CHAPTER SIX
Kate
It’s so easy to get to him. Almost too easy.
It’s like pushing a domino and watching the whole thing crumble down.
Just take a jab at his personality or his ego, and he breaks.
He acts like he doesn’t care what people think of him.
He likes to show people that the world’s opinions roll right off his back, but I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch like he’s stopping himself from firing back. He cares.
I don’t actually believe what I said. That he shoved the referee just because he doesn’t like being told what to do. There’s probably a bigger reason. No one tanks their own reputation over something that stupid. Well—maybe he does. I don’t know. And I shouldn’t care.
And I don’t care!
I slowly glance toward the car. He’s still sitting there, staring at the dashboard with a scowl so deep it might leave a dent. His arms are crossed, his whole body stiff.
I could leave him…
Except I can’t do that. I can’t leave him unattended.
Because what if I’ve said something that actually cut too deep?
What if this is the moment that sends him spiraling?
What if five years from now someone’s like, “Hey, whatever happened to that basketball guy?” and the answer is: Oh, he got emotionally nuked by a preschool teacher in a parked car? I can’t have that on my conscience.
So, I wait.
And wait.
And wait a bit more.
“I don’t always hate being told what to do,” he finally mutters, barely loud enough to hear.
I bite back a smile. There it is.
“Glad you could join me,” I smile sarcastically. His nostrils flare. I swear, if looks could kill, I’d be a chalk outline in the parking lot.
“Glad you’re entertained,” he retorts.
“Highly.” I smirk. He seems to still be bothered by my presence just as I am of his, so we walk toward the school in silence.
Magnolia Preschool sits at the end of the street, a quaint little building that could easily pass as a regular house if it weren’t for the massive, cartoonish sign above the entrance.
The exterior is painted a soft orange to exude brightness, and the front gate is decorated with rainbows and fluffy animals.
The parking lot, usually neat and quiet, sometimes features chalk drawings when one of the teachers is feeling particularly festive. Today, remnants of faded doodles of a lopsided heart and stick figures peek through.
When I enter my classroom, I’m surprised to see Michael still trailing behind me. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I have nowhere to be.”
“Then why did you come early?” I ask. He’s not needed until the end of the day, when the Little League will start.
“So I can hitch a ride.” He shrugs like the answer is obvious. “I don’t like walking very far, and those tricycles will injure my knees.”
“Injure your knees?” I ask.
“Yes, they are death traps. Hitting one pothole is all it takes for my skeletal system to crumble. And I don’t know about you, but my bones are pretty valuable.” For some reason, his earlier issues are nowhere in sight.
Michael smiles sarcastically, removes his baseball cap, and ruffles his hair. I notice now that his hair is short, but soft and flowing. Like, if he jumps, his hair will jump with him. It’s black and shiny, and covers just a part of his forehead.
If this were some other situation, I’d totally have a harmless little crush. I’d spin entire scenarios in my head, reimagine our first meeting into something out of a romcom film, picture our future based on a book I recently read, and daydream endlessly.
Because, I swear. This is the look of the male protagonist in every book I’ve read and in every movie I’ve watched (and in every imaginary scenario I’ve spun in my head). He’s like… Superman.
But I can’t imagine him like that. That’s not this.
This is him.
And he’s hot-headed, frustrating, and objectively annoying. A walking, talking red flag.
“Miss Kate?” His voice pulls me back, laced with amusement.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re staying here until then?”
He shrugs. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“Yeah. Leave.”
He grins, completely unbothered. “Tempting. But nah.”
I let out a sharp breath and grab the sweater off my chair, slipping it on like armor. “You are… easily the most distracting human being alive.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says, leaning back like he’s settling in for a show.
I shake my hair loose from its bun, trying not to notice the way his gaze lingers for half a second too long before flicking back to boredom.
I splash cold water on my face, letting the coolness wake me up a little.
My ponytail stays intact, though a few strands have escaped, framing my face.
