First to Fail: A Strictly Professional Romance (Unraveled Book 3) Read online

  “And you know that unnatural hair colors are against Preston Academy’s dress code.”

  “The color blue is found in the wild.”

  “You’re not a macaw.”

  Jaycee’s lips twitched. Seeing the humor in the situation wasn’t a bad thing, but Jaycee hadn’t taken the effects of her actions into consideration. Her hair session had been all about Jaycee and no one else.

  “You’re going to be suspended for three days.” I fortified myself against Jaycee’s reaction.

  “Cool.” Not even a hint of regret resonated in Jaycee’s voice.

  “Don’t you want to go to school here?”

  The answer rippled over Jaycee’s youthful features. She didn’t want to go to school here, and she barely covered her relief at the suspension.

  “Why not?” I leaned over my desk.

  She didn’t answer. Her lips were pursed, her arms crossed in front of her chest. But her hair was cute. If I didn’t have to worry about a dress code, I could chuck my itchy wigs and experiment with colors for cosplay.

  “Jaycee, you just started high school. Thanksgiving break will be here in a few weeks, then Christmas break shortly after that. Take each school year by chunks. I promise that graduating will be worth it.”

  “Ooh, I’ll have a diploma that says I can follow the rules and nothing else. I can apply to college and show I can get passing grades but have no athletic talent whatsoever. They’ll be lining up to let me in.”

  The girl’s tone should irk me, but the message underneath was too important. “What about your drawing?”

  Jaycee frowned. “How’d you know about my art?”

  My chest constricted. My mind flashed to being wrapped in Chris’s arms. How was I going to explain this?

  “It’s my job to know things about students.” That was the biggest pile of crap I’d ever shoveled. Would Jaycee buy it?

  “Lot of good it does me.” Jaycee’s gaze slid out the window, where the gray overcast sky should be the same color blue as the girl’s hair. “Do you know that there is not one single art class available? But we have to take phys ed—for both semesters each year. And play flag football,” she finished bitterly.

  I sat back and assessed her. It wasn’t often that a kid wasn’t a good fit for the school. Brains and brawn were treasured more at Preston Academy than artistic skills, and parents tended to raise their kids in their image. Ceramics wouldn’t conquer Wall Street.

  And even if I wanted to add alternative programming with the argument that it molded well-rounded students? There wasn’t the money. Offering ten full-ride scholarships to football players, another five to basketball players, and three more for track stars cut into the budget. All the teachers were paid more than in public schools, with the sought-after health insurance and retirement perks to go with it. It was critical to retaining excellent staff.

  But it wasn’t the scholarships sinking the school. Investing in the students wasn’t where my concerns were. It was the expectations placed on the large donations from alumni and current families. I had to plan for the drop in contributions when I dropped Thor’s hammer on the spending funneled into the sports programs.

  Arguing that touchdowns didn’t conquer Wall Street was as welcome as the Death Star was to Alderon.

  Was Jaycee the only student feeling the pressure, or just the only one fearless enough to say it? Punishing her and telling her to suck it up seemed counterintuitive to helping her grow into adulthood.

  “Tell you what.” My mind reeled through possibilities and my own excitement increased. What would Jaycee think? “While you’re suspended for the next three days, research what other schools do for their art programs. Types of classes, a club versus a course, and if you’re ambitious, the cost of each option.”

  Jaycee’s mouth set in a troubled line. “That sounds like a lot of work for it to end up just another stack of paper on your desk.”

  I scanned my desktop. The wide computer screen and keyboard were set to the side and five ordered piles of paper filled the rest.

  I tapped a finger on the closest pile. “Health insurance plans.” I moved to a new pile with each description. “Performance evals. Continuing ed options for the staff. School year calendars for each school in the district. And everyone’s favorite, pay sheets.”

  “I thought you were like, a teacher or something.”

  “In many schools, the principal is a teacher, not that they do much teaching when they reach the office. Preston Academy is a bit different. I’m still a trained educator, but my function is more administrative.”

