has needed a doctor for a while now.”

  “So I hear.” Donna hurried up the porch steps.

  “I’m sure the folks will be showing up in droves.” Hank took the steps behind her.

  One last chance, Bradley. What are you going to say to her now? He walked across the porch and stood beside her at the door. Like most women, she appeared to be having difficulty finding her keys. At last she pulled the wad of keys from her bag and shoved one into the keyhole. This is it. You gotta say something now.

  “Look.” He shrugged, “I know we got off to a bad start this morning.”

  “I’m sure we’ll smooth things out in time.” Her gaze moved reluctantly to his. “Good-bye, Mr. Bradley.”

  Not prepared to give up just yet, he went for another opening. “If you ever want to discuss Melissa’s work or anything at all, I’m in the book. Just give me a call. Or walk down the block. Anytime.”

  “If I need to speak with you, I’ll do so at school,” she assured him. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your personal time.”

  Hank plowed a hand through his hair. This was a hell of a lot more difficult than he had expected. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

  She stared at him a moment, her expression unreadable. “You’re my daughter’s teacher, but otherwise you’re a total stranger. Why would I like or dislike you?”

  “I’m wondering the same thing. Seems you’ve already made up your mind.”

  A telephone rang somewhere inside the house.

  “That’s my phone.”

  “You have a nice evening, Dr. Jacobs.” The telephone rang again. Hank smiled and gave her a nod before turning away.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bradley.”

  The reluctance in her voice halted him at the porch steps. He faced her. “For what?” he asked. “For being a nice guy? Or for just knowing when to leave?” Another ring echoed from inside the house.

  She smiled and he felt its warmth span the distance between them. “None of the above,” she said. “Thank you for telling me about Melissa.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Another ring and she disappeared into the house.

  Hank grinned. First down and a whole hell of a lot of yards to go.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday morning brought Hank’s weekly summons. As sure as the sun came up each morning, Masters found some reason to call him into her office at least once a week to chew him out. Thank God there was only one more day in this week; only about thirty-eight more weeks in the school year. He banged his fist against an already dented blue locker that had once belonged to him. A lifetime ago. His jaw hardened as he clenched and unclenched that fist.

  Why didn’t she just leave him alone? She’d had her revenge. He was a kindergarten teacher, for Christ’s sake. Since he was untenured, she could assign him to most any teaching position in the school for one year. The move had almost cost him his coaching assignment. Hank banged another locker as he focused on the door at the end of the hall. No one, except Jack Taylor—and he was gone now—understood how much coaching meant to Hank. He had lost everything else, coaching was the only thing that kept him going. And the kids. He loved the kids, from kindergarten on up.

  Jack had been the principal at Huntley for three decades. His sudden death last spring had left a gaping hole the likes of Cynthia Masters could never hope to fill, even temporarily.

  Hank considered himself an athlete through and through. If teaching and coaching was what fate intended for his future, then he wanted to make a difference. For some of these kids, being high school football stars would be their fifteen minutes of fame in this life. Their one opportunity to shine. For others, the game kept them making good grades and off drugs. He didn’t intend to let some brass-balled cougar bitch like Masters stop him from making that difference.

  Hank reached the end of the hall and stood before the closed door. He had stood in this exact spot many times as a teenager. Knowing what waited for him inside then had been more than a little intimidating. But now, well over a decade later, what waited inside filled him with a sense of loathing.

  He took a long, deep breath and cleared his mind. This woman would not get the best of him. Cynthia Masters could make things as rough as she wanted, but she would never have him. He grasped the knob tightly and forced himself to open the door.

  The outer office was deserted except for Edna, the secretary.

  “Hi, Coach.” Edna smiled. Her gray eyes, that perfectly matched her gray hair, twinkled. “Ms. Masters will be right with you.”

  Edna was new, too. Mrs. Carmichael, Jack’s secretary, had retired after his death.

  Hank nodded and took a seat. He glanced at the dark console of the telephone on Edna’s desk. He knew before he looked that Masters wouldn’t be on the phone, and he’d bet his next month’s salary she didn’t have anyone in the office with her, either. The same old routine. The witch would call him to the office and then keep him waiting a good fifteen or twenty minutes. She got some kind of perverse pleasure out of pushing his buttons.

  Eighteen minutes later the intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed. “You may go in now, Coach.”

  “Thanks,” Hank mumbled as he proceeded to the inner sanctum.

  The moment he entered Masters’ office he saw the gleam of triumph in her calculating green eyes. Even through the faded jeans and bulky white sweatshirt he felt her predatory examination of his body. Her greedy gaze traveled the length of him before locking on his face.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Bradley. This may take a while.” A wicked smile touched her lips.

