The Force of Gravity(6)

He cups my chin and pulls me into a deep kiss. “I’ll see you after the game.”

Emily squeals as soon as the boys disappear around the corner. “He’s coaching!” She jumps up and down.

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I playfully lift a brow at her. “Did baseball finally get interesting?”

She tugs on my arm. “Let’s go right now.”

“Where?”

“Mr. Slate’s house. We know he won’t be home,” she says, pulling me outside. “Just really quick before the game.”

I attempt to stall. “What if the boys notice?”

“So what? We’ll just say we grabbed a bite to eat or something.”

“Fine,” I say as an unwelcomed excitement springs up inside me. I couldn’t argue with her even if I tried—when Emily wants something, she stops at nothing to get it.

She’s a ball of energy as we drive off campus toward his neighborhood, and I try to downplay my interest. But when she starts talking about his forearms, I can’t hold back my laughter. As much as I want to add to Emily’s amusing observations, an undulating possessiveness over him has me guarded.

Before long, Emily is slowing down the car, pulling me from my thoughts. On my right, a rock waterfall greets us, gushing next to a large stone sign that reads Sunset Meadows.

“I think this is it,” she says, turning in.

Emily’s car vibrates over the cobblestone as we pass through the entrance of his subdivision. The main street is lined with Queen Palms, giving the community a resort-like feel. I zoom into the map on her phone as we mischievously weave through the streets.

“This is it,” I direct. “Ironwood Drive. Take a right.”

Emily slows down as she reads the house numbers. “Four-five-two-oh—yep! There it is! On the right.”

I sink into my seat as the car crawls down the road. Even though I know he’s not home, it still feels intrusive. The house is a light sand-colored one-story with a typical desert stucco finish and Spanish-tile roof. A mahogany front door sits between the two-car garage and several large windows adorned with white shutters. His lawn is the greenest on the block and manicured to perfection, like he edged it with a razor blade.

“His yard is cleaner than his whiteboard,” I quip.

Emily giggles and makes a U-turn. “I just need one more peek.”

She slows the car and gawks out her window as we pass his house again. I glance around to see if any neighbors are watching us. When she turns off his street, she speeds back up, flashing a satisfied grin my way.

“You’d be terrible at a drive-by,” I tease.

She bursts into laughter and turns up the radio as we head back to the school. We arrive at the game twenty minutes early, and I slip into the restroom to check my appearance before Emily and I take our seats near the top of the bleachers. I have to admit, this is definitely the first baseball game I’m not completely dreading.

I’m scrolling through Facebook on my phone when Emily squeezes my arm.

“Kay, he’s in uniform,” she says. “Good God.”

My head jerks up, and I search the field until I spot him. Mr. Slate is carrying a clipboard while he and Coach Miller observe the players warming up.

And yes, he is in the team uniform.

Coach Miller is fit, too, but he’s never looked like that in uniform. The team gathers in front of the bleachers while Emily and I ogle from the stands. After they break, and the team takes the field, Mr. Slate lifts his foot onto the bench and bends over to tie his cleat.

Emily gasps. “Kaley, I love my boyfriend, but baseball pants have never hugged an ass like that before.”

Laughter explodes from me, and Mr. Slate looks up to where we’re sitting. His mysterious brown eyes penetrate mine as they peer from underneath the brim of his cap. My heart stops as he holds my gaze for a moment before turning away.

“Holy. Shit,” Emily breathes. “That was hot.”

I can’t speak, so I just nod slowly.

After the first pitch, Emily’s focus is back on Derek. She is a good and faithful girlfriend, whereas I am a shameful, distracted whore. Yes, I cheer for my boyfriend, but I’m guilty of watching Mr. Slate more than anyone else. It’s near-impossible not to. I mean, how is a girl supposed to pay attention to anything else but those damned pants? Seriously, they should be officially banned in baseball, right along with steroids.



THE LAST OF the evening light fades into dusk, transforming the pale sky into a spectacular display of fiery gold. Emily and I cheer as the team gathers in front of the bleachers, celebrating their victory. A slight breeze sends a chill through the air as Emily and I descend the stands. Just as I’m about to step down onto the grass, she yanks my arm back.

“Look, look!” she whispers.