  Her gaze landed on the papers. “You’ll really consider it?”

  “The school board has the final approval. I can’t promise anything.” I hesitated with my next thought, but it wouldn’t be fair to falsely raise her hopes. “I’ll be honest. It’ll be a hard sell. That field isn’t a priority to the families that send their kids here. But coming armed with data is the first step.”

  “All right. I’ll do it. If only to show the school board that this place is lame.”

  “Sometimes the motivation isn’t as important as the outcome.”

  Jaycee raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Getting deep there, Shaw—Ms. Shaw.”

  “Nice save.” I sought out the phone on my desk like it was a phaser set to kill. “Why don’t you wait out in the main office while I call your dad.”

  I waited until Jaycee walked out before dialing so the girl didn’t notice that I knew his number by heart.

  Chapter 7

  Chris

  I locked up the store. My Saturday to work, and I’d spent the whole day waiting for Natalia to wander in like she had a month ago.

  Jaycee was with her grandparents. Neither one of us had told Nana and Papa about her suspension. My elation at hearing Natalia’s voice on the other end of the line that day had crashed like Kal-El’s spaceship.

  But Jaycee had thrived under the punishment, spending each day on the phone to various schools.

  Dad, did you know that studies show art education can improve students’ entire high school performance?

  Look at this place. The whole school is built around the arts. Dance, drama, visual arts.

  I wonder if a summer program would work for Preston.

  I hadn’t seen my daughter this fired up since Cierra had enrolled her in a summer art program. Jaycee had loved every minute while my heart had broken. Cierra had only put Jaycee in that place so she wouldn’t have to deal with her daughter.

  I was wandering back to the register to cash out and do end-of-shift paperwork when my gaze caught on the Minneapolis Mean Streaks flyer. I’d looked up their website—and every social media site they could possibly create. For reasons.

  Their season hadn’t started yet, but they did clinics and recruiting workshops.

  A date snagged my attention. Tonight, they were having a special holiday scrimmage against the St. Paul Pinup Punchers as a fund-raiser.

  How stalkerish would it be to show up there? It’s not like I had anything else going on.

  I thought about it while wrapping up my paperwork and storing the cash in the safe. It wasn’t like Natalia had to know I was there. And I was insatiably curious to see how Shaw Shank dressed for roller battle.

  Once I closed the store, I trotted to my vehicle and climbed in. Glancing down at my jeans and red T-shirt with a lightning bolt, I shrugged. Pretty sure I’d blend.

  I was across town within minutes, the traffic sparse this time of night, and Arcadia wasn’t far from the community center.

  More cars lined the lot than I’d expected. I searched for Natalia’s. What if she wasn’t here? At least I’d have something new to tell Jaycee.

  So wild, Dad.

  The aged brick building looked like two square boxes shoved together. One was smaller and probably housed offices. People were filing into the other one through two white double doors.

  Young girls disappeared inside dressed like Jaycee usually did when she
wasn’t in her school uniform, their shoes brighter than the rest of their subdued outfits. And their hair was colored like Jaycee’s had been the day Natalia had called me. One girl’s was short, purple, and shaved on one side. Another girl’s hair was pitch black and spiky.

  Would Natalia have suspended Jaycee over pitch black? It was a natural color.

  I tried not to be bitter. Some of Preston Academy’s rules were outdated, but they hadn’t been changed—yet.

  Just like their course curriculum. Outdated. Created when all things male and athletic were thought to be the determining factors for success.

  I wandered through the doors and stopped to pay the attendant with a black star painted over her eye and a two-tone ponytail. I handed her a twenty. She smacked her gum and gave me a smile that would’ve given me pause if I were here for anyone other than an uptight rule-follower-slash-assassin.

  She gave me a ten-dollar bill back. “The children’s hospital thanks you for your donation.” Cocking her head, her gaze landed on my shirt. “The Flash, huh? We like fast guys here.”

