When I return, Hartley is pacing beside the bus, head down, hands on his hips, looking like a man one spark away from combusting.
He spots me.“What did you do?”
“Got us a ride and snacks.”
“You what?”
“Called a charter service.They’ll be here within the hour.”I tuck my hands into my blazer pockets, warming them.“Snacks arrive in twenty.”
He blinks, stunned, outraged, impressed, all warring across his face.“You… Buchanan, you can’t?—”
“Save your thanks.”I smile, waving him away lightly.“You seem allergic to gratitude.”
His jaw locks, breath fogging in a sharp exhale, but before he can fire back, a voice calls from the bus doorway.“Coach, what do we do now?”
He looks up at the boys, then at me, and though I shouldn’t, I lift a challenging eyebrow.“Well, Coach?”
He scrubs a hand down his face, surrender settling into his shoulders.“Everyone off the bus.Stay together.Let’s stretch our legs.”
The kids spill out, loud, stomping, breath puffing in the cold.Someone dribbles a ball, the thump-thump echoing down the dark shoulder, and others jog in place, shoving each other and laughing.
“Be careful.The road.”Hartley’s eyes dart everywhere at once, the protector in him flaring bright.
Under the glow of the emergency flashers, he looks bigger than he did on the bus.Broader.Superhuman.Yet far more worried than he’d ever admit, and for a fleeting moment—unexpected, unwanted—I see him not as the infuriating world champion who blew me off…
…but as a man carrying a dozen kids through the dark on nothing but grit, responsibility, and a stubborn refusal to fall apart.
I clap my hands, loud enough to get their attention.“All right, team, let’s make the best of it.Coach here also forgot to tell you he got food.Well…” I chuckle.“Snacks.”
The boys erupt in cheers for their coach.Naturally, he stands there staring at me, confusion etched across his features.
I angle closer, voice low.“What?”
His eyes search mine.“Why didn’t you tell them it was you?”
“It’s better if they think it’s from you.”I shrug.“And you would’ve done it for them anyway, but you had your hands full.”I flick my chin in the direction of the bus.
I leave him standing there, stunned, and head toward the kids.“Now, who wants to tell ghost stories?”
That gets them moving as they cluster tighter, elbows jostling, voices rising with excitement.Within minutes, they’re arguing about the plausibility of a haunted locker room and whether the ghost prefers varsity or JV victims.Even Hartley cracks a smile though he tries to smother it with a hand to his jaw.But it’s there.Small, reluctant, real.
A loose basketball rolls toward me, and I crouch, scoop it up, and give it a spin on my fingertip.It wobbles precariously.
“Grace Buchanan, sports prodigy.”My sarcasm causes the boys to howl, and somewhere behind them comes a low rumble of amusement from Hartley.
“Not bad.”He’s genuine, and I snort, tossing the ball back to one of the boys.
“I contain multitudes.”
Headlights cut through the dark, and a faded blue Toyota RAV4 slows to a stop on the shoulder.A lanky teenager steps out with plastic bags overflowing—chips, jerky, candy, enough sugar to fuel a small rebellion.
The boys swarm like he’s descended from the heavens, and I wedge myself in, free him from the confusion, and slip him the total plus tip via e-transfer.His eyes nearly bug out of his head before he hops back into his car, peeling away like I might change my mind.
Soon after, the team drifts back onto the bus in a blissed-out sugar haze, and almost thirty minutes later, twin beams appear on the horizon as the replacement bus rolls toward us like a slow-moving miracle.The boys cheer again, louder this time, gathering their gear in a triumphant wave.
Hartley’s shoulders finally drop, relief loosening his posture, and when he looks at me, something softer traces his expression.“Thanks.”
I grin.“Don’t strain yourself.”