“Where you guys going?” Mike Williams called from his spot leaning on the other car.

  Shane barely spared him a glance. “To do our jobs,” he muttered, and beside him he heard Calvin swear.

  “Dumb asshole—he thinks she’s going to be safe after that?”

  “Ballsiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Shane said, and he heard Calvin grunt in the affirmative next to him. The boy rose a few notches in Shane’s esteem, and together they walked casually up to the art teacher as she stepped off the field and onto the track and flanked her, one on either side as they made it toward the parked squad cars.

  “Hi, gentlemen,” she said softly, smiling with such warmth that Shane didn’t doubt she was a favorite of the students. “To what do I owe this privilege?”

  “Deacon and Crick say ‘hi’,” Shane told her, and was rewarded by a look of pleased surprise. She had apple cheeks, a wide mouth, and fine smile lines around her brown eyes now that they were up close, and she had put on fresh make-up—understated, but fresh—before she went up in front of the crowd.

  “I’m glad they’re doing well,” she said. There was a crash behind them, and Shane didn’t have to look to know a smuggled beer bottle had just made it to the track. Calvin swore.

  “I’ve got it—I saw the fucker, Shane—you get her off the track.”

  They were to the squad cars by now, and Shane snapped at the two lounging officers who were reacting in slow motion to the beer bottle. “You two may want to make your presence felt, dammit, and you”—this directed at the principal, who was glaring at Ms. Thompson with wide eyes—“you may want to go stand behind her, or this bunch is going to think the school’s all excited about gay bashing, and that would be a damned shame, now wouldn’t it?”

  Mr. Arreguin darted a glance over their shoulder and then took one look at Shane’s glare and rabbited over to the podium. As Shane took the art teacher professionally by the arm and led her past the snack bar, he heard the man redirecting the crowd’s energy to the marching band. They sucked, Shane thought critically, and then Ms. Thompson directed him to the gym behind the football field, opening a door to the coach’s office with keys in a surprisingly steady hand.

  “Where are you parked?” Shane asked as he followed her in, watching as she started clicking lights in what looked to be a standard issue P.E. office.

  “Other side of the school,” she replied with a wry roll of her eyes, and Shane shrugged. The radio at his belt buzzed and he picked it up, answering Calvin’s query as to where he was with a terse, “In the coach’s office in the gym. If you can pull the squad car around, we can escort the lady to her car.”

  “Gotcha, Shane—but the guys got some punks in the back of their car. We need to wait until backup comes to get them before I leave the field.”

  “You gonna be okay?” Shane asked. He couldn’t tell from the ambient noise whether or not the crowd had gotten ugly.

  “No worries, buddy. Tell Ms. Thompson ‘hi’ for me—and tell her I didn’t grow up to be a fuck-up, would you?”

  Shane glanced up to see Ms. Thompson smiling as she heard Calvin, and he arched an eyebrow at her. “I’ll tell her, Calvin. Radio when you’re on your way. Over.”

  He clicked off the radio, and the nice teacher lady laughed softly. “Something tells me that the line between fuck-up and Calvin is still sort of thin.”

  Shane laughed with her. “A thing I ponder more and more thoroughly every day we’re partnered,” he drawled, and she grinned at him. She said the word “fuck-up” like she was used to saying it, and he liked that about her too.

  “So, Officer”—she looked at his name tag—“Perkins….”

  “You can call me Shane, Ms. Thompson,” he told her, and her grin became even warmer.

  “And you can call me Judy, Shane. I was going to ask you how long you’ve been in town. I know most of the guys by now—they keep a close eye on the school—but I haven’t seen you yet.”

  Shane grimaced. “That’s probably because I avoided football duty like the plague,” he told her baldly. “But I’ve been in town since late April.”

  Judy’s look became thoughtful. “It’s too bad you weren’t just a tad earlier,” she said. “I think Deacon could have used a friend like you last February.”

  Shane nodded. “Yeah—I don’t think he’s really recovered in some ways. I know Crick would have come here in a heartbeat if that didn’t mean that Deacon would have shown up with him.”

