Chapter7
Grace
The ride back is quiet, the kind of worn-out hush after the adrenaline fades.When cell signal strengthens, Hartley instructs the boys to call or text home, if they haven’t already.
Once back at the school, the parking lot lights burn bright and sterile against the night.The boys scatter toward waiting parents, voices echoing across the asphalt.
Near the school entrance, a woman stands with her arms folded tight in a long wool coat and a dark bun so precise it looks military.She isn’t angry, exactly, more like vibrating with anxiety.The principal, maybe?
Her gaze locks on Hartley as she approaches, but she hangs back while he chats with a few lingering parents.With the boys home safe and a win under their belts, the bus mishap is already fading for the families.All they want to hear about are the highlights of the game, with a few dads wishing they’d made the trek.
The second we’re alone, she pounces.“Maddox.”
He wedges the clipboard under his arm, and a nervous swallow works its way down his throat.“Amy.”
“I got several calls from parents tonight when the bus didn’t arrive on time.Then Sissy Beckett called.She got a message from Kevin about being late and wanted more details on why a private charter broughtmybasketball team home after midnight.”
There’s a bite to her voice, the emphasis on “my” a quiet, jagged claim to power.It slips under my skin, prickly and unwelcome.
He shifts his weight.“The bus broke down.I?—”
“You should have called me.”Irritation fuels her words, cutting him off.“Do you have any idea what kind of liability this creates?If anything had happened to those students?—”
“It didn’t.”The words jump out of my mouth before I can reel them back in.“He got them home safe.”
She studies me for a slow, measuring beat.“And you are…?”
“Grace Buchanan.”
“Ah, the reporter.”She gives me a small nod, neither welcoming nor dismissive.“Ms.Buchanan, I appreciate your involvement tonight.Truly.But Coach Hartley is accountable.”
He clears his throat, a red wave of heat washing up his neck.“It won’t happen again.”
Her gaze flicks to the few remaining cars in the lot.Relief washes her features, and her posture softens along with her tone.“I’m sure it won’t.But… if you don’t have the contact numbers, you need them.”
I can’t tell if her pause is deliberate—a way to highlight we all know he’s flying blind without contacts, or a way to let the weight of the moment sink in.
“Come to the office, and we’ll get them programmed into your phone.It’s important.You’re responsible for these kids.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Her frown relaxes.“We’ll talk Monday… Only to make sure you’re set up to succeed.You’re good at your job, Coach.I want you to feel prepared, not stranded.”
Some of the tension bleeds from his shoulders, and he nods.
The principal tugs her coat tighter against the cold.“Congrats on the win.”The briefest of smiles skates over her lips.“Now, go home.”
Her heels tap across the blacktop as she heads for her car.For a long moment, Hartley doesn’t move.He doesn’t say a word.The charter bus rumbles out of the lot, and the second we’re truly alone, the air between us thickens.
He stands beside me, broad and still, his shoulders set like stone.It’s as if he’s afraid if he releases all that pent-up tension, he might come apart.
I blow into my hands, trying to spark some warmth into my fingers.“Well.That could’ve been worse,” I say, trying to break the silence.
Something in him shifts—immediate and unsettled.It’s as if the sound of my words hit a bruise.“You’re kidding, right?”
I’m taken aback by his tone.My instinct is to shield myself, but I remind myself he’s had a rough night.This is his job.“I mean, she didn’t yell or lecture you.”
Almost instantly, I know I’ve missed the mark.He might have gotten off easy, but he doesn’t want to hear it.He isn’t a man used to falling short or comfortable with failure of any kind.