Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(20)

He glances behind him.

Bad move. When running, always keep your eyes on the prize—where you want to go. Unless you want to go backwards, don’t fucking look there.

The runner misses the police officer who steps out from behind a tree, raises his arm, and clotheslines the kid across his throat, knocking him on his ass.

“Damn.”

“Ouch!”

When I was a student here, we had security guards, basically mall-cop-level enforcement. But today it’s the real deal. Armed officers patrol the grounds and halls—if you get into it with them, you’re looking at a charge for assaulting an officer—minimum. And there are all different kinds of cops. Level-headed, calm realists, like my brother Ryan. And aggressive, power-high live wires, like Officer John Tearney, who’s currently hauling the runner up by the back of his shirt, cuffing him, and dragging him back into the building.

Remember my theory about the soul? How it doesn’t change after high school? Tearney is Exhibit A. He was a grade above me in high school—he was a prick then, and he’s a prick with a badge now.

“All right, guys,” I tell my class. “Show’s over. Back in your seats.”

Midway through the period, my door opens and Jerry Dorfman, school guidance counselor and assistant coach, lumbers through.

“What’s up, Jerry?”

He hands me a slip of paper.

“I need David Burke.”

“I didn’t do it.” David holds up his hands in surrender and the class laughs.

From what I hear, David lives with his grandmother. His mom’s out of the picture, his dad’s still around, but the situation is not good.

“On your feet, Burke!” Jerry barks. “I didn’t ask for your lip. Move it, monkey, move it!”

Jerry’s big and rules with the tough love he learned from his marine days. He’s a hardass—but he’s not a dick. I wouldn’t let him coach my team if he were.

With a final compulsory eye roll, David stands up and walks out of the room with Jerry.

Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and the mad, Hunger Games-worthy fight for the door ensues. I give them the same send-off I do every Friday.

“Have a good weekend. Don’t be idiots.”

You’d be amazed at the amount of bullshit you can save yourself by following those three simple words.



~



My fourth period is free—a prep period—thank you, teachers’ union. I plan to spend it in my office next to the locker room. But on the way, I’m stopped by the view of three football players—my quarterback, Lipinski, and two junior varsity players, Martin and Collins, surrounding another student—Frank Drummond. Frank’s a special needs student in the self-contained classroom.

Lipinski has Frank’s navy Yankees hat in his hand, holding it just out of his reach—letting him get close, then yanking it away like a yo-yo. Martin and Collins laugh as Lipinski taunts him.

“Hey!” I call out, walking over. “Knock it off, right now.”

Martin’s face pales when he sees me and Collins’ eyes shift like he’s looking for an escape hatch. I snap the hat out of Lipinski’s grasp and put it in Frank’s hands.

“Apologize.”

“Sorry, Frank.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Just joking with you, Frankie.” Lipinski sneers. “You don’t have to freak out.”

I look at him, hard—come practice I’m going to rip the little shit’s head off.

“There you are, Frank.” Kelly Simmons walks up to us, threading her arm through her student’s.

Kelly is beautiful, in a light-tan dress that only reaches her mid-thigh, and high, suede, brown fuck-me boots—she definitely stars in the hot-for-teacher fantasies of the majority of the male student population.

“Sorry about this, Kelly,” I tell her as she scowls at the three players. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Garrett.” And walks with Frank down the hall.

“My office,” I growl at the remaining jackasses. “Now.”

Once the three of them are inside, I slam the door.

“What the hell did I just see?” I snap.

“We were joking.” Collins squeaks out, eyes on the floor.

Lipinski juts out his chin. “It’s not a big deal.”

I step closer. Brandon’s almost his full height, but I still have two inches on him and I use them to my advantage. “It’s a big deal to me.”

Martin lifts his shoulder meekly. “Guys bust on each other, Coach. We were messing around with Frank, that’s all.”

My voice is clipped, sharp, and damning.

“Guys bust each other’s balls, yeah, but Frank wasn’t in on the joke. Only assholes punch down—don’t act like assholes.”

“Punch down?” Lipinski challenges. “That almost sounds like you think Frank isn’t as capable as the rest of us. Pretty messed up, don’t you think?”

“Frank has challenges that you don’t,” I fire back. “I can’t figure out why in God’s name you would go out of your way to make his life even harder. Are you hearing me?”

“Yeah, Coach,” Martin mumbles.

“Yeah, we hear you,” Collins adds. “Sorry.”