Caught Running (6 page)

Brandon had mayo and mustard in the crook of his arm, and he was picking up packages of deli meat when he felt the other man's body close, so he shifted his hips over so Jake could open the freezer door. He rifled through the cold-storage drawers, finding a couple kinds of sliced cheese, some shredded lettuce, even a few tomatoes. He pulled it all out in a huge armful and spread it out on the table, nabbing the bread. “Plates? Knife? Cutting board?” he asked as he watched the coach adjust the wrap. By the looks of his movements, he was very well-versed in putting the things on. He suddenly wondered if Jake had continued to pitch in college, or if he'd played outfield or first base instead.

Jake tapped a drawer to signify the knives were in there and reached behind him as he stood on one leg, his hand holding the knee piece together while he plucked out a cutting board and set it on the counter. “I'll get the plates in a sec,” he muttered as he pulled the compression brace tight and felt the cold of the ice pack within press around the inside of his knee. He smoothed out the Velcro and then sighed heavily as he straightened back up.

Watching the production, Brandon began to understand a little bit of what Jake was going through all without saying anything. He would never have thought the coach hurt that much until less than an hour ago, but now it was getting obvious. He'd learned this afternoon, though, that with Jake silence was more valued than chatter, so he kept quiet about it, taking the cutting board and a knife he'd pulled out to the nook table where he started slicing the tomatoes.

Jake glanced up at the man as he reached into one of the glass-fronted cabinets and retrieved the plates. “I blew out my knee freshman year,” he told the man in answer to the unasked questions. “It still aches on me sometimes, when it's cold like it is now."

Brandon looked up at Jake, face even. He didn't pity the man. He was sure Jake was doing something suitably athletic at the time, but he wouldn't wish that sort of pain on anyone. “Saw that happen to runners a few times. Painful,” he commented quietly, going back to slicing. “Ligaments, anyway."

Jake raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He doubted many runners got tackled from the side by wild bears in thick pads as they trotted down the trail or something, but he left it alone. He also hadn't explained the bone spurs in his ankle or the utter destruction of his shoulder that his dumbfuck high school baseball coach had wrought by pitching him too often and too much. He just let it go at the knee and twisted open his beer. It didn't occur to him that most people used bottle openers to do that.

"I'm guessing since this stuff is in your fridge, you'll eat it all,” Brandon said as he built two large sandwiches, heavy on the meat and cheese. He stole glances at Jake, seeing the play of emotions across his face. He was curious, but it wasn't right to push. For all that he'd gone to school with and now worked with him, Brandon barely knew him. It felt awkward standing in his kitchen making him a sandwich.

"I'll eat anything,” Jake responded automatically. “I'll eat bark if you put beer on it,” he assured the man as he popped a few pills and took a long gulp of his beer to wash them down.

"Bark?” Brandon asked with a snort. “That would certainly take care of your fiber for the day,” he joked, setting the plate with the bigger of the two sandwiches in front of Jake on the bar that faced the nook. He sat at the table and rifled through his back pack to pull out a folder of papers. Then with a glance up—though he wasn't sure why he was embarrassed, he wore them all day when teaching—he pulled his glasses out and slid them on. “Good with the sandwich?” he asked.

"Mm hmm,” Jake answered as he straddled the nearest bar stool. He watched Brandon silently as he ate, glad that he didn't have to deal with grading papers.

Nodding and taking a bite of his own, the science teacher started reading and marking, scribbling a grade at the top of each paper and circling it before setting it aside. He kept eating as well for several minutes, pretty much caught up in what he was doing until he glanced up to reach for his beer and saw Jake watching him. He froze in place. How had he not felt the weight of those black eyes on him?

"What?” he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing,” Jake answered with a small smile. “Just another one of those times where I'm glad I'm me,” he laughed softly with a gesture of his beer at the stack of grade papers.

Brandon cracked a grin. “You already said you wouldn't help with the teachery things, too. Bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

"That's the rumor,” Jake answered with a shit-eating grin as he pushed his empty plate away and finished his beer. He plunked it down on the counter and leaned back on his stool, trying to reach the refrigerator without having to get up.

