Page 45 of More, Daddy
She’s here.
DaddysGirlis here. Not just on Bluebell soil, but inBruiser territory.
She’s a fucking Bruiser.
My pulse thunders in my temples, airways tightening as a wild thrill mixed with jitters surges through my skull, electrifying every nerve.
Whoare you?
Whereare you,DaddysGirl?
I catch the eyes of a freshman language arts teacher heading to her classroom, rolling a cart full of supplies behind her. Her blue eyes lift from her paces, but after a cursory glance, she looks away.
Not her.No way.
Even if we’re to play like we are strangers, there would be a moment. A singular, electric, intense moment, and I’d see it. The flash of knowing in her eyes. The moment where naughty images of me infiltrate her brain before she pulls herself together and greets me the same way she’d greet Mr. Cunningham.
I’ll know it’s her when I see her. I will. That much I’m certain of.
“What’re you doing out of the box?” Dean McAllister’s voice slips out from one of the open doors, lassoing my ankle, bringing me back to him. He calls my office a box, and he wouldn’t be wrong.
We shake hands as we greet each other. “Got here early,thought I’d visit some athletes,” I lie, though what I’m saying is not far-fetched or outlandish.
He nods, as if it’s all logical and sane, because he’s the type of guy whodoesroam halls and chit chat with students. “Sure, alright, well, how’s Tanner’s collarbone looking? He come into the training office yesterday?”
I catch the eyes of a female teacher. Ms. Crawford? Dawford? I don’t know. But she smiles at me, and her cheeks go pink, and for a moment I wonder—is ither? When her eyes lift again, I catch her batting her lashes… at Dean.
“Can’t wait to see the game this Friday, Coach,” she says, fumbling with her key ring as she hopelessly flirts with an attached and completely unaware Dean.
Okay, it’s not her.
After nods and smiles, he turns to face me. “So, how’s Tanner?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, and pin my focus to Dean, telling myself I cannot look away from him until this chat is over. He’s nosey, and he willnose. “He’s good. But I think you know that. You got a little paranoia thing happening, or what, Coach?”
He knocks his hat up, scratching at his forehead before adjusting everything to where it was. Messing with his head and hat—that’s his nervous tell.
Normally, I’d dig in. Press him about his behavior the way the guys press into me.
But today I have the delicious and agonizing reality of knowing thatDaddysGirlis here. On campus. Near me.
Dean is not my concern, not right now.
He shrugs.
“He’s got a bright future, I just don’t want to see a moment of that missed because he didn’t come see the athletic trainer.”
I clap my hand onto his shoulder. “He’s doing good. Real good, Dean. You’re doing well with him.”
Saved by the paranoid, underprepared, anxiety ridden underclassmen.
A boy wearing a Bluebell Academic Decathlon T-shirt appears at Dean’s side, worry in his eyes, reflecting off his glasses. “Mr. McAllister, do you have time to read my Revolutionary War paper outline before I start my draft?”
I give Dean a nod, and saunter off, relieved to be on the hunt again. The first bell rings, letting the students know they have three minutes left to get to class.
And I have three more minutes of sleuthing.
On my way toward the main office, I pass Coach Cadence, walking with her arm linked with Cassandra Mott, the AP French teacher. Ms. Mott’s classroom is in the building adjacent to my office, so she and I find ourselves in the awkward position of running into each other a few minutes after the bell rings a couple of times per week.
