Not unexpectedly, I think of Brennan. Not the version of him frozen from the memories in my past—but the man who’s learning how to widen angles instead of forcing shots that aren’t there.
The bell rings just as I’m about to launch into the next part of my explanation.
As the students file out, Connor lingers. “Why don’t coaches explain things like you do, Ms. D? Do you think…they don’t believe we’re capable enough to understand it?”
I reassure him, “Maybe your coaches feel like they’re telling you something you already know. If you have questions though, you should feel comfortable enough to ask.”
His smile is fleeting. “Thanks. I appreciate the encouragement.”
Even as he dashes out to head to practice, I call out, “No problem!”
Later that evening, Connor’s words play over and over in my mind. It’s not something Brennan ever talked about during our time together, so I hope I answered truthfully. Still, I can’t get the question off my mind.
“Do you think they don’t believe we’re capable enough to understand it?”
I check the time. Just before eight.Not too late. Without overthinking, I dial his number.
He answers on the second ring. “Amy? Is everything okay?”
“Hi Brennan. I appreciate you picking up.”
“I told you I always would if you had questions or reached out.”
An infinitesimal thread of trust extends from me, to him keeping his word in this tiny way. I blurt out, “I used hockey as a math example today. Angles. Shot probability. It landed better than I expected.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Not at all. You’ve always loved the game. Plus you’re amazing at making things click.” His voice turns wicked. “Remember how you’d help me study Human Anatomy & Physiology?”
I can’t stop my grin as I recall my precise drawings on his skin. “I used to feel bad about drawing on your skin with a Sharpie, despite your reassurance it was okay.”
“If only I had an excuse for you to touch me now,” he mutters. Still, the intimacy of his voice causes chills down my spine. I’m about to redirect the murky area we were drifting to when he remarks, “Besides, it worked. I aced that final.”
My voice softens. “Yeah, it did.”
“You always knew how to make things click for me.” The phone line practically crackles with our unresolved tension. Before it gets awkward, Brennan clears his throat. “What’s up? I figure you have a reason for calling.”
“If you’re not busy?—”
“I’m not.” His voice is matter-of-fact.
“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask,” I’m certain he can hear the exasperation in my voice.
“Amy, I literally work out, eat, go to therapy and try to avoid random texts from Mark. My time is yours.”
I frown. “Mark’s texting you?”
He exhales through his nose. “He won’t stop.”
“About what?”
“You.” Before I can ask why, he changes the subject. “What’s going on?”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I rush out with, “Would you want to come in tomorrow to explain how you used geometry playing hockey? I mean, there’s no pressure, of course.”
He immediately answers, “I’d love to; if you’re sure.”
