Chapter Four Mateo
(I Finally Learned His Name)
Aglance at the clock on the wall tells me I’ve been here for over twelve hours now, minus the quick walk I took with Sophie this afternoon.
We’d both needed iced coffee as a reward for making it through the day, or a bribe to ensure we’d return for the rest of the night, but that high wore off a long time ago.
I smile at a family waving goodbye from across the room, then look at the clock again.
Officially, I’ve got twenty minutes left.
Unofficially, probably another twenty minutes after that.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Sophie. I think I wanted it to be someone else, but I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday when I called to confirm this weekend’s bar date, and we reminded each other that we’d be busy tonight.
After our first round of texts last week, Jamie and I sent a few simple messages back and forth—good morning or hope your day is going well or thinking about the beach.
A couple of nights later, I took a chance and called him from bed, exhausted after a long day and wanting to hear his voice before I closed my eyes.
Anything but selfish, he said goodnight and sweet dreams, and then he let me go.
We’ve talked a handful of other times, sharing preciously brief fantasies of a future that would start Saturday if it hadn’t already started two weeks ago.
He won’t call tonight, but it’ll be fine if I don’t hear him say my name again until I can see him smile at me, too.
For now, I need to stop daydreaming, and I read Sophie's message.
Might go out for margaritas after this
I chuckle to myself. I’m still recovering from last weekend. I used to handle the start of the school year better
We’re getting old babe
One of my kids slips into the room with his parents close behind, so I leave my phone on my desk and greet them with the same grin and handshake I mastered in my first year of student teaching.
This isn’t my favorite part of my job—for all the hassle people give teenagers, I’ve found their families are often harder to please—but the conversation is pleasant, and I encourage them to look around the classroom.
I’ve set up displays of some of what we’ll be working on this year, plus the kids can show off the few things we’ve done so far.
Some students would rather keep talking, either to bullshit me or their parents, but this one nods to me and leads them away.
Another couple of freshmen come in, but they’re two of my shyest, and I’m not surprised when they bypass the introductions altogether and simply tour the room on their own, their families as quiet as they are. I smile and leave them to it.
My phone rattles on my desk, and Sophie’s calling this time. With only about fifteen minutes left, most of my students have probably come and gone, but I still hesitate for a few seconds. Then I go ahead and answer.
“Since when do you call me during back-to-school night?”
“Since Miss Vicki showed up in my room with enough gossip to keep everyone away from me,” she whisper-snorts.
That perfectly explains both Sophie’s need and ability to escape.
Victoria Gallagher has had kids at our school for almost as long as I’ve taught here, and she’s quite the queen bee.
The worst of the worst attempt to befriend her so they can get the latest dirt on teachers, parents, and students, too often forgetting that proximity won’t save them if they become the subject of something juicy.
Sophie and I have long suspected that Vicki’s knack for tattling on everyone else is her best defense against anyone’s attempt to tattle on her.
Some sort of adulteress sleight of hand.
I don’t have a Gallagher kid in class this year, but I’d do my best to avoid their mother either way.
“Ah, so you’re calling to explain why you need those margaritas?”
“Actually, no,” Sophie says, still hushed.
“Vicki did have one interesting thing to say before I fled. Apparently, Jameson Sinclair is here, and rumor has it he’s even hotter in person than when we’ve seen him sweaty and mouthy in a locker room interview—or when he’s been positively slutty on the cover of those entertainment magazines I definitely don’t read. ”
My heart stops. When it starts again, each beat comes too close to the one before. “Jameson Sinclair?”
“Hockey stud. Lusted after, envied, or despised by everyone who knows what a puck is. Once broke his leg in front of us—”
“Shattered,” I rasp, so many messy feelings washing over me at once.
Memories from several years ago, when my best friend and I watched Jameson Sinclair’s career come to an end.
Memories from a couple of weeks ago, when I watched a familiar stranger named Jamie limp on his way up a hill before he wished for a frozen lake.
“He shattered his leg, and he never fully recovered.”
“Yes, shattered his leg in front of us. Never recovered,” Sophie amends. “His daughter is in your class this year, but I’m guessing they haven’t made it to your—”
“Harper. Harper Sinclair.”