  I chuckled and walked away. The more she talked, the younger she seemed. She was probably still in her twenties, but the gap between us could just as well be decades.

  And I wasn’t fast when it counted.

  People milled around the corridor outside the arena. The buttery smell of popcorn filled the air, and next to the last entrance into the gym was a stand full of souvenirs. The game wasn’t supposed to start for fifteen minutes and it wasn’t going to be a full house. I went to the table. Christmas tree ornaments of gold and silver roller skates hung from a three-foot tree. A couple skates had the Mean Streaks’ logo painted on them. I marveled over the crafting.

  The rest of the table was littered with eye patches in a variety of shapes and colors, crazy hair ties that would get Jaycee expelled from school, and face-paint kits—also with the derby team logos.

  I bought a few scrunchies for Jaycee’s Christmas stocking, and to show Mara for ideas of what to bring into the store. Arcadia could carry items like these from local events and use it as a promotional gimmick. Win-win for both parties.

  There. I was thinking about work. Now I didn’t feel like a creeper hunting down a woman who’d told me we shouldn’t see each other.

  I entered the gym. Music thumped from a pair of speakers anchored on the opposite wall. The lights were dim, but the rink set up in the center was under spotlights. The bleachers on either side were half filled. Add in the people outside the gym and it was a respectable turnout.

  I scanned for the skaters, but only a few young women were working the crowd, handing out pamphlets and interacting with the kids. A video screen in the middle played clips from previous games. I chose a seat on the end of a row in case Natalia spotted me and looked horrified.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Jaycee. Nana’s not feeling good.

  I replied, Papa, too?

  Out for the night. Mom picked me up and brought me back for supper.

  How’d it go?

  U know. It’s Mom.

  As long as Jaycee kept communication open, I wouldn’t worry. She was talking about it even if she wasn’t diving down deep into her feelings. Except she hadn’t mentioned Dresden since they’d both gotten detention. Was she seriously interested in the kid?

  God, I hoped not. It didn’t matter what Dresden was like. His parents were the issue. I didn’t want Jaycee to repeat my history.

  My phone vibrated again. Supposed to snow tomorrow night.

  She must be really bored. I heard.

  She didn’t text back, and I was staring at my screen when the lights blinked off. The family next to me broke into applause.

  The rumble of several pairs of skates on hardwood echoed through the bleachers. The lights flicked on. One of the women who had been roaming the crowd was now in the middle of the rink with a microphone.

  Applause broke out around me and I joined in. My heartbeat kicked up a notch.

  Where was Natalia?

  The first team introduced was the visiting team, the Pinup Punchers. I clapped and laughed with the crowd at the players’ names. The whole team had their hair tucked and curled like pinup models, and they all wore a combo of yellow-and-black tops and skirts, all with the same 1940s calendar-girl style. But their face paint made them unique. Some had bloodred or black lips, others had black lines under their eyes like football players, and others had yellow eye shadow. Their elbow- and kneepads were black, but their shin socks were striped with both colors. Yet none of them came off as looking like a bumblebee.

  Introductions over, they smashed their black-and-yellow helmets on their heads and skated to the side. The age range surprised me—some as young as the attendant to women that were older than me.

  “All right, all you nice people,” the announcer hollered. “Time to introduce you to the Mean Streaks!”

  I clapped with the crowd, but I was searching for one woman only. As their names were called off, each skater broke away from the pack in a dim corner on the other end of the gym and skated a lap around the track.

  The Mean Streaks wore black fitted tank tops and leggings or tights—some fishnet. Most skaters had streaks of color painted up and down their arms and across their faces. The helmets were black with the same slashes of color and their safety pads were red.

  Five names were called before Shaw Shank.

  Natalia skated out and I wanted to run to the side of the rink for a closer look. Her team cheered and whistled. The look on her face was all Ms. Shaw.

  But her body was all Valaria. Toned legs were hidden by webbed tights that weren’t exactly fishnet but were a lacy pattern that summoned the memory of her on my couch. Her tank top was fitted and the muscles that filled out her Valaria costume were on display.

