5. Grace #2
I think of the way his friends flanked him with a loyalty you can’t fake. The way the waitress, Percy, lit up like she’d worshipped him since she was in diapers. The entire diner reacted to his outburst with curiosity, not fear. He wasn’t a spectacle to them. He was theirs.
He belongs here.
For reasons I don’t want to poke at, my realization tempers the sharp edge of my anger. It also picks at a dark, lonely place inside me—a place that doesn’t know what that feels like. An effortless sense of belonging, that simply... is.
I rake my fingers through my hair, the strands catching on my rings. It’s a useless, frustrated gesture. What I truly need—more than the tea, more than the quiet—is to stop thinking about the way Hartley’s presence felt like a physical weight in the air.
The porch boards creak behind me as a soft voice drifts over to me. “Mind if I join you?”
A familiar redhead with her own paper cup of something steaming hot in hand smiles easy and warm at me.
“Wren, right?”
She brightens. “You’ve got a good memory.”
I gesture to the chairs. “Pull up a seat. Just don’t tell me you’re here to give me what for on Hartley’s behalf.”
“Not exactly. Patsy texted she had a new guest, and I had a feeling it might be you. I thought I’d stop by. See how you were settling in. Maybe smooth out some rough first impressions.”
“Rough impressions? You mean Hartley being an ass?”
Her lips twitch, amusement flickering. “I mean Mad being Mad.”
“So, that’s the official diagnosis around here?”
Her shoulders rock with a quiet laugh. “He’s not usually that sharp with people. You caught him off guard.”
A smile nudges its way onto my face. “Good. He deserved it.”
“I don’t disagree.” She leans back, gaze drifting over the quiet street. “He’s just… protective of his privacy. The town’s proud of him, but he hates being doted on. And the whole retirement thing…” Her voice softens, thoughtful. “It hit him harder than he lets on.”
I study her for a moment. The affection. The history. The worry tucked under her words, and something all too familiar prickles at the back of my neck.
“What’s hit him hard?” I lean toward her, studying her features for the slightest tell. “Wasn’t the retirement his choice?”
She straightens, eyes widening like she said the wrong thing. “Uh, yeah. It’s just that…” Her hand waves in the air, and I can’t tell if she’s flustered or it’s a distraction. “Coming home, it’s still an adjustment, and he doesn’t like to talk about it. I mean—”
I cut her off, internally kicking myself for not parking the reporter in me. “Hey, I get it.” My gaze dips to the dark pool in my mug. “You two are close.”
“Friends since we were five.” She shrugs with fond exasperation. “He’s like an older brother—if your brother happens to be a six-foot-three pain in the butt.”
“That tracks.”
Her laugh rings out again. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know.” Her pause is contemplative, almost like she hasn’t quite made her mind up about what she’ll say next.
“There’s an away game tomorrow. Varsity boys’ basketball.
Mad’s the team coach this year. I mean, he coached the latter part of last year when he started at the high school as department head for physical education, gym teacher, and head coach, but Coach Bell was there to guide him—his predecessor.
This year, he’s running things.” She nibbles on her lower lip and tightens her hold on the cup.
“That’s the game he was talking about. It’s a big deal to him. ”
My lips quirk, although she isn’t telling me anything I haven’t already researched or figured out. “That explains a lot… Well, that and the whistle hanging off his ego.”
Her grin spreads. “If you want a real look at him, you should go. He cares about the kids, loves the game. Coaching brings out a different side to him, not the glared-at-you-in-the-Grill side.”
“Should I bring protective gear?”
It is tempting, but I’m not going to ask why she’s doing this. My guess is Hartley would be fuming if he knew she was here, inviting me to the game, no less.
“Can’t hurt.” She lifts her drink like a toast. “Maybe don’t open with the whistle line.”
“No promises.”
She hesitates, swirling her cup. “We usually ride together. I volunteer as assistant coach, but I’ve got a thing tomorrow. And he won’t admit to it, but… he’ll need the extra support.”
“Support? As in water bottles? Bench wrangling?”