"I'll get it,” the science teacher said, pushing his glasses up with one finger and crossing to the fridge. He took out a beer and pressed it into Jake's hand, then went and sat back down, going right back to eating and grading.

Jake frowned a little. “Thanks,” he muttered, looking at the man closely. He wondered how much of a doormat the guy really was, or if he was just too nice. There was such a thing as being too nice.

Back at his marking, Brandon made a noncommittal noise. “Just don't get used to it,” he said, not even looking up from his papers. He wondered how long Jake would let him stick around before kicking him out. He was getting a decent start on his grading now.

"Hmph,” Jake offered as he twisted off the top and kicked back a large portion of the beer. This was his nightly ritual. Get home, get ice, take drugs, and chase them with alcohol. He knew he likely should have been embarrassed to be doing it in front of Brandon, but frankly, after ten years he had lost the capacity to care. In fact, he had rarely cared what people thought of him; it was one of the qualities he supposed had made him so popular everywhere he went.

"That reminds me, every Wednesday the coaches all gather somewhere under the guise of team meetings,” he said as he watched the pen move. “Usually we drink and make fun of the Dugout Club, but it's always a good time. If you're interested."

Brandon glanced up—Jake was inviting him to hang out? How wild was that? His glasses had slid down enough that he could look at Jake over the frames. “The Dugout Club?” he asked, smiling a little.

"Yeah, you know, the parents who can't keep their noses out of the game long enough to let us breathe?” Jake answered with a raised eyebrow. “Don't get me started on the Diamond Girls,” he warned.

Smile getting bigger, Brandon chuckled. “You know I'm gonna ask,” he pointed out. “Better I know now than look like an idiot if I have to ask later,” he pointed out reasonably.

"Cheerleaders for the baseball team,” Jake grunted. “Baseball shouldn't have cheerleaders,” he protested grumpily.

The science teacher's eyes got really big. “We have baseball cheerleaders?” he asked in utter disbelief. “Oh
God.
Don't tell me it was one of Misty's ideas. I knew she wanted to figure out a way to be around the field in the spring, but this?” He threw down his pen and leaned back with a groan.

"Don't say that name to me,” Jake warned good-naturedly. “I tried to fight it, but the girls started shouting discrimination.” He grunted in distaste.

"Oh, good Lord. Does the softball team have cheerleaders?” Brandon asked, tossing his glasses to the table.

"Not that I know of,” Jake answered wryly. “As long as they stay away from the dugouts we deal with it,” he added. “That's another thing. When you're in the dugout with the guys, make sure they know you're willing to smack them around if they get out of line,” he advised as the warmth of the beer began to flood through him.

"You know why you have a cheerleading team, right?” Brandon asked. It was an open secret, really. Misty ran her mouth about it even in the ladies’ room—or so Rhonda had told Brandon. The cheerleading coach was gunning for a handsome husband; specifically the Prom King to her Prom Queen.

Jake leaned back warily and narrowed his eyes. “Why?” he asked with a slight touch of dread.

Brandon looked uneasy. He'd never been one to pal around with the guys, comparing cock length and notches in bedposts. He wasn't really comfortable with that kind of talk. “You remember how Rhonda was looking at you like an appetizer?” he asked.

Jake blinked at the man and then shifted uncomfortably. “Oh, that,” he muttered. “Misty's tenacious,” he huffed uncomfortably.

"She looks at you like you're a side of high-grade beef, man,” Brandon said with more than a tinge of sympathy.

"She always has,” Jake shrugged. “Senior year I thought she was going to kill me if I didn't take her to the prom. I skipped last period one day, drove over to Berkmar, grabbed the first girl I saw and asked her to go with me. Just to save myself the trouble."

Brandon's jaw dropped. “Wow. No
wonder
she was so pissed. I remember that hissy fit very clearly, and I was all the way across the cafeteria. Sure as hell went a long way to making me swear off.... “He snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. “You were smart,” he finally added.

