Chapter 25 #2
Reluctantly releasing him, I step back. “Yeah, I could do with a drink.”
He takes my hand, pulling me inside. “Shit, ow!” I pull away.
Huxley’s eyes fall to my hand, the blood now drying. “What happened? Did you get in a fight with him? Please don’t tell me it was over me.”
“I got in a fight because he was being a homophobic prick.”
Huxley checks my other hand and then scans my face for any further injuries.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I punched him, but he didn’t punch me back. I’m not sure why. I apologised for hitting him.” I exhale slowly. “My mum is going to be so disappointed, but I just snapped.”
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
In the bathroom, Huxley wipes off the blood then applies some antiseptic cream. It fucking stings but I try not to wince. We barely speak, and I’m glad for the quiet to collect my thoughts.
Watching Huxley care for me with such tenderness hits me hard, right in the chest. I’m falling for him, and I’m falling hard. “Thank you,” I say as he wraps my knuckles in a light bandage.
“Go and lie down on my bed. I’ll get you a drink and an ice pack to help with the swelling.”
In Huxley’s bedroom, I remove my shoes then lie down on top of the doona. Fatigue is hitting hard, and my eyes drift shut. When Huxley returns, he lies down beside me, and places an ice pack over my knuckles. “Thanks,” I murmur.
“Oliver, are you sure you want this? Us? It could tear your family apart.”
The sadness in his voice is painful to hear.
I turn onto my side and look at him, gently brushing his cheek.
“I do want this, Hux. Please don’t worry, it will blow over.
If my brother can’t accept me, then that’s his choice.
Just like my choice is to be with you.” I press my mouth to his pretty lips.
“I want you, and I’m not giving you up just because my brother’s an asshole. ”
“Do you want to stay tonight? It’s getting late, and you look really tired.”
“Yeah, I’d like that. But I’ll need to get home early tomorrow to feed Cazaly.”
“I’ll set my alarm. What time?”
Sitting up, I take a few sips of the bourbon Huxley has placed on the bedside table. It burns, but it will help me sleep. “Better make it 5:00.”
We both head into the bathroom to pee and brush our teeth; Huxley pulls out a new toothbrush from his bathroom cabinet. Back in the bedroom, he helps me undress, even though I’m more than capable. It’s nice to be taken care of.
Under the covers, Huxley holds me close, fingers carding through my hair.
Never have I experienced what it feels like to be held by another man.
To let go and be vulnerable in this way.
All my emotions sit dangerously close to the surface.
But Huxley’s embrace keeps all of my pieces held safely together.
“Thank you for looking after me.” I lift my head and kiss Huxley with all the love in my heart. It’s impossible to deny anymore, but way too soon to speak aloud.
“Oliver, get some sleep, okay. You’ve been through a lot.”
I rest my head back on Huxley’s chest and close my eyes. The rhythm of his heart is steady and comforting. He continues to stroke my hair, and I allow myself to get lost in his touch, the warmth of his body, and the comfort of his scent. All my problems can wait until tomorrow.
The next morning, I find myself teaching on autopilot, my hand sore and stiff, a constant reminder of what happened.
But, more than that, my mind continually returns to Huxley.
Something shifted between us last night.
I’m not sure if it was because I let all my walls fall away or if it was spending the night without the expectation of sex.
Either way, I feel closer to Huxley now—something akin to need rather than just want.
I’d left his house at 5:30 AM with a passionate kiss on his doorstep, then checked in on him before class, and again at recess.
We spent lunch alone in my office, discussing plans for the weekend.
Huxley will watch the Friday afternoon footy game then we’ll spend the night at his place, followed by all day together on Saturday.
We had that conversation. The sex one. Huxley insists on preparing for me, so everything will be perfect for our first time.
I want this night so badly. Not just the act of sex itself, but the emotional connection of being inside him.
Perhaps it’s stupid toxic masculinity, but I want him to be mine. My heart and body ache for it.
After lunch, I consider how to deal with the Reece situation. I haven’t had the energy to call Mum and tell her, and she hasn’t contacted me. I can only assume Reece hasn’t been a fucking dibber dobber. Thank God. Maybe I’ll face that tomorrow.
By the time last period rolls around, the lack of sleep is catching up on me. To make matters worse, it’s a year twelve class.