  Hank dropped into a stiff, burgundy chair. She could wait until hell froze over and he still wouldn’t be comfortable in her presence.

  “How are things going in kindergarten, Coach?”

  The emphasis she put on the word “coach” made him want to reach across the desk and wrap his fingers around her scrawny neck. He forced an expression of indifference onto his face. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing how she affected him. “Couldn’t be better, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure.” She pulled t
he pins from her hair and shook loose the bleached blonde curls. Leaning back in her fancy executive chair, she licked those ruby red lips and eyed him like a free ball on the forty yard line.

  Hank shifted his gaze from hers. Damn her! She loved playing these insane head games. He pushed a damp palm over the faded blue denim covering his thigh. He felt as antsy as a caged animal. Why couldn’t she just get it over with? Say whatever it was she had to say so he could get the hell out of here. Raking a hand through his hair, he allowed his eyes to meet hers once more.

  She breathed a little impatient sigh. “I understand that you’ve had some trouble with our new doctor.”

  How did she know about that? He swallowed back the strange emotion he felt when he considered the only probable answer. Hank looked Masters straight in the eye. “No trouble. Her daughter, Melissa, has had some difficulty adjusting, but it’s no big deal. We’ve had a conference and everything is under control.”

  “I heard about your little conference.” She rose and moved around the large mahogany desk. She scooted onto the edge right in front of him. Her already too short skirt slid to the tops of her thighs as she crossed her long legs.

  Hank resisted the natural impulse to stare at those legs. He eased back as far as possible in his chair. The more distance between them the better. Why had Donna Jacobs spoken to Masters? Hank thought they had an agreement. He gave himself a mental shake with the reminder that you couldn’t trust anybody these days. Especially the man-eating female ogling him right now.

  “I also heard” she let her black, spiked heel drop to the floor so she could rub her foot against the inside of his leg “that the good doctor was ready to remove her child from your classroom. Of course,” Masters smiled down at him, “we all know that’s impossible since you’re the only kindergarten teacher.”

  A muscle in his jaw jerked rhythmically. He held on to the arms of his chair and glared at her. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that.”

  “But I thought you liked to be touched. What were all those pet names the media had for you? Oh, yes. Hard Hank...Bad Boy Bradley. I hear you never dated the same woman twice.” Her toes were making a path up his inner thigh now. “Maybe you’re just afraid of a real challenge.”

  Hank pushed out of the uncomfortable chair. “Is there anything else?” He kept his clenched fists pressed against his sides. How he would love to throttle this woman. The only challenge she represented was in his maintaining the overwhelming urge to hurl in her presence.

  She slid off the desk, heedless of his barely checked rage. A harsh chuckle escaped her lips as she moved nearer. He felt the heat of her breath on his face as she stared up at him. “You’re just no fun at all, Coach.” She pressed her body against his in an exaggerated act of balancing as she slipped her shoe back on.

  Hank finally relaxed when she had moved away from him and sat down behind her desk once more. He stared at her with such contempt that if looks could kill she would have dropped dead on the spot.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, Bradley. Your class awaits you.” With a wave of her hand she dismissed him.

  Rigid with repressed rage, Hank turned and left her office. He closed the door behind him with the last bit of control he had. He walked straight to the deserted faculty lounge and locked himself in the john.

  Hank exhaled a long, shaky breath and pushed a hand through his hair. He couldn’t let that predatory bitch get to him. He paced the tiny room. Back and forth. What the hell was he going to do? How long could he endure her bullshit? He kicked the trash can, sending it skidding across the tile floor into the far corner. He leaned into the wall, pressing his forehead against the cool surface. His head was pounding. Damn that woman.

  He knew exactly how to deal with a woman like her, but he was not in a position to do what came immediately to mind. Though he didn’t need the money this job paid, he needed the job. As true as it was that his degree in education had been a fall back plan, he was squarely there now. He’d lose his mind without these kids to fill his life. Teaching gave him a sense of accomplishment and he damned well intended to keep doing it. This was his life now. She wanted him to screw up so she could fire him. Maybe ruin his chances of teaching again.

  Many times in the past Hank had scoffed at women who filed sexual harassment charges against their male superiors. With the shoe on the other foot, he was at a loss as to what to do. And how could he possibly ever go public? A big guy like him, with his reputation, being pushed around by a skinny little power hungry bitch like Masters? No thanks.

  With his past career as a pro ball player it’d probably make national headlines. The whole world had been privy to every last detail of his life as it fell apart once before—he had no intention of allowing that to happen again. He would just have to figure out some other way to deal with Masters.

