Game Misconduct (Nashville Knights Hockey #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

HARPER

“ I can’t read!” Vermilion wails.

Taking a deep breath, I crouch down so I’m on the same level as the seven-year-old. “Why can’t you read?”

Tears line Vermilion’s eyes.

“My sister took my book last night so I couldn’t read. Mommy made her give it back, but I couldn’t practice and now I can’t read,” she tells me through deep, gulping sobs.

“It’s okay.”

“She told me I don’t have to learn to read because the robots are going to do it for us.”

“The robots?” I ask. This is something I haven’t heard before in all my years of teaching.

Vermilion nods. “Maeve said that the robots are going to do it for us, so I don’t have to learn to read and she took my book.”

“Does Maeve know how to read?”

She nods.

“Well, until the robots read for us, we need to learn to read. ”

“But I couldn’t practice.” Vermilion’s chin wobbles.

“Since it’s quiet time, why don’t you go sit and read before recess so you can practice our new book, okay?”

“I can?”

I nod. “No one is in the beanbag chair, so you get that today.”

That lights her up. “Okay!”

She bounds over, red curls springy as she flops into the oversized red chair that lines the ABC-circle rug. She opens her book with a happy smile on her face.

Heading over to my desk, I drop down into my chair and make a note to talk to Vermilion’s mom at our fall parent night next week. Having my own older sister, I know how much of a pain they can be. Especially at that age.

Grabbing the stack of papers on my desk, I start to pin them on the bulletin board in the front of the classroom. Every wall in my classroom is covered with a variety of papers. Handprints of the students with what they want to be when they grow up. Pictures of the students playing at recess. Numbers and math problems of the week. Our weekly reading assignment.

I sneak a glance over at Vermilion, and her finger is moving over the page as her mouth says the words to herself.

I smile. This is why I became a teacher—to see kids learning before my eyes.

As chatter starts to rise, I know the students are starting to get antsy to go outside.

Looking at the large clock—used to help the kids tell time—I see it’s time for recess. “Okay, everyone. Put your work on your desk. We’ll pick it back up when we get back inside. ”

Happy faces hurry to the door as they line up single file by the cubbies in the room.

Shouts of excitement are loud as I push open the side door to the playground and watch the kids take off on the rubber mulch-covered ground. I take my spot monitoring with the other teachers.

It’s the perfect fall day in Nashville. Not too hot, which makes it easy for the kids to burn off some of their energy from sitting all morning. A few fluffy, white clouds float lazily in the sky, but don’t provide any shade from the sun.

It’s one of the many reasons I love it here and could never seem to leave. These days make everything feel hopeful. Like there are good things coming on the horizon.

“How was your date last night?” Rina asks me. Her eyes aren’t on me as she blows the whistle to alert two students to stop fighting over a swing.

“Ugh. Don’t ask,” I groan. “It was terrible.”

“Really?” She turns to face me, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I thought he had so much potential.”

I shake my head, watching as a group of students starts playing hopscotch. “He couldn’t stop talking about his 401k. Good for you, buddy, for having a retirement account. I do too, but I don’t drone on and on about it on a first date.”

Rina bumps me with her shoulder. “Sorry, babe. Maybe Michael knows someone else at his office that we can set you up with.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m done for a while. I’m tired of first dates.”

Exhausted, really.

I thought I was one of the lucky ones and found my soulmate in college. I was wrong. Oh, how wrong I was. But that’s not something I like thinking about .

Even if I want a partner, a string of bad first dates makes it hard to want to keep dating.

A foot doctor—who discussed gross foot diseases over dinner.

A self-professed Lego Master—who turned out to be unemployed and living in his parents’ basement.

A financial analyst—obsessed with his 401k.

I seem to find the cream of the crop in men.

“Okay.” Rina holds up her hands. “What if I find someone that I think is perfect for you? Can I set you up then?”

I waggle my head back and forth in thought. “Maybe.”

Rina’s smile is triumphant. “That’s not a no.”

I point a finger in her face. “It’s not a yes either.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

I smile at her before turning my attention back to the swings. It’s always the point of contention at recess. “You love me for it.”

“I don’t know why.”

Rina is probably one of my closest friends in Nashville. She and her husband, even though they’re older than I am, took me under their wing when I first arrived at Nashville Prep.

After everything that happened, I couldn’t stay at my old school. I needed a fresh start. Getting an offer to teach at a private school seemed like the best thing at the time. And now I have Rina.

In her late thirties, she’s gone prematurely gray and has no interest in coloring her hair. Her hazel eyes are playful, and she never has an unkind word to say about anyone. It’s one of the reasons I gravitate toward her and her husband. If I ever need anything, they’re there for me.

“How’s the house hunting going?” Rina asks, changing the subject .

“I’m looking at a couple next weekend, so fingers crossed. I think one of them might be perfect for me.”

“Is it the small bungalow you sent me?”

I nod.

“I don’t want to jinx anything, but I think I could get it.”

It’s really the perfect place for me. A small bungalow on a little piece of land. The housing market in Nashville is hot, so I’ve been scrimping and saving every penny for the last few years in order to buy my own place. Being that I live a bit outside of the city, it’s a little pricier, but I’ve been watching the bungalow as it’s been rehabbed since I started teaching here.

The sage exterior with a dark gray front door calls to me. The interior is open, with hardwood floors and a brand-new kitchen, and it’s everything I’d want in my own space.

The owner’s suite is in the back of the house, with a sitting room in the front that overlooks a large willow tree. There’s even a walkout basement that leads to a nice big yard.

Perfect for a single woman.

Even though I’m far from my California roots, I love it here. I’ve created my own life.

I have friends that I can call whenever I need them. A good job. A community. Sure, I might be lacking in other areas, but I’m grateful for what I have.

“How about drinks next week after meet-the-teacher night?” Rina asks, checking her watch. “Ugh. I don’t want to go inside. I wish we could teach outside today.”

“Why don’t you?”

I’ve done it before on good days. It’s always nice for a change to get the kids doing something different.

“Math time. ”

“Say no more.”

Checking the time on my own watch, I have to admit that recess is over. The teacher on the opposite side of the playground blows their whistle, and the students start scurrying to line up—haphazard at best.

“Next week?” Rina asks. “No backing out.”

“Hey!” I’m indignant. “I don’t back out nearly as much as you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes at me. With two young kids, it’s understandable.

Counting off my students, I note they’re all here and lead the group inside.

“Are we going to read again?” Vermilion asks as I unlock the door and hold it open.

“We’re going to read out loud as a class. Do you want to start us off?” I ask her.

Her face beams with pride. “Okay!”

It’s quite the change from earlier. Even just a few minutes of practice has helped shift her mood. And hopefully reading out loud will help her gain more confidence in reading.

Teaching might not be the most glamorous job in the world, but I love it. For students like Vermilion. My life might not be what I imagined for myself when I graduated and moved here, but it is what it is.

Even if there’s something missing— someone , really—I’m happy.

And that’s all that matters.