“You should get checked out, dude. You’re bleeding,” Ezra suggests, seeing his friend in a ragged condition.
Noah rolls his eyes and pulls out a handkerchief from the back of his jeans pocket, wiping the blood off his face without so much as flinching. “We play with concussions, Ezra. This is nothing, and you know it.”
“You sure?” my brother confirms, not entirely convinced. But Noah nods, and that’s that for him. “Thanks for saving my sister, man.” Both their gaze cut to me, Kaeli now at my side, draping her arm over my shoulder and pulling me in. “She could’ve been seriously hurt.”He chokes up on his last words and clears his throat to cover it.
Noah’s burning eyes rake over me, discerning if I’m injured—this fool. “I’d do it again.” I know those words are meant for me. My heart stutters at the conviction and care in his voice.
When it’s clear that this stubborn man will not be getting checked out, I finally see if all my students are safe. I look around the room and breathe a sigh of relief, seeing them all unscathed and far away from the stage. The other teacher hurries them to the empty classrooms, and I give them a grateful, shaky nod.
What comes as a surprise, though, is that the room is filled with all the players on my brother’s team. My eyes widen at each of them, occupying different spots in the room as if they belong here.
I’m about to ask Ezra how on earth they are here when they were literally in an entirely different city and had a game, when the Principal and Vice Principal finally barrel into the hall, shell-shocked at the condition of the stage. I look at the room from their eyes and find it in a state of complete and utter chaos—a cataclysmic disaster if you will.
The panels lie crooked and broken on the stage, the million little pieces of the shattered glass lying everywhere, sparkling like snow. The disarray in front of me hits home, making me realize that it’s over.
Today’s show is canceled.
The Principal confirms my fears. “We’re going to have to call all the parents and tell them that the show is canceled.”
“Right. There’s no way that this can be contained and repaired within an hour,” Mrs. Deena parrots, the cocky glint shining in her eyes.
I don’t know why I’m shocked that she’s happy. But I do agree, there’s no way all of it can be undone. There isn’t enough tech and mechanical support to handle this mess. We will have to cancel.
My shoulders slump in exhaustion as I do my best not to burst into tears like I want to.
My gaze involuntarily seeks out Noah, yearning for their warmth and comfort. His jaw is clenched, and if I hear carefully, I can hear his teeth grinding as he bores holes in—my eyes follow his line of sight—Mrs. Deena.
“No,” he declares, shoving his hands into hispockets as a pin-drop silence descends in the room.
All the gazes in the room pin to him while his stay at the Principal. Mr. Gates squirms under his unwavering glare—he does have that effect on people.
“Excuse me?” Mr. Gates says, exercising his authority and remembering that he’s the one in charge here.
“You heard me,” Noah grunts, crossing his arms across his chest, taking a wider, more intimidating stance. “You won’t cancel the show.”
What on God’s green earth is he saying? Can’t cancel the show?
“Why do you think I’ll do that?” Mr. Gates shifts. “I’m sure you can see the current state we’re in. There’s no way the mess can be cleaned up before the parents start arriving. We’re short on capable hands who can help out with the manual labor and technical staff this job needs,” he explains logically, stating everything as it is.
No matter how much I abhor it, I’m inclined to agree with him.
“I’ll handle that,” Noah announces as if he’s talking about handling coffee orders.
“Come again?” Mrs Deena takes a step forward,authority and superiority exuding from her.
“I hate repeating myself,” he grits, cutting her a scathing glare. That shuts her up, and I see her losing the confidence she wears with pride.
“How would you do that?” Mr. Gates asks, getting Noah’s eyes back on himself.
His arms spread wide around him. “You have the entire Bandits team at your disposal. We can do hard labor. You’ll have your stage ready on time,” he announces, my eyes widening at his words.
“Why are you doing this?” Mr. Gates asks the question bubbling inside of me, too.
“I’m not about to let anybody’s time and labor into putting this show go to waste,” his words ring in the room, appearing as mere concern to everyone but me.
Mine.
He meansmytime and labor.