  “Ah, God—they’re so good for each other,” she said, sitting irreverently on the teacher’s desk behind her. She swung her legs and dangled her leather clogs as she sat, and Shane found himself charmed.

  “Like wolves or eagles or something,” he said, and then he flushed. Jesus, Shane, try not to be such a psychopath. But Judith-call-me-Judy Thompson just laughed.

  “I concur,” she murmured. “I’d say like horses, but I know how horses mate, and that’s just not an appealing thought at all.”

  Shane was so surprised that he choked on his own tongue laughing, and when he looked up, she was blushing.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t know what pops out of my mouth sometimes.”

  He grinned at her. “Join the club—my mouth should just be declared a disaster area and closed down.”

  They laughed quietly, and the next half hour passed pleasantly for both of them. Shane was regretful when Calvin buzzed him to say the squad car was coming around, and he shook his head at Judy, who was looking a little sorry herself.

  “Why thank you, Officer. You made being threatened by redneck gay-bashers almost fun tonight. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Are you going to get into too much trouble?” he asked seriously, and she shrugged.

  “I’ve got tenure—and I know how to use it. Hey,” she started, and then looked uncomfortable.

  He looked at her, surprised. They’d covered everything from books to plays to federal funding in the last half-hour, and he didn’t think he made her nervous anymore.

  She smiled tentatively anyway. “Look… I’m… I’m still learning how to do this after my divorce, but… I’m not reading this wrong, am I? You, uhm… you do think I’m cute, right?”

  He blinked and flushed and looked at his toes. Oh God. He hadn’t even realized it but it was true. He’d been flirting. All his fine talk about keeping promises, and he’d been flirting with this very pretty, very available, very fun woman, and now she expected….

  “Oh God… I’m so stupid. You’re friends with Deacon and Crick, and I didn’t want to assume….” She was blathering, embarrassed, and he couldn’t let her feel like it was all her fault.

  “No, no!” he said, keeping his smile warm. “No—I think you’re beautiful, and truth is, I’ve got an equal opportunity pecker, so that’s no worry….”

  “Then what is it?” she asked, and then stopped and mouthed “equal opportunity pecker” as though she liked the way it sounded.

  “The thing is,” he said with another blush, looking away, “I’ve also got a one-chance heart, and I was… I was sort of giving someone else that chance right now.”

  To his surprise, Judy Thompson laughed that warm, rich laugh, and then she stood up from the desk and came over and kissed his cheek.

  “Do you have a cell phone, Shane Perkins?”

  Shane nodded and pulled it out, and she took it from him and started programming in a number.

  “The thing is,” she echoed as she played with the buttons, “that any man who would claim to have an equal opportunity pecker and a one-chance heart is the sort of man you might want to set yourself on standby for. So here.” She handed back the phone. “You take your one chance, and if that doesn’t pan out, you give me a call, okay?”

  Shane took the phone and looked the place where her name should be, and he couldn’t help laughing. It said “just-in-case.”

  “You won’t get mad if I use this to invite you to Deacon’s for dinner, will you? Even if my chance pays off? I think the guys would love to see you.”

  Judy smiled some more, a little sadly as if she already saw that she’d lost, and patted his cheek. “So cute. And such a good guy. I think you’re in the wrong profession, Officer—but I’d be happy to come see Deacon and Crick for dinner. And I’d even be happy to meet”—she arched her eyebrows—“her? Him?”

  “Him,” Shane confirmed.

  “I’d be happy to meet him and tell him what a lucky bastard he is.”

  And that was when Calvin knocked on the door, and their warm little interlude in the coach’s office was over.

  Chapter 7

  Wounded deep in battle, I stand stuffed like some soldier undaunted…

  “For You”—Bruce Springsteen

  MIKHAIL heard the phone buzz on the desk during his last class and was embarrassed as he tripped over his falling heart in front of the mirror.