I don’t even want to make eye contact with Jake. In fact, I doubt I’m capable of teaching these boys with impartiality. That’s how sick and tired I am of fucking homophobes. What happened to this generation doing better?
The session is focussed on general ball skills, with various activities set up around the oval. Every ten minutes, I blow the whistle and they rotate to the next skill. I move between groups, providing feedback and keeping the students focused.
I find myself zoning in on Jake and his buddies. Maybe I’m so fed up that I’m hoping one of them fucks up so I can release the anger that’s bubbling inside me.
And then it happens.
Jake says to Patrick, “Stop passing the ball like a limp-wristed little pussy.”
I barely manage to stop my mouth from curling into a smile as satisfaction rolls over me. Rightly, I should be more concerned about Patrick, but today, vengeance is in my veins.
“What did you just call Patrick?” I ask casually.
“Mr. Turner, it’s hard to do these drills properly when some people play like they’re gay. No offense, but why can’t you put all the boys from the footy team in one group for P.E?”
“Jake, do you remember the conversation I had with you and Troy a few weeks ago? When you lied in the locker room about using the f-slur?”
Jake screws up his face. “I didn’t use the f word, Mr. Turner.”
Troy wanders over, always ready to back up his mate.
“Oh, that’s right, it was Troy who used the f-slur. My mistake. But it doesn’t change how insulting you were to Patrick. Or that you’ve been homophobic to a teacher more than once, now does it?”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Come on coach, Patrick knows it’s just a joke.” Jake gestures to Patrick. “Don’t you Patty? You don’t care if I call you a pussy or gay, do you? Mr. Turner, you played sport, you know what it’s like on the field.”
“I do know what it’s like on the field, and I don’t agree with it. Apologise to Patrick.”
Jake throws his arms up. “Ah, come on, Mr. Turner.”
“Yeah, come on, coach,” Troy adds. “It was a joke. Patrick can take a joke.”
Patrick looks like he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
My patience is wearing thin, but I’m also hoping they take this too far. “Apologise now, or you’ll have after school detention for an hour. With me.”
The bell sounds and I turn to face the class, yelling out across the field. “Everyone else can head into the change rooms.”
“Fine,” Jake says. “I’m sorry for calling you a pussy, Patrick.”
Troy laughs as Patrick heads across the oval, head down and shoulders hunched.
It’s only then that it hits me that Patrick might be suffering just like Huxley did in high school.
The boy is small for his age, his nature soft and sweet.
I wouldn’t like to assume anything about his sexuality, and those characteristics have nothing to do with it, but it’s possible he’s not straight.
“Alright,” I say, turning back to Jake and Troy. “You two can pack up all the equipment on your own. You won’t be leaving until it’s stored properly in the equipment shed. Since you think being rude and offensive is so funny, let’s see how funny it is to clean up.”
The two of them whinge and moan as I walk away, and then I hear it.
“This shit all started because of that new faggot teacher.”
I turn and charge toward them, heart pounding like a drum. It takes all my self-control not to grab them by their shirts. “You’re both off the team!” I yell, pointing at Jake then Troy. “Suspended, effective immediately. Now get this stuff packed up.”
My vision blurs just like it did with my brother and it scares me.
I move quickly, heading off the field as the boys continue to object behind me.
I know there’ll be ramifications for my behaviour, but, right now, I just need to get away.
Huxley shouldn’t know or hear about this, but I’ll have to tell him.
He's catching up with Maddie tonight, so maybe I can wait until tomorrow to deliver the bad news.
The decision is partly taken out of my hands when I enter my office and find Huxley sitting on my desk. He immediately clocks the state I’m in: short of breath and face flaming red.
“Oli, what’s wrong? Sit down. Let me get you some water.”
He guides me to a chair then passes me my water bottle. I scull it down, then attempt to slow my heart rate with controlled breaths.
As the anger subsides, tears prick at my eyes, some far worse emotion rising to take its place. “I don’t want to tell you.”
Huxley squeezes my shoulder. I’m grateful he’s calm. “Let me guess? More Jake drama? You just had the year twelves, didn’t you?”
“Jake and Troy were picking on Patrick, calling him limp-wristed and a pussy. I kicked them off the team. I’m not having boys like that on my team. I refuse to. Doesn’t matter how good they are.” I look up at Huxley, who’s seated on the edge of my desk.
“You did the right thing. You know Jake’s dad will intervene, but you still did the right thing.”