Free Slow and Steady Rush by Laura Trentham Page B

them, but as a teacher and coach, he couldn’t fight teenagers in parking lots. His job was too important. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck, partly in preparation but mostly for intimidation.
    Forward progress of the two boys in the back halted, and they exchanged telling looks, but their leader wouldn’t be denied.
    “Nasty rumors are spreading about you, Coach. I’ll bet you love hanging out in the locker room. If you came on to me, I’d beat your ass.” He snickered and threw a glance over his shoulder. This little show was obviously to gain favor with his friends.
    “Let’s get a few things straight. Skinny, white boys are not my type, and I’d be the one beating your ass. I’m a United States Army Ranger, son. You really want to take me on?”
    The young man snapped forward and popped Robbie in the cheek with a fist. Pain radiated across his face. Rage thundered through him like an old friend. He twisted the boy’s shirt in his left hand and hauled his fist back, putting enough static energy in his arm to break the boy’s jaw.
    Panic gaped the boy’s mouth, and Robbie took a deep breath, tamping the tarry mire of his fury back. Instead of a bone-crushing blow, he jabbed twice with the heel of his hand, once below the boy’s eye and once on the bridge of his nose. Enough to teach the boy a lesson, but not enough to send him to the hospital.
    Blood trickled out of both nostrils, staining the metal hoop. A guttural, animal-like moan reverberated from his chest. Robbie dropped him. The boy landed on his side, his shaking hands cupped over his nose and mouth. His shirt had ridden up to expose a set of small, ripped abs. Childlike sobs escaped around his fingers. With a sigh, Robbie turned to his friends.
    “You boys want to give me a try, or do you want to take your friend home and get some ice on his face?”
    They exchanged a look and said “Ice,” at the same time.
    The trio stumbled into an old sedan and squealed out of the lot. Twice in one day, anger had burned a path through him. Thank God he’d learned not to let it overwhelm him. Someday, he hoped to eradicate the spikes entirely.
    He pulled his helmet on, the tight press against his cheek calling forth some imaginative curses. Is this what he had to look forward to until the rumors died? Damn Darcy Wilde and her big mouth. Her tempting, sexy-as-hell, big mouth.
    He stowed his bike in the garage and went straight to the kitchen. Avery whined at his knee, sensing with doggie intuition his human was hurt. Robbie knelt to offer him a reassuring hug and received a gentle lick on his sore cheek.
    He tossed some ice in a dishtowel and grabbed a spoon and the casserole dish. Flipping to ESPN, he leaned back in his recliner, one hand holding ice to his cheek, the other shoveling a huge bite to his mouth.
    Holy shit. That was good. Another huge bite, and he closed his eyes to savor the explosion of flavor. The bananas were perfectly ripe, the wafers crisp, and the pudding thick and custardy. Not from a box, that was for damn sure. A tongue drooled on his arm. He offered a spoonful to Avery, who wolfed it down.
    Between the two of them, they finished the entire treat and lay together in a banana pudding coma, watching Sports Center repeat itself. He would have to run an extra three miles tomorrow in the crushing Alabama humidity. It had totally been worth it.
    #
    The next morning, with an undisguisable shiner, Robbie dropped into the chair behind his desk and vowed to ignore the situation. Eventually, someone else would do something stupid to draw the town’s attention.
    A productive morning ensued. Not only did he draw out some new, inventive plays, he worked on his lesson plan for the advanced calculus class he would teach in the fall. Two of his squad would be in there, but the rest would be unknowns, mostly honors kids. A knock on the door interrupted a plan on derivatives and integrals.
    “Coach Dalton, you busy?” Tyler Buchanan, his