Santa's Playbook

“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.

Chapter Four (#ulink_c34079b8-7a3d-58fe-a01b-6a9a9f0e0cab)

“Roland? Zack? Could you stay for a couple minutes?”

Both boys were nearly through the door, making the other kids knock into them as they made their own escapes.

“We gotta get to our next class, Miss Jacobs,” Roland said, dozens of meticulously crafted braids quivering around his high, toffee-colored cheekbones. “Mr. Avilla, he gets real mad if we’re late.”

“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Avilla, so you’re golden. And this won’t take long.”

“But your next class—”

“Sophomores. Assembly.” Claire indicated the desks in front of her. “So sit.”

The two boys exchanged glances but trudged back to drop into their respective chairs, each one more slouched than the next. Claire, however, remained standing, scrounging for whatever psychological advantage she could get.

“I suppose you both know your grades in this class are putting your places on the team at risk.”

“Yeah.” Zach sighed, shoving a hand through his shaggy blond hair. “The counselor told us—”

“It’s not right, man,” Roland said, shaking his head. “It’s only one class, it’s not like we’re totally failing or anything—”

Claire held up a hand, cutting him off. “Not here to argue about school policy. Which you both knew when you signed up for this gig. So. Any thoughts on how to solve the problem?”

Roland gave her the same smile Claire had noticed him using to his definite advantage on the girls. “You curve our grades? Hey!” he said when Zach smacked his arm. “What the heck—?”

“You stupid, or what? Are you even looking at her face, dude? Besides, if she was gonna do that, she would’ve done it already. Right, Miss Jacobs?”

“Since that was never even a remote possibility, Mr. Baker, your question is moot.”

“Huh?”

“M-o-o-t. Look it up. In any case, I promised Coach Nolan I’d do everything in my power to help you pass. But you guys have to do your part, too. Which means you actually have to read the material—”

“It’s hard, Miss Jacobs,” Roland whined. “Nobody talks like that anymore—”

“Yeah,” Zach put in. “I mean, that’s supposed to be English?”

“As opposed to text-speak? Yes, it is. Although if you’d bothered to glance past the first page, you’d see there are footnotes on every page explaining the references most twenty-first-century American teenagers wouldn’t get. No, it’s not easy. But think how proud you’ll be once you’ve conquered this beast. So here’s the plan. First, I’m pairing you up with tutors—”

They both groaned.

“Zach, you’ve got Aimee Hernandez, and Roland...I thought Libby Altman would be a good fit for you.”

The boys’ mouths sagged open in comical unison. And no wonder. Both girls were not only knockouts and smart as whips, but probably the only two people—other than Claire—in the entire school totally immune to the football bug. As well as the boys who played it.

Roland found his voice first. “You serious, Miss Jacobs? Aimee and Libby?”

“I am.”

Zach frowned. “And the girls know about this?”

“They do. And they’re both looking forward to working with you.” One of them, anyway. Poor Aimee nearly wet her pants at the prospect of sharing breathing space with the boy she’d been obviously sighing over since middle school. Took a little more convincing to get Libby on board, but Roland didn’t need to know that. “And second...”

Claire reached behind her for a notepad, writing her cell phone number on two slips of paper, which she handed to the boys. “If you’re still unclear about any of it, call me. Anytime. I’m up until at least eleven.”

Zach peered up from underneath his shaggy bangs. “For real? Anytime?”

She smiled. “I may not ‘get’ football, although Coach Noble set me straight on how much it means to you guys. But he and I agreed it’s about balance. And thinking past now. You won’t be able to play football forever, but you will be able to use this,” she said, tapping her head. “If it’s properly trained. So...think of me as your brain’s coach.”

The boys looked at each other, then shrugged. Again, in unison.

“Yeah, guess that makes sense,” Roland said.