Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Dex
Wow. Bridger’s right.
Sayla Kroft freaking hates me.
To be fair, though, I did just taunt her and her open button on purpose. But only because those big blue eyes of hers have shot death arrows at me for the past three years.
Then she showed up in the weight room with steam practically blowing out of her ears, looking like one of those old-timey railroad cars from the vintage cartoons that play in the middle of the night. You know, the kind where workers have to shovel coal to feed the engine.
And as far as I know, I’ve never done anything intentionally wrong to her. Like, ever.
So yeah, I decided to have a little fun at her expense.
Maybe too much fun.
Because the truth is, I’m a pretty good guy. Just ask my mom. Or any of my sisters. Maybe don’t ask my dad. He probably wouldn’t bother to defend me because he’s a low-key dude who avoids conflict like it’s his job.
Still, I’d like to think I’ve cultivated a reputation for being a friendly person. The neighbor who’s quick to lend a hand. The coworker with an easy smile. And I’m sure the students, faculty, and support staff at Stony Peak High would agree, I am nice. To almost everybody. Almost all the time.
So full disclosure: I feel justified messing with Sayla Kroft on occasion. But even so, her wardrobe malfunction probably should have been off-limits.
No, definitely off.
To be clear, though, the open button is just above her waistband, and nothing’s visible but a little strip of skirt. I wouldn’t have joked around if she’d been showing actual skin.
So I keep my focus well away from the gap in her shirt while she sets her bag on a weight bench to fumble with her button.
When she lifts her chin again, her ponytail swings to the side. She’s got a small crease between her eyes, and her hands in fists at her hips. My gaze drops to her mouth.
Those pink lips purse.
And here’s where I admit the other reason I sometimes mess with Sayla: The woman is undeniably beautiful. And her brain plus her feistiness only makes her more attractive.
But I’m not interested in being that attracted to anybody, now or ever. So it’s in my best interest to make sure Sayla Kroft doesn’t like me even a little bit.
That way, there’s no risk of me liking her any amount at all.
“You’re awful,” she says with a little stamp of her foot. “You know that, right?”
“I guess I could’ve let you flash your first-period class”—my mouth twitches—“but I don’t think the drama kids could handle it. And I respect you too much to let the boys ogle their teacher.”
“Ha!” She scoffs, but the spray of freckles on her cheeks disappears in the redness cropping up. “We prefer the term theater, not drama,” she says. “And you don’t have to pretend you respect me.”
“What makes you so sure I don’t?”
“Because.” She crosses her arms. “I just … am.”
“Well. I can hardly argue with that kind of hard evidence.”
She shifts her weight. “Anyway, I only came in here because you’re not supposed to park in the district vehicle spot.”
“Please accept my deepest apologies,” I say. “If I promise to skip a shower and move my truck now, could you ever forgive me?”
I wave my workout towel like it’s a white flag of surrender, and Sayla takes a quick step to the side, knocking her bag off the weight bench.
Papers, pens, Band-Aids, and a couple clipboards scatter across the mat.
Now I feel bad.
“Oh, man. Sorry, Kroft.”
She ignores me and drops to the ground to scoop everything back into her bag. I squat to help her, and as I hand over one of the clipboards, our fingers accidentally brush. Heat bolts up my arm like I’ve just been electrocuted.
Sayla sucks in air too, her mouth in an O.
Then she scrambles to her feet, clutching her bag to her chest. “If you park in the district spot again,” she huffs, “I’ll report you to Mr. Wilford.”
“Solid plan.” I arch a brow. “You know what they say. The world loves a tattletale.”
“Argh!” She spins on a heel and stomps out of the weight room, her ponytail swinging. Meanwhile, I force myself to look away from the sway of her hips. At the end of the day, I’m not here to objectify Sayla Kroft.
Not even if she hates me.
Especially because she hates me.
After a thorough wipe-down of the machines, I head to the locker room for a quick shower, then I move my truck to the faculty lot.
For the record, I never planned to stay in the district spot while classes were in session.
But I had to be here early for a meeting with Wilford this morning anyway.
And my gym really is closed. So I figured I’d kill a couple birds with one stone.
Park by the weight room.
Quick workout.
Move my truck.
Done and done.
Now that I’m safe from the wrath of Kroft, I drop by football practice to check in with the coaches, then head to the science building to grab my laptop from my office.