She sighs. “Yes, Harper Sinclair. Jesus, I think you need the margaritas more than I do. I’ll come grab you when I—”
I hang up on Sophie before she can finish the thought because my throat’s gone dry.
It’s true that Harper hadn’t made it to my classroom earlier in the night, but she’s here now, her father a step behind her.
And I think I want to be upset about a phone call that's turned me inside out, but I’m too grateful for the warning it provided.
Jamie—Jameson fucking Sinclair—wasn’t blessed with the same, his blue eyes wide and his beautiful lips parted.
“Mr. Z! Sorry we’re so late, but we stopped to talk to a bunch of people.
Or a bunch of people stopped to talk to us, I guess?
But we’re here, and I told my dad about you, so now I can—oh, hi, Miranda.
Bye, Miranda. Okay, sorry. Dad, come on, don’t just stand there.
Mr. Z, this is my dad. Dad, this is Mr. Z. ”
Harper is practically dragging him through a maze of desks, and it makes it painfully obvious that I haven’t moved more than a foot away from the phone I’d set down seconds ago.
He recovers before I do, years of practice with screaming fans reminding him to smile now, but I want to throw up, and it takes all my self-control to keep my iced coffee down when I smile back.
“Mateo Zavala. It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Sinclair.”
Years of practice or not, he flinches at that. “Jamie. Please just call me Jamie.”
“Yes, please call him Jamie,” Harper groans. “I’ve been listening to everyone squeal Jameson Sinclair for the past two hours. Oh, wait, are you a hockey fan? I’m not trying to be mean about anything. He’ll give you autographed merch if you want.”
I could answer her, but one night with Jamie had taught me that conversations about him haven’t always included him, and I’m careful to avoid that mistake now. It’s too late for it, but I hold out my hand and breathe easier when he takes it.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Jamie,” I say.
My voice sounds weak, and I swallow in search of strength.
“I’m a casual hockey fan. Not enough of one to recognize players on the street—or in a random bar—but I was at a few of your games.
You don’t need to give me anything though, and more importantly, I’m really enjoying having Harper in class. ”
Jamie nods. “She’s told me so much about you, and I’ve heard your name a hundred times tonight. Everyone loves you.”
“Do they?”
He finally lets go of my hand, and I hate it. He smiles again, and I hate that even more. “You can’t possibly doubt that.”
“Well, it’s probably not a good idea for me to think about it too much. I have a job to do, right?”
“Right. And I guess I’m just the dad grateful that his daughter will get to spend so much time with you. You’re the soccer coach, too? She’s mentioned tryouts.”
“I am, yes. But you’re not just anything, Jamie,” I argue, blinking hard before I remember I’m not on a bench anymore.
“Harper, how about you show your dad around? You’ve written a couple of incredible things already, and I know you’re excited about a few of the books we’ll be reading this year.
And we’ll chat plenty about tryouts soon. ”
“Yes! Okay, so, I’m gonna tell you about everything,” Harper starts, leading Jamie away from me.
I expect relief to fill the space between us, but nothing’s there and the emptiness hurts.
Sophie has texted a couple of times, but I swipe the messages away without reading anything.
Then I tell myself to stop watching Jamie move around my classroom, his presence a sudden and sharp reminder that I learned so much about him and knew nothing.
My hands shake until I curl them into furious fists.
Seconds later, I relax them because I don’t want to live with half-moon scars.
I’m logical, and I want so badly to reason my way past a problem I didn’t know I had five minutes ago.
It feels more like a tragedy though, and all I can see are the warnings keeping me from dragging Jamie to the bar right now.
The school administration could consider firing me. Vicki Gallagher and her lackeys would have horrible things to say about what I've done.
Even worse, fans and players could turn their backs on him. Media vultures would be outright cruel.
I’m spared a few moments of pain when another student pops her head through the door and waves at me, except that she’s Harper’s best friend, and the one person more important than both Jamie and me.
Harper scurries toward Lizzie, and like goddamn magnets, Jamie and I end up next to each other.
It’s impossible to know where the attraction begins and ends.
Science is more Sophie’s thing than mine.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to—I would’ve told you this weekend. All about me. I wasn’t going to hide anymore.”