He replaced the can, then gestured toward the chair in front of his desk before sitting back in his, taking a long sip of the coffee. “Jules is very excited about getting that part, by the way.”
Okay, good start... “And you didn’t even hear the screech when the stage manager read her name. Like Justin Bieber had asked her out.” Claire unsnapped her coat, took a drink of her own coffee. Still warm, hallelujah. “Or whoever the hottie du jour is, I’m not really up on these things.”
“You’re not up on these things.” Ethan shook his head. “Do they change every week, or am I completely out of the loop?”
She smiled. “Both, probably,” she said, and—amazingly—he started to smile back...only to apparently remember why they were there.
“So. We have an issue. About my players not passing your class.”
“No,” Claire said carefully. “Ultimately, this is Roland’s and Zach’s issue. Not ours. But I do want them to be successful. To feel successful—”
Ethan scowled. “And you think I don’t?”
“In all areas of their lives. Not only football.” She leaned forward, her heart hammering. That scowl... One might say it was intimidating. One might also say it was dead sexy, but this was neither the time nor the place. “Look, I’m well aware how important the football program is to Hoover. And that’s fine...as far as it goes. The problem is, the guys get this idea that academics come a distant second to sports, especially that sport, that nothing trumps bringing home that dang championship trophy, that they’re far more valued for their brawn than their brains. And for what? I care about these kids, Ethan. And it kills me to see them not even try to live up to their full potential. So...” She felt her face heat. “Thought I’d put that out there.”
His silence seemed to suck the air out of the room, just as his steady gaze sucked the air from her. Then something flickered in those icy blue eyes, although his posture changed not one whit. “You like football?”
“Not particularly, no.”
His mouth might’ve twitched. “You think it’s stupid? Silly? Pointless?”
“Do I have to choose?”
“Good thing you brought coffee,” Ethan said, and this time she definitely saw a twitch. “Otherwise a person might think you were here to pick a fight.”
“Being up front isn’t the same as picking a fight. But no way am I fudging grades so the kids can still play. Which I know other teachers have done.”
At that, his brows lifted. Not a lot, but enough. “And you think I asked them to do that?”
“You tell me.”
“No. Never.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. Am I unhappy when I lose a good player because his grades suck? You bet. And I’ve never kept that a secret. Any more than I did when I was a student here, and I had to bust my buns to pass a couple of classes or risk getting cut from the team. I wasn’t exactly academically gifted—or so I thought—so, yeah, I thought the policy was a load of crap. But if it eases your mind, I don’t see it that way now.”
“No?”
“No.” The glimmer in his eyes faded. “Heck, nobody knows more than me that there’s more to life than football,” he said with a quiet intensity that riveted Claire’s attention. “And that putting all your eggs in that particular basket is nothing but an invitation to watch all of ’em break. But try explaining that to a seventeen-year-old who’s never known before what it feels like to be successful, to be somebody, before he discovered this one thing he’s actually good at. Some of these guys, they can’t see further ahead than next Friday night’s game. Then there’s the others who are looking to the future, who maybe need that game to clinch the championship, which in turn maybe’ll snag the attention of a college scout. For them, football might be their only shot at actually going on to college—”
“Oh, come on, you’ve got players from pretty privileged backgrounds, too.”
“True. But White and Baker aren’t among them. I know these kids. Know their families, if they even have much of one. Hell, I went to school with some of their parents, so in a lot of ways this is personal for me. And let me tell you something else—what they learn out on that field? About being part of a team, of working together to achieve a goal? Totally new concept, for some of ’em. And one they’ll use for the rest of their lives. Believe it or not, football’s about a lot more than throwing around a funny-shaped ball. For these kids, football’s not only their life. It’s their lifeline. To something better. Something—” he lifted a hand, let it fall back to the desk “—more.”
Definitely not your average jock, Claire thought. His obvious passion—for the kids even more than the sport, she was guessing—stirred something deep inside her. Compassion, maybe? Because obviously this was very personal for him. And not only because of his long-standing relationship with the community, but because the game was as much a lifeline for him as for them.
“I get what you’re saying—”
“Really?”
She smiled. “Yes, really. But they still need to know how to write a five-paragraph essay. Especially the ones who do go on to college.”
“Agreed. I’m not against the policy, per se. But I don’t want them to lose the one thing that’s making a positive difference in their lives.”
“It’s about balance, absolutely. So let’s get them help.” The passing bell rang. Claire stood, gathering her purse. And her now-cold coffee. “And I’ll work with them, too. The unit on Macbeth is coming up,” she said, and Ethan made a face. “Hey, I’m an actress. If I can’t bring the thing to life, who can?”
“You ever tried teaching it to a bunch of high schoolers?”
“Oh, I think I’m up for the challenge.” At his if-you-say-so smirk, she added, “It’ll be good, I promise. Because you’re not the only one who gets off on seeing them accomplish something they didn’t think they could.”
Ethan studied her for a moment as, outside the door, kids shuffled and shouted their way to second period. “That why you became a teacher?”
She thought for a moment. “To be honest, my goals when I went for my certification weren’t nearly that altruistic. I needed a job, I liked kids and I thought teaching was something I could do until... Well. Not getting into that right now. So no, that’s not why I became a teacher. But it’s why I’m glad I did.”
“Yeah. I know what you mean,” he said as he stood, and somehow she got snagged in his gaze, which felt an awful lot like that memorable college performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream when she’d backed off the stage, got hung up on a fake tree stump and landed flat on her butt.
“Your guys won’t lose their spots,” she said. “Not if I can help it.”
Then she booked it out of there before anything even remotely inappropriate could take root in her thoughts.
