SAM WROTE HIS name on the whiteboard, wincing when the dry-erase pen squeaked across the polished surface.
He recapped the pen. “Sorry, and I hate to admit it, but that happens all the time.”
“It’s because you’re left-handed,” said the student sitting nearest the door. “Left-handers hold things...weird.”
The female cadet beside him knocked on her desk. “It’s weirdly,” she said, “not weird.”
For the moment, Sam was more interested in the left-hander than proper grammar.
“Yeah, yeah,” the student said. “I was with the ditzy blonde on Monday.”
Sam had lucked into a slot on Open Mic Night at the Bluebird Café, a lifetime dream made more fantastic when the crowd had stood to cheer the song he’d written and performed. Amid the applause and whistles, a cute woman had climbed onstage and wrapped him in a hug that belied her size...while her wide-eyed date had looked more stunned than Sam felt.
“When the lieutenant straps on a guitar, he turns into a babe magnet.” The student smirked. “My girlfriend says it’s all his fault that she clung to him like a plastic wrap.”
Laughter traveled through the room, and Sam felt the beginnings of a blush creeping into his cheeks.
The young woman piped up. “Wait. You got a standing O at the Bluebird?” She flipped a copper-red braid over her shoulder. “That’s one tough crowd, so...” She frowned slightly. “If you’re that good, why are you here?”
Much as Sam loved the department, he’d trade his badge for a guitar in a heartbeat...if he thought for a minute he could survive on a musician’s salary.
“Somebody’s got to teach you bunch of knuckleheads how to get cats out of trees.”
His students snickered.
“Fair warning—laughing at my bad jokes won’t earn you extra credit, but showing up on time might.” He dropped the pen on to the chalk ledge. “Any questions before we get started?”
“Were you injured putting out a fire?” the redhead wanted to know.
A flash of memory took him back to that night when the ceiling literally caved in on him, and he believed life as he’d known it was over.
“You know, your limp?” she continued when Sam didn’t say anything. “Is that muscle or bone damage?”
She looked a little like Sophie—the only Marshall in generations born with auburn hair and brown eyes. Sam hoped the resemblance was purely physical, because his youngest sister’s questions could drive a Tibetan monk to drink.
“What’s your name, cadet?”
“Jasmine Epps, Captain.” She sat at attention. “If I graduate, I’ll be the first woman in my family to become a firefighter.” She lifted her chin. “And there are a lot of firefighters in the Epps family.”
Anyone who’d ever walked the long hallway down at headquarters recognized the name. But it didn’t matter. For her sake and safety, Sam needed her to understand that her name would not buy preferential treatment, and that included off-track interruptions and distractions.
He straightened to his full six-foot height. “I’m here for the same reason you are,” he said, addressing the entire class. “To whip you into mental and physical shape to become firefighters. And we only have three months to get the job done. You’re all equals in here, so I’m not going to waste time worrying about the balance of male versus female pronouns.” He met Epps’s eyes. “You okay with that, recruit?”
“Yessir, Captain Marshall.” She giggled quietly.