As athletic director, I could use the large space off the lobby in the gym, but I let the coaches share that.
There are more of them than me, and all I really need is four walls and a little peace and quiet away from my classroom.
My little office has enough space for a desk, plus a couple filing cabinets.
One green plant I’ve managed to keep alive.
Green thumb. That’s me.
But if there’s one thing I won’t compromise on around here, it’s my commitment to what’s best for the athletic department as a whole.
Sports pretty much saved me when I was a kid, so I’ll do anything to make sure our school can keep up with Harvest High, our crosstown rivals. And that starts with landing this year’s grant money.
The science department scored the funding last year.
Now they have brand-new equipment in every classroom.
Bridger even finagled a cadaver lab for AP Physiology.
But there’s never a guarantee more funds will come, and the gym, the weight room, our playing fields, the locker rooms—everything—needs to be redone.
All this is to say, today’s meeting with Wilford is the most important of my career.
My gut goes tight, and a quick check of my fitness watch says my heart rate’s elevated. I’ve got a little time before I’m supposed to be at his office. So, I decide to keep my nerves busy by dropping by the custodian’s workroom to fill out a facilities request.
One of the fluorescent lights in the weight room is flickering again, and I’ve gotta let Gordon know.
He’s the head custodian. Good guy. I try to help him out when I can.
In fact, I’ve changed that same light already twice myself.
By now, I’m pretty sure there’s something off with the electrical system.
Just more proof we need that funding.
Gordon’s workroom is in the same red-brick building that houses our administrators, attendance, and counseling offices. When I enter the building, Sayla Kroft’s already there at the far end of the hall. My pulse kicks up another notch even before she ducks into the workroom.
Exactly where I’m going.
Since she left the weight room, I’ve been wanting to say sorry for the whole button incident. The thing is, I know I wasn’t ogling her, but I did make that stupid joke about the boys in her theater class checking her out.
It’s the kind of thing I would’ve said to tease my sisters when I was an idiot teenager. So, probably not appropriate with a female coworker as an adult.
Cringing on the inside, I continue toward the custodial workroom, braced for battle.
Hopefully, instead of killing me, Sayla will accept my apology.
But as I reach the door, she barrels out, practically slamming into my chest. She glances up and her eyes go wide.
Then she takes a small step to the side, backing away from me.
“Hey, Kroft.” I rake a hand through my hair. She’s got her bag slung over one arm and she’s carrying a can of WD-40. “What I said to you earlier, in the weight room. I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool.”
“You’re right. It wasn’t.” She shifts her weight. “But I’m used to that by now.”
Hmm. She’s not making this easy on me, which I probably deserve. But at least I got to apologize. No more stupid jokes from now on. Maybe.
“So what’s with the WD-40?” I ask.
She glances down at the can. She’s got a new sweater on. The first one was orange. This one’s pink like her cheeks.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I noticed the side door to the gym is squeaking, so I thought I’d take care of it myself.”
“You?”
Her shoulders go stiff. “It’s not rocket science,” she says. “And Gordon and his team have so much on their plates taking care of this place. I’m just trying to do my part.”
“Wow.” I blink down at her, momentarily stunned, thinking about how I’ve tried to fix the light in the weight room more than once. It’s almost like Sayla and I have something in common. “That’s kind of you.”
“I am kind,” she retorts. “It’s just that some people around here are too busy obsessing over triceps to notice.”
“Some people, huh?” I arch a brow. “Is that your way of admitting you’re obsessed with my triceps?”
“Ha!” Her blue eyes flash. “You wish.”
“Maybe I do.” I hitch my shoulders. So much for not making jokes.
“Well.” She sniffs. “I don’t have time to stand around chitchatting all day.”
I scratch my chin. “You must be in a real big hurry to fix that squeak in the gym, huh?”
“No, I’ll do that during my prep period,” she says.
“Right now, I want to use the copier before the workroom gets too busy. Then I’m meeting with Mr. Wilford about this year’s grant.
So if you’ll excuse me, I’m too busy to waste any more time with you.
” As she pushes past my body, her sweet floral scent wafts over me.
But wait.
Did she just say she’s meeting with Larry Wilford about the grant?
Well, crap.
So much for apologizing.
I’m about to be Sayla Kroft’s worst enemy.