I don’t bother fixing it. I’ve already changed into my gym clothes for the Little League, and as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I realize that I have no idea what I’m walking into.
I know kids. I know how to handle tantrums, lost shoes, and occasional crayon-eating incidents. But sports? Chaos. Noise. Flying objects. That’s a whole different battlefield.
I grab my water bottle and head to our little gym, which is really just a repurposed backyard. But hey, at least it’s covered and air-conditioned.
When I enter the room, the kids all beam at me. Fellow teacher volunteers ask them to keep quiet, and some of them do. There are about thirty kids in this gym, and each one is a burst of a different kind of energy. I’m gonna need all the help I can get.
And apparently, that help is Michael Lee.
He’s been in the school for hours. The entire day, actually.
In my classroom. Sitting in the back corner like a six-foot-four statue, somehow managing to look both bored and magnetic at the same time.
He didn’t talk to anyone (except me, unfortunately), didn’t so much as look at the kids, and definitely didn’t read the Rules of the Classroom poster I saw him staring at for twenty straight minutes.
Just on time, he strides into view. He’s wearing his basketball shorts and shoes, but instead of the matching jersey, he’s wearing a plain white shirt.
“Good afternoon, little athletes.” He smiles like he’s genuinely enjoying this moment, which is weird because it’s not on brand for him at all.
I push my glasses up my nose as Michael talks to the kids. He’s surprisingly good at it. My glasses fog up slightly from the indoor AC, so I take them off and attempt to clean them with the hem of my shirt, only half-listening.
Big mistake.
“So, with that, let’s start!” Michael announces. “I’m gonna give this ball to Miss Kate—”
I hear my name a second too late.
By the time my brain registers what’s happening, a ball is already soaring in my direction. Startled, I flinch. Then, somehow, in the most humiliating reflex known to mankind, I throw my glasses into the air.
Great. Spectacular. Just what I needed.
Before I can even react, Michael moves. In true overly athletic, show-off fashion, he dashes forward, catching my glasses with one hand before they hit the ground as the ball rolls off my back—which he also catches because the laws of physics do not apply to him.
Silence.
Then, snickers.
Then, full-blown giggles from the kids.
Michael, still holding my glasses, raises an eyebrow at me, clearly fighting back laughter. “Impressive coordination, Miss Kate.”
I snatch my glasses from his hand, my face heating up. “I hope you trip on your own shoelaces,” I mutter under my breath.
He grins, tossing the ball in the air effortlessly. “Not likely. I double-knot,” he whispers back.
“Then I hope your shoelaces never come undone, but one lace keeps slapping your ankle every time you run.”
Michael smirks, leaning in slightly. “I hope you drop your glasses mid-run and a kid steps on them.”
“Well, I hope you get an itch on your back you can’t reach, and every time you almost scratch it, it moves an inch to the left.”
This time, he actually barks out a laugh. Loudly. So loud that the kids just… laugh with him, even when they haven’t heard a thing.
I slip my glasses back on and focus on the kids in front of me.
Their giggles haven’t stopped. Some are outright cackling, little hands clapping together in delight at my misfortune.
One of the teacher volunteers—my friend, Farrah— tries to shush them, but I wave her off.
No point in fighting it. I’ve already solidified myself as the comedic relief of today’s session.
Michael chuckles again, and dribbles the ball once.
“Alright, little athletes, let’s start with some warm-ups.
Stretch your arms, touch your toes, and try not to throw anything in the air unless you mean to.
” I take a slow, calming breath. This is fine.
Everything is fine. I can be professional. I will be professional.
Michael leads the kids through basic warm-ups, and to my surprise, again, he’s actually good at this. He’s patient but firm, gently correcting their form and making them laugh with his exaggerated demonstrations.
A particularly tiny boy, Elliot, struggles to balance, his feet awkwardly positioned.
Michael crouches beside him, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Hey, little man, let’s try this.” He flips his baseball cap so the flap doesn’t hit Elliot, then shifts his foot slightly and demonstrates the movement again.
