Page 2 of Checking All Her Notes
He stares at the broken window, then at me, then at the seven small children currently peeking out from behind the piano like prairie dogs.
“Sorry about that,” he mutters in a voice so low it could shake the piano.
Dad raises and eyebrow as he looks over at his player. “He’ll help you clean this up.”
“Coach, I should get back to—” Jude starts, shifting his weight. His skates are still on. I can hear the blade guards scraping against the linoleum.
“Practice can wait five minutes.” My dad claps him on the shoulder with enough force to stagger a normal human. Jude doesn’t move. Doesn’t even sway. “Consider it community service and then you’ll be off the hook.”
“Dad,” I say, using my warning voice.
“Soph.” He winks at me. Actually winks.
Then my father, the man who taught me to ride a bike and tie my shoes, abandons me with the man who nearly took out my treble clef chart and possibly one of my students.
The door clicks shut behind him.
The children stare. I stare. Jude looks like he’s considering whether jumping back through the busted window might be less painful than this conversation.
“So,” I say, brushing glass dust off my cardigan. “Quite an entrance.”
He grunts. Actually grunts.
I cross my arms and tilt my head, studying the damage. “You know, most people bring flowers to make introductions. Maybe a fruit basket. I’ve even heard of people saying something.”
“Puck’s faster,” he says, already moving toward the supply closet where we keep the broom.
His tone is so deadpan I genuinely can’t tell if he’s joking. His expression doesn’t change. Not even a flicker. I’m starting to think his face might actually be frozen that way. Maybe it’s a hockey thing. Maybe they train the emotion right out of them.
He opens the closet, scans the contents, and retrieves the broom and dustpan. Both look comically small in his hands. He’s still wearing his gloves, the big padded kind that make his hands look like bear paws.
“You might want to take those off,” I suggest. “Unless you’re planning to sweep in full gear.”
He looks down at his gloves like he forgot he was wearing them. Then he tucks the broom under his arm, yanks off the gloves one at a time with his teeth, and shoves them into his helmet.
It’s oddly practical and somehow more attractive than it has any right to be.
Focus, Sophie.
“Kids,” I say, turning to my students who are watching this unfold like it’s better than TV. “Why don’t you practice your scales? Quietly.”
As I help Jude sweep, the kids whisper behind the piano. Not even subtle whispers. The loud kind where they’re clearly hoping we hear them.
“He’s really big,” Emma stage-whispers.
“Like giant big,” Lily adds. At least I think it’s Lily. The blue shirt’s partially hidden behind the piano bench.
“Do you think he could pick up Miss Kessler with one hand?” Rusty asks, far too loudly.
My face heats. “Scales, people. Now.”
A cacophony of notes fills the room, none of them remotely in unison.
Jude glances at the children like they’re wild animals he hasn’t been trained to handle. His jaw tightens. I notice he’s gota good jaw. Strong. The kind that probably looks great in profile on hockey cards.
Stop it, Sophie.
“So you’re the new guy,” I say, crouching down to hold the dustpan steady while he sweeps.
