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speaking.
    â€œI’d like to go to Stanford because they’ve got a great engineering program and a super football team, too. I think I’m good enough to maybe go on a football scholarship . . . that is, if I can play again this year so the scouts can see me.”
    The boy looked back at Tom, full-face. The similarity was uncanny. Startling!
    Tom glanced away to disabuse himself of the preposterous notion. He reached across the desk. “Mind if I take a look at your class schedule?”
    Concentrating on the blue paper, he hoped that when he looked back up he’d believe he was mistaken. The boy had chosen a very heavy load: calculus, advanced chemistry, advanced physics, social studies, weight training, and honors English.
    Honors English . . . taught by Tom’s wife, Claire.
    His gaze remained lowered longer than necessary. It can’t be, it can’t be . But raising his eyes once again, he saw features too much like those he encountered in the mirror every morning—a long swarthy face wearing a deep summer tan, brown eyes with dark brows curving much like his own, an aquiline nose, a good, solid chin—faintly dimpled—and that tiny wedge of a cowlick he’d hated his whole life long.
    He shifted his attention to Monica, but she was studying her knees, her mouth drawn tight. He remembered how flustered she’d acted when they were introduced in the outeroffice, how she’d blushed. Sweet Jesus, if it was true, why wouldn’t she have told him seventeen, eighteen years ago?
    â€œWell, this . . .” Tom began, but his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. “This is an impressive schedule . . . tough courses. And football on top of that. Are you sure you can handle it all?”
    â€œI think so. I’ve always taken a heavy class load, and I’ve always been in sports.”
    â€œWhat kind of grades do you get?”
    â€œI have a three-point-eight average. Mom’s already told my old school to send my records, but I guess they haven’t gotten here yet.”
    Queer, zingy rivers were whizzing through Tom’s bloodstream as he rocked forward in his chair and spoke, hoping nothing showed on his face.
    â€œI like what I see, and I like what I hear, Kent. I think I want you to talk to Coach Gorman. The team has been practicing for two weeks already, but this should be the coach’s decision.”
    Monica spoke up, meeting Tom’s eyes directly for the first time since entering his office. She had regained her composure but her face remained impassive. If she had truly blushed before, she now exemplified a woman in control.
    â€œHe’s college-bound, one way or another,” she stated, “but if he doesn’t get a chance to play his senior year, you know what happens to his chances of getting a scholarship.”
    â€œI understand, and I’ll speak to Coach Gorman myself and ask that he get a tryout. Kent, do you think you could come down to the football field this afternoon at three? The team will be working out then and I can introduce you to the coach.”
    Kent glanced at his mother. She said, “I don’t see why not. You can take me back home and use the car.”
    â€œGood,” Tom said.
    At that moment Joan Berlatsky interrupted, thrusting her head around the doorway. “Excuse me, Tom. I forgot to tell Kent . . . we have a newcomers’ group that meets every week, Thursday morning before school. Nice way to get to know the kids, if you’re interested in joining it.”
    â€œThanks, I might.”
    When Joan disappeared, Tom rose, and the other two followed suit. “Well, Kent . . .” He extended his hand across the desk and Kent returned the handshake. At close range, appraising his dark good looks, touching him, Tom’s suspicion seemed even more believable. “Welcome to HHH. If there’s anything I can do to