“Oh no, definitely not. I mean support as in someone noticing what he’s like. You know, someone observing, like as in the reporter here to do a feature on him.”
“Hmm.” A smile creeps in, unstoppable. “You’re terrible at backpedaling.”
She groans softly. “Hazard of corralling kids at the library. I’m a part-time librarian, among other things.”
“That explains the diplomacy.”
She snorts. “You’ll need it around here. Small town, big hearts, lots of opinions.” She pauses for a beat. “Show up at the high school around two, two fifteen at the latest.”
I nod, pretending I’m not secretly looking forward to the way The Mad One’s face will redden, perhaps even explode, when I join the caravan.
“Thanks for the intel.”
“Anytime.” Wren rises. “He’ll probably act like it’s the end of the world. But deep down…” Her smile widens. “He’ll appreciate it. It’ll be a chance to start over on his turf.”
I watch her retreat down the steps, my stomach churning because part of me—hopeful and curious—wants to believe she’s right.
“Sure, he will.” My voice is dry enough to sand wood. “Right after he finishes plotting my murder.”
Her laughter drifts down the steps as she heads toward her car. “Good luck,” she calls over her shoulder. “You’ll need it.”
I believe her.
By the next afternoon, I’ve almost convinced myself this is a terrible idea. Almost. But curiosity—and yes, spite—team up and shove me out of the rental car before my common sense can lock the doors.
A yellow bus idles behind the school, engine rumbling like a sleepy beast, and clusters of boys in matching uniforms toss basketballs, some showing off for their friends. Then there’s Hartley.
He stands near the bus door, clipboard in hand, navy hoodie stretching across shoulders that have no business looking that good even covered up.
His head is bowed, talking to one of the kids, voice low and steady, expression calm in a way that makes me wonder what he looks like when he’s not pretending I don’t exist.
God help me—the man looks good doing absolutely nothing.
And why the hell am I drooling over this man? My interview subject, no less? He’s untouchable, my thoughts completely inappropriate. Besides, there are plenty of hot men in LA.
Ugh, maybe I need to get laid. It’s been a while.
I straighten my blazer, square my shoulders, and head toward him. A few of the boys eye me, whispering behind their hands like they’ve spotted a celebrity or a rare animal.
Hartley glances up at the commotion, gaze landing on me. Everything in him freezes in confusion, then realization, which is followed by exasperation so pure it could be bottled.
This is going to be delightful.
“Good afternoon, Coach.” I flash my brightest, most innocent smile. “Heard you might need a hand.”
His brows slam together. “Inkslinger.”
My body locks, and I force levity into my bones. I will not take the bait. I lift a shoulder, all faux innocence, and force a smile. “You skipped our first meeting, so I thought I’d save you the trouble of skipping our second.”
A muscle jumps along his jaw, and he looks like he’s weighing the pros and cons of spontaneous combustion.
“I said Monday.” His arms fold across that ridiculous chest, hoodie pulling tight.
“Relax.” I lower my voice for only him to hear. “I’m observing. I’ll be quiet as a mouse, maybe ask a few harmless questions on the ride.”
“From the little I’ve seen, there’s nothing harmless about you.”
A couple of the players snicker behind him, and he shoots them a look that could curdle milk. I step closer, not touching distance, but enough that I know he can feel it. The challenge. The promise. The inevitability of it.
“Well.” I steady my gaze on his. “Then you’d better behave, Coach.”
Something flickers in his eyes—heat, humor—before he buries it beneath a scowl.
“You’ve got five minutes to get on the bus.” His voice deepens, gruff and begrudging. “We leave on time.”
“Perfect.” I brush past him, enjoying the way his breath hitches—barely, but enough. “Plenty of time to find a seat.”
The boys part like the sea before Moses as I walk through them. Every last one of them grinning, nudging each other like they can’t help themselves.
“Coach is toast,” one whispers as I climb the steps.
Maybe he is. Maybe I am.
I slide into a seat halfway down the aisle, notebook already open in my lap. A wicked little smile tugs at my mouth, because for the first time since this assignment began, I’m not dreading it. I’m looking forward to watching Maddox Hartley squirm.