  He was even more embarrassed when the batch of seven-year-olds who were following his lead interpreted the stumble as a dance step and repeated it. He had no choice but to stop the music and turn to them, laughing when he least felt like doing so, and telling them that they were very clever to follow him, but that he had been the one at fault.

  He was not prepared for eleven identical looks of awe.

  “But,” Lily, his favorite student, whispered, “you never make mistakes Teacher Bayul.” She had long, curly blonde hair up in two pigtails that fell down around her ears like a lop-eared rabbit, and big brown eyes. He’d never thought about it before, but he did appreciate brown eyes.

  Mikhail’s laugh was a little more real this time. “Of course I do, malenkaya bunny-girl. For instance, I made the mistake of smiling at all of you so now you think practice is over! Now from the top, please, third position!”

  All of the students promptly straightened their spines and placed the heels of their right feet against the toes of their left, and although there wasn’t a smile on the lot of them, they looked at Mikhail with twinkling eyes. It was a comfortable relationship he had with these children. If he pretended to be stern, they pretended to be well behaved, and since he pretended very well, their lessons were both productive and fun.

  In short, he took all of his childhood memories of harsh voices in his ear, heart-leveling criticisms that took his breath, and unkind hands manipulating thin limbs to the point of pain and threw them into the little black box in his mind and started over.

  As it turned out, he loved to dance more now when he was teaching children than he had when he had been one, and that was saying something. So that was what he threw himself into on this night, during his last class, when he’d unfortunately allowed himself the hope of throwing himself into Shane’s company instead.

  It was galling to realize that he’d fallen for that hope. He knew better.

  When the class was over, he said goodbye to his students (who said a grave goodbye back) and nodded courteously to their parents, who were probably warmer to him than he deserved. When everybody was gone, he looked heavily at his phone as it sat on the desk in the back of the room and decided he couldn’t listen to the message. Not now.

  The first message, saying that Shane would be by a week later than he’d thought, came as a pleasant surprise. Mikhail had honestly thought that their last conversation would be all, and if the thought left him a little sad, well, he knew how the world worked.

  Shane’s second message, saying that he would be by the dance studio after the last class on Wednesday, had been much more confident than the first one. There had been promise in that warm, dry voice, and Mikhail had slipped himself a forbidden dose of hope.

  He hadn’t known how much of the drug he’d taken until he saw the phone vibrate. It could only be a call bailing—there was no other reason the phone would ring. Mikhail hadn’t returned either of the other two messages, why should a man like Shane—a handsome man, one with family and friends—invest any more time in a stray like Mikhail than he already had? It had to be a rejection.

  And Mikhail, crashing from the hope, did not have the strength to hear it. With a squaring of his narrow jaw, he stalked up to the stereo and programmed his iPod blindly. Something angry, about betrayed promises… and Pat Benatar thundered through the room.

  Mikhail danced angrily. The injury he’d endured when he was younger had healed in the years he’d gone without dancing. Now it ached in the cold and needed a brace if he overexerted it, but for the most part, his knee behaved. This night it served him well. He jumped with perfect execution and as much impetus as he could manage. He leapt, he pounded, he even did a handspring, the pale wood paneling of the dance floor harder on his wrists than it had been in his younger days, but he didn’t let that slow him down. His dance was bitter and disappointed and fierce, and inside it he was the calm, grim eye of the hurricane, the Ice Man in action.

  And you try to be hard but your heart says try again…

  The end of the song roared to a conclusion, and Mikhail, feeling reckless with his body, his means of making a living, went for the spectacular move. Nobody was watching—if he succeeded or failed, nobody would see him make pirouette after pirouette, his eyes focused on the mirror in front of him, his face locked in grim lines, his body pushing, pushing, pushing past the disappointment that came when you let yourself….

  Four bars before the song was over, he turned his body hard and whipped his head around to spot his eyes in the mirror.

  In the next bar, as his shoulders were already beginning their turn, his eyes actually registered the broad face, the patient brown eyes, gazing at him in the mirror from the glass wall behind him.

