Chapter 7 Connor
CONNOR
The plan is to toe the line of obeying the rules here at reform school while pushing my teacher to the edge. Thing is, when she falls over, I’ll be the one to catch her.
Our standoff continues until she speaks. “Mr. Wolfe, rule number one. No phone during lessons.” Her voice is low, smoky, and accented.
“What do I have to do to make you give me back my phone?”
“You may have your phone back at the end of our session.”
“And why is that?”
“My classroom, my rules. The phone is a distraction. When you are in here, your focus is on me and our lessons.”
...And she’s angsty.
I like it.
Nor do I mind the idea of focusing on her—at least when she isn’t being a shrew.
That makes me seem like a dog. Maybe I am, at least some of the time, but I’m well aware that if I let a woman know I’m a nice guy, then she’ll want more than a good time.
Words like relationship and commitment make me squirm.
I’m a lone wolf and intend to stay that way.
I kick my feet up on the table again. If I can’t have my phone, I may as well be comfortable.
“Sit up,” she commands.
I rock back and hammock my hands behind my head. “No thanks,” I add, just to play the polite game.
With surprising strength, she sweeps my feet to the floor. Off-balance, I nearly fall out of the chair.
“You are not a wet noodle.”
I want to be mad, to stand up and scream, but the contrast between her serious expression and choice of words is the most unexpected thing. A laugh bubbles inside.
“You’re cute when angry,” I say without really meaning to.
I look for a flicker of recognition. Her cheeks are the slightest shade of rose, but I’m not sure if it’s from my comment or caused by my poor behavior.
Chin lifted, she says, “I am your teacher. This is my classroom. You will listen to me and do as I say.”
Returning to my position on the field, I say, “In that case, your job is going to be difficult. My old teachers would tell you that I’m not a very good student.”
“No? You’ve never had me as your teacher. This is a school of etiquette, Mr. Wolfe. You are being evaluated and as mentioned, your career rides on your successfully completing this program. I recommend you listen and do as you’re told.”
“And if I don’t?” I ask.
A vein of frustration appears on her forehead as she smooths her navy-blue skirt and lowers into the chair. She blinks her black lashes a few times. Black and blue. Boston Bruisers colors.
“Do you listen to Coach Hammer, Mr. Wolfe?”
“Yeah.” I lean back in the chair.
“Why?” she asks.
I temporarily lose focus, my eyes not sure whether to land on her thick lashes or her lush lips.
She clears her throat, indicating I answer.
“What kind of question is that? Isn’t it obvious? Because I want to win.” And I always do.
“Why do you want to win?”
My eyebrows dip and my lips twist as I lean forward. “Because I like to win.”
“Are you sure it isn’t because you don’t want to lose?” She emphasizes the last four words.
I shift back slightly, having never quite thought of it that way before. Her comment gives me pause, not something that happens often.
She shakes her head slowly, almost imperceptibly, as if she knows something that I don’t. “Listen carefully, Mr. Wolfe.”
The way she says the word wolf, almost with a little Y sound at the end, like wolfy, makes me want to smile. It’s a heck of a lot better than the V sound a woman I dated with a different accent used. That made me think of the vampire movies my brother made me watch when I was a kid.
All the same, her red-stained lips remind me of blood. Like she’s out for mine if I don’t behave. Despite my size, strength, and agility, there is something about her that makes me shiver, but I brush it off as I kick my feet back onto the table.
“Third strike, as they say in your sport.” She writes down something in a leatherbound folder.
“My sport? My sport is football, sweetheart. We don’t have strikes.”
“Well, we do here. No feet on the table.” She looks at my boots like I stepped in a dog pile on the way in. The woman’s eyes slay.
“No phones, no shoes, no service. Any other rules I should know about?”
“We will get to those. First, please answer this question. What do you stand to lose if you fail this program?”
That’s not something I want to think about. “I’m the kind of guy who acts first, thinks later. Consequences rarely keep me from taking action.”
“Obviously. #BruiserButt is a point of fact.”
For the third time in less than thirty minutes, this woman nearly brings a smile to my face.
It’s not the wolfish grin either. There’s something under the surface of her harsh rule that’s sweet, endearing.
I don’t expect I’ll ever find out what it is, but that prim mouth of hers contrasts with the words #BruiserButt in the most curious way.
With my elbow resting on the table and my thumb under my chin, leaving my pointer finger to run along my jaw toward my temple in the classic thinking pose, I continue, “In this case, I don’t plan to fail, meaning there’s nothing to lose.”
“There is always something to lose, Mr. Wolfe.”
Again, with the truth. Sheesh. She’s not wrong, as the word playbook drops into my mind like a thick tome. The pages flip, and the word grows in volume in the exact tones of Declan’s, Chase’s, and Grey’s voices.
I can’t let the guys down.
Not only that, but if my brother found out I was kicked off the team—it’s the only thing that has me on the leaderboard.
Well, and my millions. My success after years of failure means everything to me.
The goal of getting to where I am kept me alive.
My success is a gratifying sort of revenge after years of struggling to survive.
I sit up and square my shoulders.
Let’s do this.
The corners of my new teacher’s lips turn up ever so slightly. I fight against matching her expression or saluting her in a Pavlovian response at a mere crumb of her approval.
She says, “Now that I have your attention, if it helps you, you may think of me as your personal coach.”
Oh, it’s personal.
“Mr. Wolfe, I am here to guide you, help you overhaul areas of your life, and teach you manners.”
“So no brawls?” I ask, unable to help myself. “No pranks?”
She doesn’t say a word, as if her silence is enough of a response.
“We have an interview now, an evaluation at dinner, and then, based on my findings, I will tailor a plan unique to you that we will review and perfect in the coming week. After that, we will be leaving the manor campus for real-life reform school where—”
“Freedom.” I pump my arm and whoop.
“This isn’t a prison sentence, so that is hardly the case.
As I was saying, off-campus, I will be offering real-time coaching.
You will have the opportunity to apply the lessons you learned here.
You’ll be evaluated and if I find you have made sufficient progress in the various areas of aptitude, I will give your actual coach and commissioner my final review saying you passed. If not...”
I shrink back into the chair. “You’re all business, huh?”
“What else would I be?” She folds her hands one over the other in the picture of perfect poise.
I shift to put my feet on the table again, then think better of it. “I’m not used to women like you.”
“Women like me?” With the posture and grace of a dancer, she turns away slightly as she speaks. If I’m not mistaken, I detect a faint smile.
What will it take to coax another one out of her? Then I call a penalty on myself. I’m not the kind of guy to try to get a woman to smile. They’ll get accustomed to wearing a rosy-glow grin and come back for more.
I prefer to keep things simple. One and done. It’s safer and smarter to keep her expression dialed to a stern scowl.