I follow Emily’s line of vision and see a gorgeous blonde walking up to Mr. Slate. She’s wearing a designer dress with pumps that show off her trim calves, carrying a handbag that I know costs more than what my parents paid for my car. Holding her oversized sunglasses, she embraces Mr. Slate in a hug, her arm wrapped tightly around his neck.

Emily clutches my elbow as I stand frozen. “Do you think that’s his girlfriend?” she whispers. “She’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Definitely his girlfriend,” I say.

“She looks like a supermodel.”

I frown. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Emily smirks at me.

“What?”

“I knew you thought he was hot.” She jumps down to greet Derek as I watch Mr. Slate introduce the blonde beauty to Coach Miller.

Tommy hops onto the bleachers, creating a booming echo, snapping me out of my trance. He lifts me up on his back and jumps down to the ground, almost dropping me. I scream as I clutch onto his neck.

“You’re choking me, babe!” he says, fighting for breath.

I giggle at his strained voice. “You almost dropped me!”

He lowers himself down, and as I slide off his back, my shirt rides up, revealing my entire midriff. I quickly yank it down as Tommy slips his arm around my waist, grazing my bare skin, just as I catch Mr. Slate’s stare. I glance at the blonde next to him, who is also looking my way.

“Hit the showers, Bradford,” hollers Coach Miller.

Tommy squeezes my backside before running off to the locker room, and I cringe as I scrape my hand through my hair, forcing myself not to look back at Mr. Slate. I rush to catch up with Emily, and we huddle underneath Derek’s letterman jacket while we head to the parking lot.



AFTER SAYING GOODNIGHT to Emily, I wrap my arms around myself as I make my way to my car. A faint clicking sound behind me grabs my attention. When I reach the Chevelle, the quick-paced steps grow louder, and I glance at The Blonde as she strides past me. I slide into my car with overwhelming curiosity. Is she waiting for him? Feeling like a creepy stalker, I duck down in my seat as she walks up to her car . . . a gleaming, white Mercedes convertible.

My stomach hardens as reality sets in. I’m so pathetic. There’s no way Mr. Slate would ever think twice about me. And not just because I’m a student. The way he dresses alone is a dead giveaway he dates only the hottest, most elite women. Even if we met later on, when I’m older, graduated—maybe in a bar or through mutual friends—he still wouldn’t be interested. I’m such an idiot for even crushing on him. I can’t believe I let myself get so wrapped up today. And then the realization dawns on me . . .

I wanted him to want me.

The headlights of the Mercedes flick on—apparently, she isn’t waiting for him. I watch her car leave campus and glide down the road. Feeling completely deflated, I turn the key in the ignition and my car roars to life. Laughing at the gruff motor that isn’t exactly a Mercedes Benz, I shake my head and turn on the radio. What the hell am I doing pining over some teacher anyway, when I have a great boyfriend? Back to reality. I send Tommy a quick text saying I love you, before shifting into drive and heading home.





CHAPTER FOUR



MR. SLATE ANNOUNCES TO THE class that he’s the new assistant coach for the baseball team, and that he’ll still be holding his study sessions—the times just may vary according to game days. But since there’s no game tonight, the session is still being held at its normal time.

After he finishes today’s lesson, the class goes quiet as we all try to get a head start on tonight’s homework. He’s excellent at breaking down math—just so long as you pay attention. I did pretty well today—seeing his painstakingly beautiful girlfriend last night helped me refocus on reality. And the reality is, I need to pass this class—and do well. I may not be going to USC, but I’m not trying to lose my spot at ASU either. Besides, I think I have a handle on this. All I have to do is put the equation of the parabola in standard form, then calculate the vertex, focus, and directrix. Then graph it. No big deal, just tedious.

But when I hit the graph button, the screen doesn’t display the right output. Hmm . . . my numbers must be off. I do the entire problem over three times before finally summoning the courage to raise my hand. What I wouldn’t give to be enrolled in an all-girls Catholic school right now, so I could actually focus on learning math instead of being intimidated to raise my hand because of my teacher’s insane good looks. He’s working with another student when he notices my hand in the air and gives me a quick nod to let me know he’ll be there in a minute. My palms moisten, and I wipe them down on my jeans, scolding myself for being such an idiotic school girl with uncontrollable urges.