  If I hadn’t known her skating name, I might’ve recognized her on sex appeal alone. But her hair was braided, her eyes were rimmed with black makeup, and her lips were sexpot red. She also sported a purple-and-yellow smear of color on each cheek.

  I grinned the first ten minutes of the game. Natalia wasn’t as experienced of a skater as some on her team, but she was fearless, her face a mask of determination. Each time she skated by during her jam, her mouth was set in a hard line, her lips were rounded out from her mouth guard, and her eyes flashed with intent. I had to search roller derby rules on my phone to understand what was going on. She was a blocker, trying to keep the jammer from scoring by passing opposing team members.

  My smile faded when Natalia was knocked down by a Pinup Puncher, Lauren PenaltyCall. Natalia hit her knees but popped back up. The aggressiveness of the sport wasn’t lost on me, but it was different when it was someone I cared about.

  How many players broke bones?

  The rest of the game I white-knuckled through, cheering when others around me did. The player that butted Natalia out of bounds had continued to target her.

  Shaw Shank was going to be sore in the morning.

  Relaxing when Natalia sat out a jam, I glanced at the time clock. The game was almost over. Would I be able to track down Natalia when she was done?

  Would she want me to?

  In the final jam, Natalia was back in play. So was Lauren PenaltyCall. I sat forward, my hands fisted in my lap. The intent was clear in Lauren PenaltyCall’s narrowed eyes. They made one lap around, the breeze from their passing blowing across my face. The section closest to the rink, the suicide section, cheered each time the skaters raced past.

  I eyed the clock. Two more minutes left. Natalia had already deflected an elbow and zipped around a skate meant to trip her. Where was a ref when you needed one?

  My heart pounded. The teams were neck and neck. Had my parents felt this way? I’d caught an elbow to the face in a couple of basketball games, but it was nothing like this. Jaycee didn’t play sports and I hadn’t gone to any games since I’d quit playing in college.

  The jammer for the Pinup Punchers was darting around Natalia when Lauren
PenaltyCall moved in to block her. Only the woman’s skates tangled with another player’s and she flailed to the floor. Natalia tried to jump over her, but Lauren PenaltyCall was still rolling. I rose, already jumping down the stands, when Natalia hit the floor, the crack of her helmet echoing across the gym.

  Collective gasps rang through my bones and the lights were flipped on.

  Women were already at Natalia’s side, the group so thick I couldn’t push between them.

  “She all right?” I called, but no one paid me heed.

  The group backed off, pushing me farther away. Musky sweat mingling with perfume surrounded me as I tried to shove my way past.

  Curious glances were thrown my way, but I ignored them until I made it to Natalia’s side. I dropped to my knees next to a man and woman, both wearing a white shirt and navy-blue medic pants. EMTs.

  Natalia was flat on her back, blinking at the woman. “Yes, I remember my name. Let me back in the game.”

  I couldn’t hear the woman’s reply, but Natalia waved her off and surged to a sitting position. She scrunched her face up and rubbed her neck. “Oof. That hit was harder than I thought.”

  “You really should get checked out,” the male EMT said, but Natalia shrugged.

  “I had my helmet.” She knocked lightly on the headgear and winced. She unhooked the chin strap and took the helmet off. Her gaze landed on me and she frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  I was about to answer when the EMT interjected with more questions. I didn’t leave her side as they moved her farther away from the rink since she stalwartly refused medical care.

  A woman who must be in charge of the Mean Streaks skated up after murmuring with the female medic. Her helmet read Thriller Killer. “Do you at least have someone to hang out with you for a while?”

  Natalia’s gaze strayed to me and I quirked a brow. When she didn’t dismiss me, I dipped my head.

  “Yes,” she grumbled. As she slowly skated the perimeter of the gym, the crowd cheered. She grinned and waved, but she couldn’t hide the tension in her face from me. She was hurting.