“One more minute,” I say, pulling her closer.
She settles against me, her head on my shoulder. “One more minute.”
Chapter 9
Reese
Twenty-two kindergartners ricochet around Room 12. Some sprawl on the reading rug, others hover by the door, and a handful press against the windows as if hockey players might appear on the playground instead of the hallway. Ms. Jenny herds stragglers toward the circle spot where the children will sit to greet the Blades for today’s program.
“Miss Thompson, do hockey players really fight and get their teeth knocked out?” Griffin asks, making a punching motion that nearly clips Sophie’s ear.
“Some players occasionally fight, but it’s not the main part of hockey,” I explain, keeping my teacher voice steady. “And they wear mouthguards to protect their teeth.”
“My brother says they punch each other in the face and there’s blood everywhere!” Lucas announces with gleeful horror.
“Will they sign my jersey? My dad says I have to ask,” Zoe chimes in, tugging at her oversized Blades shirt that hangs to her knees.
The questions come rapid-fire, each child more excited than the last. I’m dodging questions coming from every direction. My hands hover at my collarbone—to keep them busy and disguise the shake.
“Miss Thompson, do you have a boyfriend?” Lily asks with the devastating directness only five-year-olds possess. “My mom says you should because you’re pretty.”
My cheeks ignite. “That’s a personal question, Lily,” I manage, while fragments of last night flash—his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear. I straighten my sweater, painfully aware that less than twelve hours ago Logan’s hands were on my skin.
“But do you?” she persists, her eyes wide and innocent.
Ms. Jenny swoops in, mercifully redirecting. “Let’s focus on getting ready for our visitors, friends. Remember our listening bodies?”
The children immediately straighten their spines and fold their hands in their laps, pure muscle memory from repeated kindergarten routines. It lasts approximately seven seconds before they dissolve back into wiggling excitement.
“I need everyone on the rug with calm bodies,” I say, clapping a rhythm they reflexively clap back. “Our hockey friends are coming to read stories, not to see how wild we can be.”
“Can they show us how to hit someone with a stick?” Finn asks, demonstrating with a ruler turned imaginary hockey stick that nearly hits the class turtle’s tank.
“No stick play inside,” I remind him. “And hockey is about skating and teamwork and?—”
“Fighting!” several boys chorus, pumping their fists.
I shoot a desperate look at Ms. Jenny, who smothers a laugh behind her hand. We’ve been preparing for this visit for days, but nothing could fully prepare me for this collision of my personal and professional lives. Logan in my classroom. Logan, whose scent lingered exquisitely when I showered this morning.
“Miss Thompson, you’re all red,” Sophie observes, her head tilted. “Do you have a fever? My mom says fevers make your face hot.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Just excited about our visitors.”
“Are you excited because your boyfriend is coming?” Lily persists.
Before I can formulate a response that won’t traumatize twenty-two families, the intercom snaps on.
“Attention, Parkside Elementary. Please welcome our special guests from the Chicago Blades who have just arrived. Captain Logan McCoy, Alex Peterson, Dmitri Kovalev, and Ben Mitchell will be visiting classrooms for our reading initiative. Thank you for making them feel welcome.”
My pulse kicks hard at the sound of his name over the speaker. The same name I gasped last night when his hands?—
“Logan McCoy is the captain!” Lucas shouts, jumping up. “He’s the best one!”
“I like Kovalev better,” argues Mateo. “He fights more.”
“Everyone sit crisscross applesauce,” I say, grateful that years of teacher training allow me to function on autopilot while my insides perform gymnastics. “Remember our visitor manners?”
“Listening ears, quiet hands, respectful questions,” the class recites in uneven unison.