Jake cocked his head questioningly at the truncated sentence, but left it alone. He smiled fondly at the memory. “I almost married that girl later,” he told the man with a small smile. “She couldn't take the ‘brutality’ of the sports, though. And I couldn't take ... well, the thought of being married."

The smile reappeared. “Almost married, huh?” Brandon tilted his head, looking over Jake. “You've got closer than I have,” he added with a shrug, finishing off his sandwich.

"Too busy with the learning, huh?” Jake ventured.

Brandon played with his glasses, tapping them on the papers. This discussion wasn't where he wanted to be—it edged too close to dangerous territory. “Yeah, I guess. College, grad school while teaching, moving back here. That and no real interest in dating,” he said. “I wasn't exactly coveted by girls in high school, as I'm sure you know."

"Nothing bad about that. You don't have Misty on your tail fifteen years later, hmm?” he pointed out.

Shaking his head, Brandon made a face. “How someone that pretty can be so ugly, I don't know,” he said, his voice filled with obvious distaste.

"Looks can be deceiving,” Jake crooned with another gulp of beer. “I mean, for some reason I've been thinking about high school a lot lately,” he admitted. “Thinking about what shits all kids are and how many friends I could have had but didn't ‘cause I wore a letter jacket. You still see it today."

Among the teachers as well as the students, Brandon added silently. “Well, I can honestly say I never thought I'd be sitting at your kitchen table grading papers and drinking a beer,” he said, thinking back to how defined the cliques had been when he was in school. Except for very few, those lines just didn't get crossed, and the groups didn't mix. “In high school, you just don't know how to break those walls down,” he added quietly. He knew from experience, and now he sensed Jake knew, too. “But I'm sure I was just as much a shit as you were,” he poked, trying to lighten the tone of their discussion.

Jake bristled mightily and then sighed, the beer and pills loosing his tongue more than he would appreciate when tomorrow came. “I wasn't such a bad guy,” he mumbled defensively.

Brandon looked at him closely when Jake dropped his eyes. No. No, he hadn't been, not really, not compared to many. A sudden tenseness filled Brandon, and he knew he needed to leave. He wasn't sure he liked this sudden interest his body seemed to be taking in Jake's body.
Gah
. “It's late, I need to get home and get more work done. I've got baseball practice after school tomorrow. Imagine that,” he said, standing and shoving all the papers in his back pack, that whole shell-shocked look returning.

Jake looked back up and watched Brandon with his dark eyes. “Something I said?” he asked curiously.

"Something you...? No,” Brandon said, sinking back into the booth, sliding on his glasses to hide behind them just like he did at work. “I'm just not really good with people,” he said. “This whole baseball thing will be a real challenge for me. And not just learning the rules.” He'd been an introvert for so long, it was really hard for him to break the habit. Teaching was different.

"With people?” Jake echoed, brow furrowing in deeper confusion. “Oh,” he murmured as if trying to understand but not really getting it. “Yeah, no. No, I'm sorry,” he went on as he stood up slowly. The gel pack on his ankle made a loud squishing sound in protest but he ignored it. “I'll walk you out,” he offered.

Standing up again, Brandon grabbed his back pack and headed to the door, feeling awkward once again. This was why he didn't do social things. He stopped outside, turning to look at the tired man in the doorway. “Thanks for the sandwich. I hope you feel better tomorrow."

"Heh,” Jake responded as he leaned against the door frame. “I'm sure I'll be right as rain come morning,” he asserted with confidence. “Hey, don't forget to bag your phone tomorrow,” he told the man with a cheeky grin.

Brandon just stared at him, totally at a loss for what to say. Bag? His phone? He blinked in confusion.
Oh!
It clicked, and he chuckled, rolling his eyes. “Sure. I'll have to remember not to laugh when Troy announces it. It would be
supercilious
of me not to follow instructions,” he teased, shuffling a little.

"Like I know what that means,” Jake scoffed with a grin. “See ya tomorrow, man. Don't forget your clothes."