  The message he’d found on his answering machine last night flitted through the back of his mind. Jim Fedderman, his former agent, had rambled on and on about some hot deal he had in the works for Hank. “Yeah, right, you’ve been working on a hot deal for two years, Fedderman.”

  Hank had lost it completely after his injury, and when the offers had poured in for anchor and commentator slots, he had scoffed at the idea. Hank Bradley was going to play again. Somehow, some way.

  It had taken him a long time to get past the anger and bitterness; past the denial and then on to acceptance. A full year to be precise. Twelve long months of surgery and physical therapy, and the big deal celebrity NFL player Hank Bradley’d had to admit defeat. Teaching and coaching was what he did now. He had accepted that fate.

  He swung around and sagged against the wall. Dr. Jacobs’s defiant yet vulnerable image flashed before his eyes. The intensity of his attraction to her surprised him. Made even less sense considering she didn’t like him. He knew what she thought of him—a dumb jock with no aptitude for teaching her dog, if she had one, much less her child.

  Hank pushed away from the wall and took a deep, calming breath. He could try to change her mind but the fact that she had gone to Masters with her complaint warned she wasn’t interested. She had a hell of a way of telling him to back off.

  Back at his classroom he thanked Teresa, the teacher’s aide for K-2, for watching his students. The children were engrossed in trying to write their first and last names. Shaking off the lingering irritation with Cynthia, Hank knelt next to Shane who was having a particularly hard time with his handwriting.

  No matter how hard he tried, thoughts of the new doc threatened his concentration. Why had she gone behind his back and seen Masters anyway? There’d been no other incidents with Melissa. She hadn’t given him a chance to speak with her again, but he had sent a note home praising her daughter’s conduct. Why did the woman dislike him so? Whatever the reason, Cynthia Masters now had one more incident to put in her little expose on Hank.

  What he needed was a distraction. Something to take his mind off the women in his life. The weekend was coming up and the only thing he had going was tomorrow night’s game. He glanced around the room and his dire expression brightened. He would paint this classroom. Hank hated the canary yellow color it had been for far too long. Come Monday morning it would be Hornet blue. Masters would love that. The thought of her displeasure made the idea even more appealing. When practice was over this afternoon he would stop by the hardware store and have Starr mix the color. And after that, maybe he’d buy himself a six-pack and just chill on the couch.

  ~*~

  “The doctor’s on the way, Coach.” Gasping for breath, Dodd dropped to the ground beside Hank. “His dad’s on the way, too, but it’ll take him half an hour to get here from work.”

  “Good job, Baker.” Hank watched Stevens’ convulsing body with growing anxiety. He had only witnessed one other epileptic seizure in his life and he felt certain that it hadn’t lasted anywhere near this long. “Come on, Stevens. Hang in there, man.”

  Hank figured Stevens had recognized the aura just prior
to losing consciousness. The kid had stopped in the middle of the field, pulled off his helmet and spit out his mouthpiece before falling to the ground. Hank had cleared the huddle of players around Stevens and turned him on his side. All he could do now was watch. He had read up on the disorder and knew he shouldn’t interfere unless—

  “Damn.” The kid was chewing his tongue. He grabbed the boy’s discarded mouthpiece. If he could insert it back into his mouth maybe he wouldn’t hurt himself with all that chewing. Hank cursed when his fingers slipped and got caught in the grinding action. He couldn’t get the mouthpiece in.

  Where was that doctor?

  As suddenly as the episode had begun, the convulsions stopped. The kid’s body stilled. Hank heaved a sigh of relief and thanked God. He would rather take a beating than to watch a kid suffer. He tossed aside the ineffective mouthpiece and caught a glimpse of Donna Jacobs running, bag in hand, across the ball field. The other players stood watching from a distance as Hank had instructed.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Stevens.” He squeezed the boy’s limp hand. Stevens looked pale. Tiny beads of perspiration had formed on his face and his skin felt cool and clammy. Normal reactions, Hank reminded himself.

  “What happened?” Breathing hard from the run, Jacobs dropped to the ground on the other side of the boy and started her examination.

  “Stevens has seizures. He takes phenobarbital. I don’t know if maybe he forgot to take his medicine or what, but he had a pretty rough seizure.”

  The doc’s gaze analyzed Hank’s for a moment. “How long did the seizure last?”

  “Too long,” he answered, concern adding a faint tremor to his voice. “I didn’t exactly time it.” Damn. He felt like a used up battery. Drained and unnecessary.

  Heaping even more remorse on his back, he recognized the disapproval in the doctor’s questioning gaze. She was wondering why he let a kid with a history of seizures play on his team. Right now he could care less what she thought about him; Stevens was his only concern. He would worry about appeasing the doctor when he knew the kid was okay.