  The song roared to its conclusion as he stumbled for the second time that night, this time finding himself face to face with Shane through the plate glass window. Shane had been watching him dance with a terrifying admiration.

  Mikhail had no idea what his expression was as he sat there on one knee, panting and gazing at Shane through the sweat dripping from his hair, but he knew that before he could stop himself, he whispered, “You came.”

  Shane’s mouth—it was a lean mouth, but it crinkled up on the ends easily—curved in a gentle smile, and it was easy to read his words even with the loud stereo and the sound muffled through the window. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  Perhaps next time, it would do to check the phone before dancing yourself into a sweaty mess. Yes, yes, there is always a better way.

  Mikhail stood with as much dignity as he could muster and walked to the locked door, pushing it outward and nodding Shane in. Shane walked in and looked around curiously, smiling at the row of toe shoes hanging by ribbons next to the little plaque of every student who had earned a solo and then graduated.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” he repeated, not looking at Mikhail. For his part, Mikhail grabbed a clean white towel from the pile and wiped his face and hair, wishing he had a clean shirt or something in his locker. He had come expecting to teach—not to stain his best button-up shirt with sweat.

  “I thought you were not coming,” he confessed, hoping the towel would mask whatever emotion was left after that cathartic dance.

  Shane looked at him in surprise. “Why would you think that? I left you a message.”

  Mikhail shrugged. “Yes, yes, I know. I did not look at the message, I just assumed…. Why are you late?”

  The look on Shane’s face said that he well understood why Mikhail might jump to such a conclusion—and then change the subject so abruptly it left them both with whiplash. Shane’s sigh was heavy, though, and Mikhail looked at him sharply. Shane caught the look and shrugged.

  “I was putting my cat down,” he said sheepishly, and Mikhail raised his eyebrows to the sweaty curls hanging on his brow.

  “I’m sorry?” He was honestly surprised.

  “One of my cats—she was really old when I got her from the shelter, but, you know, I got home from work, and poor Judi Dench was looking like shit. Her kidneys had just closed down for no reason, so I had to put her down.” Shane was keeping his face very neutral, and Mikhail had a sudden insight—and he wasn’t used to those. This big strong man with the warm, low voice had loved the damned cat.

  “I didn’t want to wait until I got home tonight—that’s not right, you know?”

  Mikhail nodded, and his throat worked. “Well, shit,” he said, at a loss. “How can I be angry with you for being late? That’s not fair of you at all.” He turned around and put the towel in the hamper—Anna, his boss, had a cleaning service, and they would be by in the morning to collect the laundry. “I can’t even pout over that.” He glared at Shane, honestly irritated. “You might have at least had the decency to have a flat tire, or to just be an insensitive bastard, but now? You left a message and have a perfectly good explanation, and now I’m fucked. How am I supposed to reject you now?”

  To his relief, Shane’s face split into a sweet, good-natured grin. “You’re not supposed to reject me—you’re supposed to come to dinner with me. That’s the rule.”

  Mikhail found himself blushing as he reached for his jacket from the peg above the desk. “That is not necessary, you know. A ride home would be fine.”

  “You going to invite me in to watch a movie?” Shane asked brazenly, and now Mikhail was sweating all over again.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head and avoiding Shane’s eyes. “I would, you know—because I have not seen Up yet, and we bought it already. But my mother… her health is not good. I would have to prepare her for you, so she would be ready for company. It… it takes a while.” He thought painfully of his mother, putting on a nice dress and fixing her turban just so—and then finding out that his companion was a man. She would be disappointed, and he did not think he could bear that.

  Shane nodded. “Well, then—you’ll have to come with me to dinner. Anywhere you want.”

  Mikhail sighed. He normally had a great deal of pride, but he had assumed the worst about this nice man, and he felt as though he owed Shane a date at the very least. Besides—he was in charge of meals at home, and he knew for certain that his mother was very tired of his cooking. He allowed himself to reach for a treat—for her, he assured himself.