stop to say he was sorry. He just ran like hell to the end of the hall, and exited, stage right.
Gretchen Foley stared at her from in front of her locker. “Are you all right, Ms. Proctor?”
“Yes, Gretchen. I’m fine.”
“Should I go get the nurse or something?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Gretchen nodded and headed toward the cafeteria. She didn’t even bother to pick up a single piece of paper. What was it with kids today? Had they all been raised by wolves?
Just then, a masculine hand came out of nowhere, extended in front of her. She sighed, glad that at least one student on campus had some manners.
She looked up at her Lochinvar, and her heart froze. Scott Dillon. Oh, God! Anyone but him! She’d gone out of her way to avoid him. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Especially not like this!
He frowned, making his perfect dark brows come close together. “Are you really all right?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He glanced at his hand, and she took hold of him, praying she wouldn’t give him a hernia as he helped her up. To her utter relief, he didn’t strain himself at all.
“Hey!” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“It’s me.”
“Well, how do you like that. What are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
“Right. That’s right. I remember.” He shook his head and she wasn’t sure if it was because she was still living in Sheridan, or because she had come to teach at their alma mater. But he didn’t stay perplexed for long. Instead, he started picking up her books and papers.
“It’s great to see you. How you doing, Emily?”
“I’m fine, Scott,” she said, lying through her teeth. “You’re looking well.” And he was. Oh, mama. He was more beautiful than ever. He towered over her at well over six feet. His dark, wavy hair was slightly unkempt, and he looked devilishly handsome. Dark chocolate eyes sparkled behind sinfully long lashes. And that smile. She’d been a sucker for that smile since day one.
He waved away her compliment, handed her the last of her papers, then glanced down the hall. “I’m supposed to meet Coach for lunch. I’m late.”
“Go. Go on.”
“But you need help with your books.”
“I can handle it. Honestly. Now go. I know Coach hates it when anyone’s late. It was good to see you again.”
“Yeah. We’ll have to get together for coffee or something.”
She nodded, but he didn’t see. He’d already started down the hall. Down the very same hall where she’d watched him, five days a week, and loved him from afar. Where he’d kissed Cathy Turner, blissfully unaware that he’d broken her heart.
Her smile died. She had to congratulate herself. She’d sounded perfectly normal. Perfectly calm. Despite the turmoil swirling inside. He’d seen her at her worst. Splayed on the floor like some giant amoeba, arms and legs akimbo, hair a horror, and she’d even managed to lose one shoe.
Perfect. A fairy-tale reunion if she’d ever seen one. She’d managed to blow it before it had even begun—
Wait.
This wasn’t about Scott, right? The sudden urge for fast food might be about him, but her determination not to give in was hers and hers alone.
So he’d seen her. So what? It was bound to happen. So it wasn’t in the most flattering light. Big deal. The truth was, they’d been friends, once. Good friends. They’d talked about their dreams for a shining future. Shared their fears and laughter as they sat in the last row of the auditorium waiting for their turn on the stage. Despite her crush, she’d liked Scott. She’d never understood what he saw in Cathy, but hey, who knows? Maybe Cathy had hidden depth. Really well-hidden. But that was neither here nor there. What was relevant now was Emily’s desire to go the distance. To be the best she could be.
It was time to eat her salad. With balsamic vinegar, no oil.
SCOTT HURRIED DOWN the familiar halls, wishing he’d come earlier so that he could have lingered, savored his memories. But as Emily said, Coach hated to be kept waiting.
Emily Proctor.
He hadn’t expected to see her again. It surprised him that she’d stayed in Sheridan. She was so bright, he imagined her in New York or something, writing books or in politics. She’d be a good teacher, though. Her students were lucky.
He’d thought about her from time to time. About their talks, mostly. About how he’d looked forward to his classes with her. He’d taken out his yearbook once and seeing her picture was like a dose of medicine. She’d been a better friend in high school than he’d understood at the time. He regretted not keeping in touch with her.
As he passed the lockers, the pep-rally posters and the students with their backpacks and cell phones, the smell of the place brought him back to his own days here. Funny about that smell. He hadn’t noticed it back then, but when he’d walked through the front doors a few minutes ago, it had hit him hard. The combination of young, sweaty bodies, perfume, old gym socks, books, chalk…It was the smell of his youth, of his heyday. A damn fine smell.
And then to bump into Emily? That really took him back. She’d been so easy to talk to. So funny. She’d had those long bangs. He remembered wondering how she saw with all that hair in her eyes. And she was always hanging out with her girlfriends. Giggling, passing notes, getting into the kind of trouble that got stern looks from teachers. Nothing more. Innocent. But then, hadn’t they all been innocent back then?
Yeah. Emily Proctor. She’d been great. A good friend. Maybe she could be his friend, again. It didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon. The store was a mess and needed someone in charge. There wasn’t anyone standing in the wings. The job was his whether he wanted it or not.
He pushed open the door to the quad and set out for the gym. The trees seemed bigger, the grass scragglier, but the biggest change he noticed was the students. They looked so young! At twenty-six he’d never thought much about his age, but now the truth hit him that he wasn’t the hotshot he used to be. That star had tarnished with the snap of his right ankle. Every year, new and better players made first string, and the one thing that would have made Scott special, the chance to be ESPN’s youngest sports commentator ever, had slipped through his fingers like so much sand.
His gait slowed as he passed the science building. He wished he could just go. Cut out with no regrets, go to Bristol and take that interview. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.
So the next best thing was to get the hell over it. Get on with the life he had, instead of dreaming about the life he was supposed to have.
A dose of Coach was exactly what he needed.
THE GRASS WAS STILL WET, which added insult to injury. No one should be up at this hour, let alone
