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“But it’s a school. We’re a school. We’ve got the only library for twenty miles.” Josh rubbed his eyes. The Hamilton High library had been his safe haven most of his teenage years. He’d spent hours and hours curled up in there trying to make sense of his world. He’d crammed for tests and written every paper in those kiosks. He shook his head in impotent disgust. “Idiots.”

“Well, last night they axed the library budget. Meredith and Stan will work through end of term, but then… pfft.” He opened his fingers like the librarians were evaporating before his eyes.

Josh nodded, his mind churning and his stomach in knots. What was Carver working up to? “It’s a crusade, Phil. Next thing they’ll want to shutter the whole school.”

“Oh, I don’t think they’re that crazy.” Carver sighed, folding his hands on the desk. He leaned back in his chair, clicking and reclicking his pen again. “Tyler Fantana doing okay with the facilities?”

Even hearing the name made him smile. “Oh yeah. Tyler’s recovery is… slow but steady. He’s… uh—” Josh froze. He didn’t want his face to give anything private away, so he pivoted. “An NFL pro around the place? I got kids who never played so much as Ping-Pong volunteering around the gym, but fame makes people nuts. Makes my job a heck of a lot easier.”

“Love it.” Obviously Carver was circling to something else. “So he has a way with a crowd.”

“Like you can’t imagine.” Josh shrugged. “At a minimum, litter is down, and everyone’s suddenly started washing their gym clothes more often. Win-win from where I’m sitting.”

Carver laughed. “Having an MVP defending literacy and diversity might make a difference. He’s beloved around here. A real hometown hero.”

So that was it. Carver hoped their homegrown NFL star would run library interference before the clock ran out. Except tight ends are offense.

“Tyler’s still recovering, sir,” he said gently. “I’m not sure he’s ready to step into the spotlight.”

“If he’s feeling grateful, a few well-placed interviews, some op-eds… could keep our library open.”

Josh shifted his weight, considering. He wanted to keep Tyler from getting snagged in this local mess. He’d been staying out of the limelight since he’d come home. Last thing Tyler needed was local drama. But Carver made an excellent point: a famous local who was not exactly straight, not exactly white. Tyler’s support might turn the tide.

Josh’s phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. “My gym class. I should get going.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“I don’t want to overstep,” Carver began. “But the one and only Captain Fantastic might remind this town what matters. And what shouldn’t.”

He didn’t come right out and say, We’re both minorities, but the unspoken danger seemed palpable.

“Agree, sir.” Josh had never dragged his personal life into the school, but there are no secrets in a small town. He met Carver’s eyes. “I’ll see where he’s at, but I don’t want to push.”

Carver clapped Josh on the back. “I appreciate it.”

Josh took a deep breath as he left Carver’s office and then navigated the halls back toward the gym, his mind muddled and messy. Despite his reservations, Josh had to try.

Tyler would be there at sunup. Josh just had to figure a way to broach the subject.

A whistle pierced the air and a couple of Josh’s students came bounding up to him, breaking his train of thought. A short boy named Miguel said, “Yo, Coach, for real. I thought I was late.”

Josh laughed and bobbed his head. “Then I better hustle, huh?” The junior coach was already taking attendance and herding the kids toward the doors.

“We going to start class or what?” asked DeSean, balancing a football on his index finger.

Josh squared his shoulders, back in coach mode. “Sorry, gentlemen, be right there.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He swung by his desk to change his sweaty shirt and then trotted out to the field. As he stepped outside, the afternoon sun momentarily blinded him.

He could do this. For the team, for his town, for himself.

Chapter Five

AFTER TWO weeks of meeting Josh each morning, Tyler had slipped into a routine that got him up while the moon still hung over the streets of Cinnamar.

Barely pausing to turn on a light, he’d shower, shave, and pull on running shorts and one of the baggy T-shirts he usually kept for off-season training camp.

Keeping quiet, he’d head to the kitchen, accompanied by Mr. Poops.

The marmalade tabby had nominated himself as Tyler’s sous chef but in actuality wasn’t much more than a warm, squeaky kibble addict who demanded food first and then rewarded him by rolling around on his back and watching with huge, devoted orange eyes as Tyler cooked and fed himself woefully healthy food.