Just This Once (The Kings)

“Miss Ward! Michael shoved my pencil up his nose, and now there’s snot on my math page.”

I paused, my nostrils flaring to stifle a grin, and turned to Samantha. “Michael shoved your pencil up his nose and you continued to use it?”

The redhead pouted. “Well, it’s my pencil and I have the right to⁠—”

I held up one hand. I swear, some days it feels like first grade instead of sixth . . .

“Okay. It’s all right. Why don’t you get a fresh pencil from the jar and throw Michael’s booger pencil in the trash.”

An incredulous look twisted her round features. “But it’s a brand-new pencil. That seems awfully wasteful . . . are you okay with killing more trees?”

I blinked and offered her a gentle smile. “I think, just this once, we can sacrifice one fresh pencil.”

She scowled but stood from her desk and walked to pitch her pencil into a nearby trash can. I turned back to my class, thankful Samantha’s newfound righteousness hadn’t escalated further—any other day she might have prepared a full-on protest.

I pressed the button at the corner of my desk, letting a doorbell chime ring out to alert my students. “Remember to manage your independent work time well. I will need group four in the back with your writer’s notebook and a pencil.” I raised an eyebrow in Michael’s direction. “A clean one.”

He blushed and gathered his supplies and headed toward the bean-shaped table in the back of the room. I smiled at the young man’s back. With his floppy, unruly brown curls, Michael was one of those students who was tenderhearted, but full of mischief.

In my short time as their teacher, I had grown to feel affection for all my students. A few managed to hold a special spot in my heart, and Michael, with his mischievous grin, was one of them.

Time slowed as Michael stumbled on his way to the back of the classroom. His sneakers squeaked, and his hand landed on the corner of Talisha’s desk before slipping from it. He crumpled to the floor.

My eyes immediately locked with Michael’s health services assistant. “Get the nurse.”

With a calm and commanding voice, I instructed my students: “Class, please line up outside of the classroom in the hallway immediately. Just like we discussed. Everything is fine.”

Inside, everything was not fine.

Michael had documented medical concerns, including a history of seizures. According to his parents, who were lovely at his last meeting, he hadn’t suffered from a seizure in over a year.

They were hopeful that his new medication would be a turning point in regaining some of his independence in the classroom. Being a preteen with a nurse following you around all the time had taken a toll on Michael’s social standing.

I sucked a harsh breath through my nose as my mind went to work, and I stripped off my cardigan. I knew his seizure care plan backward and forward, and my body took over, positioning his head on top of my cardigan to keep him safe as I watched the clock to approximate the length of this episode.

Within moments the school nurse and health-care aide were at my side. The nurse’s eyes met mine, and I grimly shook my head. “It’s getting close. One minute forty-five.”

I looked on helplessly as the seizure racked Michael’s young body. As a part of his care plan in the event of a grand mal seizure, emergency services were to be called if his episode lasted longer than three minutes.

In so many situations three minutes feels like the blink of an eye—laughing over cocktails with friends, watching a sunset wrapped in your lover’s embrace, a day on the beach where warm sunshine heats your skin.

Three minutes.

I watched helplessly as three minutes felt like three days. Michael’s health-care aide stood at my desk with the phone in her hand, prepared to make the call.

I stared at the clock as the seconds ticked by. “It’s too long. Call it.”

She punched the final number to alert emergency services as we waited. Relief that medical professionals would be on their way to help him washed over me. I instructed Michael’s care aide to bring the rest of the classroom to the library. I’d likely get an earful from the crusty old librarian, but I was attempting to provide Michael a sliver of dignity.

Thankfully Outtatowner was small enough that the whine of ambulance sirens in the distance came quickly. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as we waited.

My jaw dropped open when Whip King surged through the doorway with a commanding authority. Two emergency medical service workers, a man and a woman, followed closely behind him with a stretcher. Our eyes locked without even a flicker of recognition crossing his handsome features.

A mixture of relief and surprise filled my chest. Whip’s attention was focused solely on his patient. He surged forward, pushing desks aside as he got closer. His navy tactical pants and short-sleeved shirt strained against his muscles. Whip crouched to assess Michael. Only inches away, I studied his profile as his gaze moved over Michael in what I could only assume was standard protocol to assess the boy’s breathing.

My eyes squeezed shut. Please help him.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw how Whip’s every movement was confident and assertive. It was clear he was calm amid the chaos as he worked swiftly. He clearly communicated with his team, instructing them on exactly what he needed, and they followed his orders without hesitation. His fingertips gently swept back a strand of hair from Michael’s face, and my heart seized.

Another EMT slid a pad under Michael’s head, replacing my cardigan.

“Skin coloration and airways look good.”

I wasn’t sure if Whip was talking to me or his crew, but I nodded anyway. The medical team continued checking his vitals as Michael’s body slowly calmed.

“Did he hit his head?” Whip stared at Michael but was asking me.noveldrama

“It’s possible. He fell pretty hard.”

The team continued their treatment as we looked on helplessly. Michael’s mother had arrived at the school, and despite her experience with his seizures, tears streamed down her face.

Mrs. Marsh knelt beside her son and gripped his limp hand. I stood, giving a mother her moment with her child. The school nurse and Michael’s health-care aide flanked me.

“He’ll be fine.” The confidence in my voice was hollow.

We stood as helpless observers as Michael emerged from the haze of his seizure. Whip and his mother helped him to a sitting position. Whip examined his head for tender spots. Michael had wet himself and slumped against his mother. Tears burned my nose as I moved to the coat closet in my classroom. I always kept a few sets of spare sweats and T-shirts on hand for the odd spilled lunch or muddy football debacle.

I gently placed a folded pair of spare sweatpants next to her. Tears shimmered in Mrs. Marsh’s eyes. “Thank you.”

A firm nod was all I could offer her. I was confident my voice would be thick with emotion. I turned and cleared my throat, discreetly patting the wet corners of my eyes.

“This is yours.” Whip’s deep rumble startled me, and I turned to him.

His clear blue eyes pinned me in place. Stunned, I searched for any ounce of recognition, but his features were hard and unmoving. I glanced over his shoulder, and Mrs. Marsh had stood with Michael, her arm wrapped around her son as the other EMTs chatted with her. Michael was nearly as tall as his mother, but in the aftermath of his seizure he looked slight and fragile.

Refocusing on the man in front of me, my eyes dropped to the cardigan in his hand.

When I reached for it, our fingers grazed, and electricity crackled across my palm and up my forearm. I tucked the cardigan under my arm as I folded them across my chest.

No recognition. Nothing. He doesn’t remember me.

“Thank you.” I couldn’t even look at him. The single hottest night of my life and I was completely forgettable. I wanted to fold in on myself and dissolve before having to face him again.

Whip pulled a pen from his uniform and lifted the clipboard in his other hand. “He’ll be released to his mother.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

Without another word, Whip and his team strode out of the doorway and out of my life for good.