Be My Game Changer: A Sports Romance(9)

Me: Shut up. And on second thought, you’d better bring a big-ass bottle of wine and an extravagant meal tonight.

Tucking my cell away, I focus on starting the day’s lesson. It might all be in my mind, but the longer class goes on, the more everyone in it seems distracted. Or maybe it’s just me. Attempting to get back on track is pointless, especially when there’s a knock on the door.

I’m utterly dumbstruck when Principal Newman walks in with none other than Carter Barlowe. What in the actual hell is going on?

“Good morning, Ms. Whitlock,” Principal Newman beams.

Why is Carter here? Is he mad about being a laughingstock? Is he here to get me fired? How did he even find me? I’m physically unable to respond. Like a complete halfwit.

There’re several gasps and whispers around the classroom before I hear E.J.’s way too loud, “Yo, I thought you didn’t know him, Ms. W?”

“I don’t,” I finally say as steadily as possible. Managing the world’s fakest smile, I focus on my boss and ignore Mr. Bruised Ego beside him. “Good morning, sir. Is everything all right?” I make the mistake of looking directly into the sun. The smile Carter Barlowe flashes me is so bright it’s nearly blinding. He’s got to be here for a reason—whether that reason is me or this is purely coincidental, I’ve not a clue—but he’s incontrovertibly delighted with my obvious alarm at his surprise visit.

“Oh, yes. Everything is fantastic. Mr. Barlowe wanted a tour of the school and asked specifically for a visit to your classroom.”

“How nice of him.” I literally clench my teeth, pressing my tongue up against the backs of them to keep from adding a few extra words. The sarcastic comment hidden within my polite response isn’t lost on Carter as his smile grows. And even if it’s attached to his gorgeously symmetrical face, I still want to deck him in his perfect nose. He doesn’t need his face intact in order to work, he only throws a damn baseball around for a living.

“Can I get an autograph now?” E.J. asks, beginning to stand up of his desk.

“Stay in your seat, Ernest.”

All I need is to lose control of the class and have them swarm Principal Newman in an effort to get to Carter. Although, that might be a good plan to get him out of my classroom.

“How you gonna do me like that in front of my boy?” E.J. asks, shaking his head as he plops back on to his seat. Our agreement is I call him by his preferred nickname if he behaves in my class. And since he’s the ringleader, I really need him to listen.

Carter, on the other hand, looks like he’s not bothered by the disruption one bit. “I don’t mind signing some autographs while I’m here.”

“Can I get your phone number?” E.J. asks. I close my eyes, my fingers pressing against my temple momentarily before I look at my student. “What? I figured I’d shoot my shot. It’s Carter freakin’ Barlowe.”

Yes. I don’t need to be reminded. Again.

Carter walks over to E.J., cool and casual, as all eyes watch him. E.J. pulls out a Coyotes jersey that has Barlowe stamped on the back of it. He’d really been prepared.

“I’m E.J., not Ernest,” E.J. gives me an annoyed look before focusing back to Carter. “Man, you’re my favorite player ever. You’re the best the Coyotes—the league!—has ever had.” E.J. continues his starstruck rambling while Carter signs the jersey then leans in to pose for a selfie with E.J. before giving him a pat on the shoulder.

Carter pivots to the chair beside E.J. where a student holds out a notebook with a pleading look. As Carter signs it, Jackie says, “You and your dad are so awesome.”

“Cash Barlowe is a punk-ass bitch,” E.J. retorts with zero hesitation.

“Ernest—” I’m ready to lay into E.J. (in a professional and appropriate manner) but Carter holds up his hand, halting me.

There’s a slight smile peeking at Carter’s mouth. “Everyone is entitled to their own opinion.”

“Yep,” E.J. agrees.

I stand near E.J., wondering what will come out of his mouth next and pondering how Carter does this day in and out with a smile on his face. Though he moves efficiently (and charmingly, damn it) around my classroom, signing something for every single student, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to strangle him for showing up in the first place and “specifically” asking to visit my classroom.

When he’s made it to the last student, Principal Newman says, “We can continue the tour,” and gestures with an open hand to the door.

“I was hoping Ms. Whitlock could show me around,” Carter informs Mr. Newman.

Do not roll your eyes, Avery. Do not roll your eyes. I know for a fact not a thing changes on my face. There’s no way in hell I’ll give him the satisfaction. Unfortunately, I’m so focused on maintaining my expression that I feel my right hand form a tight fist unbidden. It happens for only a moment before I register the tension and relax it. But Carter’s perceptive eyes dart down—the man is used to reading the slightest of hand signals for a living, for crying out loud—and when his eyes meet mine again, I see recognition in them. Busted. Ugh.

“I can get someone to watch her classroom, not a problem,” Principal Newman appeases.

Him going out of his way to accommodate the star player rubs me completely the wrong way. No one else would be allowed to stroll onto campus and disrupt a teacher’s schedule.