“Think of it like stepping into an invisible portal. Like you’re a superhero about to take off. ”
The boy’s eyes widen like this is the most important moment of his life. He mimics Michael’s stance, his tiny legs still wobbling but more determined now. When he finally gets it, Michael gives him an approving nod and a gentle pat on the back.
And just like that, Elliot looks at him like he hung the moon.
Annoying as the man is, Michael is good with kids.
After more warm-ups and exercises, Michael decides we’re done for the day. According to him, we should learn our warm-ups and stretch our bodies before playing basketball. And, somehow, the children believe him.
Once all the kids are gone and only his niece Polly is left behind, Michael starts sweeping the mat.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I do, if I don’t want my niece to think I’m an asshole,” he replies.
“She thinks the world of you,” I say, glancing at Polly. She’s sitting on the chair, dangling her feet. “I personally don’t get it, but as I told you, not everything is my business.”
Just then, Tricia arrives to pick up Polly. “Sorry, I’m late!” she exclaims.
“Want me to drive you home, Mike?” she asks Michael.
He looks at me, and says, “I’m assuming you won’t give me a ride back…” He trails off.
“You have assumed correctly,” I tease. “Unless you return my Kindle.”
“Then enjoy sweeping the mat, Miss Kate.” He drops the broom dramatically, gives me a sarcastic smile, and walks off with Tricia.
I roll my eyes. Just because he’s good with kids, doesn’t mean he’s kind. He’s still the same guy who shoves old referees. And one who wears sunglasses indoors. Who steals Kindles.
I finish cleaning up until the janitor, Kuya Tino, stops me and insists that it’s his turn to clean.
I walk out of the gym and retreat to the comfort of my tiny car.
I got this as a gift during my last year of college.
Haley got a big role in a local production and managed to get her own car, so my mom only had to worry about mine.
I was so happy when I got Daisy. She’s tiny, yellow with white little stripes. Perfect for me.
My drive home is quiet, thankfully. I let the sound of the audiobook wash over me.
I’m at the part where the billionaire CEO confesses to the unsuspecting baker that he’s been selling out her pastries every morning to keep her from going bankrupt.
Romantic. Sweet. Unrealistic. Exactly the kind of thing I eat up.
Also, I’ve always wanted a bakery (and, frankly, a billionaire CEO, but they’re a lot harder to come by).
Of course, dreams cost money.
I first wanted to take culinary studies.
But the tuition fees were high, and my mother always thought Haley deserved all our extra funding because she’s ‘destined for greatness.’ I believe her, though.
Haley is destined for greatness. She’s an amazing theater actress who’s already making it big locally.
She tried fighting for me, as Haley always does.
She says that my dreams were as important as hers, and that she’d work to keep us both thriving.
I hugged her that day and told her not to bother. I told her that it wasn’t really that big of a dream anyway. Also, because I was already convinced—I mean, brainwashed—by my mother.
According to her, the culinary world was brutal—long hours, impossible standards, ruthless competition. She said I was too soft for that. Too gentle. Too much of a people-pleaser to survive in a world where one bad review could kill a dream overnight.
Instead, she nudged me toward early education. Teaching, she reasoned, was safer. More stable. More me. And I didn’t argue.
It took me years to realize that I had stopped talking about my dreams altogether.
Somewhere along the way, I learned it was easier to just keep them to myself.
If you don’t say them out loud, no one can tell you they’re silly, or impractical, or unrealistic.
If you don’t say them out loud, they stay yours. Untouched. Unruined.
So here I am, preschool teacher by day, frustrated baker by night.
And I guess it’s not all bad. I love the kids. I love their sticky high fives and their weird little brains, and the way they talk to me about their imaginary friends (which, by the way, is more alarming than cute).
But sometimes, I still wonder what could have been. Would I have been great at it? Would I have been terrible? Would I have thrived under pressure, or would I have crumbled like mom predicted? I don’t know. And I’ll probably never know.