Chapter 5 Darius
DARIUS
There’s an extra pep in my step as I leave my car in the Crossroads Elementary parking lot—not my typical mood on a Monday morning.
We won. Okay, technically, it was a tie, but we advanced to the New England finals in Hartford in just under two weeks.
As I scan the cars, I spot the navy Corolla with the “Grammar Police” bumper sticker, and my heart trips in my chest.
Harry.
After the game. The night in the hotel room.
The one bed I gladly accepted at check-in instead of arguing or asking for a rollaway cot.
My fingers wrapped around his blonde curls while I drove my cock between those beautiful lips.
The way he devoured my ass like he was starving for it.
How he sucked and finger fucked me until I blew my load in his mouth. Fuck.
My dick thickens in my track pants. This isn’t how I should be entering school. I pause at the giant metal door, taking a deep breath. Easy does it, boy.
Another inhale, and I enter, waving at Michele, the secretary who sits behind the window that opens to the entryway. As I head in to check my mailbox, she stops me.
“Coach Hill, I can’t believe the boys won! You must be over the moon.”
“Tied, Michele, tied.”
“But still.” Darnelle Stephen emerges from her open office door. “A tie means we advance to the finals.”
Leave it to the principal to be Pollyanna.
“This is true. Thanks to the peewee rules,” I reply.
“And I heard Mr. Peterson did a bang-up job.”
Something becomes lodged in my throat at the mention of Harry’s name and the word “job” in the same sentence, and I try and clear it, but I sound like there’s a lawn mower stuck in my throat.
“You all right there?” Michele asks as she grabs me a little plastic cup of water from the cooler near the copy machine.
“Yeah, all good. Blow-up job. Bang-up. Bang-up job,” I sputter out. “He did great.”
The image of Harry’s mouth taking me as he moaned flashes in my head, and I shake it away.
“Glad to hear it,” Darnelle says. “I had a feeling you two would figure out your differences.”
“Did we ever,” I mumble.
“Pardon?” Mrs. Stephen cocks an eyebrow, and I force a smile.
Get your damn act together, Darius.
“Nothing. He was great. Harry. Uh, Mr. Peterson. The kids love him.”
“Of course they do,” Michele says. “Everyone loves the English teacher. Love poems. Sonnets. Romeo and Juliet. What’s not to love?”
“Exactly,” I say, gulping down the tiny drink she’s given me. “Well, I’d better get going. It’s dodgeball day. Gotta gather the balls.”
The last bit of water gets stuck as I swallow, and a cough escapes. Now, I’m gagging . . . like Harry was Friday night while I fucked his face in the hotel room chair.
“Yeah, um, gotta go.” I squash the plastic cup in my hand and toss it into the trash, where it quickly spins around the rim before falling in.
In the hallway, my legs move on autopilot, taking me toward the gym. Teachers walk by. Some are on a mission, carrying papers and supplies, while others walk in pairs, chatting. People wave or say hello, but nobody’s really interested in befriending the PE teacher.
I’m lost in the moment, focused on making it to my safety zone, and I don’t register when my name echoes in the hallway.
“Coach.”
When I blink away my fog, I see him.
Blonde curls.
Brown eyes.
Plump lips.
Harry.
He’s with Ms. Wong, the music teacher—Christine, but I always call her Ms. Wong.
I call everyone by their honorific. Even the kids.
It’s just a subtle way to show respect. She’s wearing jeans and a colorful sweater with little bees and musical notes on it.
My uniform is a tracksuit in two colors—navy and gray. Hers is jeans and corny sweaters.
“Ms. Wong.” I nod. “Mr. Peterson.”
Harry’s eyes flick up to me, then away just as quickly. But in that moment—less than a second, if I were timing it—there’s something there.
When I woke up the following day, he was gone.
I found him downstairs, sitting with a table of boys avoiding their parents.
He was eating a dry English muffin while the kids devoured pancakes, waffles, and enough syrup to drown a moose.
We didn’t sit together on the bus ride back.
When I boarded, he was already sitting near the front, talking to Mr. Winchester, Tommy’s dad, about something that sounded vaguely like it had to do with books.
Reading. Writing. I don’t know, but I headed toward the back and sat with Johnny, still over the moon about his role in securing our spot in the finals.
But that look. I don’t care that he wasn’t there when I woke up.
Or that he chose to spend the bus ride with Tommy’s dad.
I know there’s something there. Here. Between us.
Harry’s brown eyes lock with mine, and before my brain has a chance to catch up, I blurt out, “Mr. Peterson, can I talk to you for a minute?”
He and Christine pause, and Harry’s eyes widen, waiting for me to continue.
“Not here. It’s about . . . a student. In my office, if you don’t mind.”
Christine glances at her watch and says, “You boys go huddle. Or whatever it’s called. I need to unpack the new boomwhackers.”
“See you at lunch,” Harry says to her, but I’m already headed toward the cafegymatorium, which is being set up for breakfast. The space smells like scrambled eggs and bacon, and I nod at the lunch ladies and head to the back corner where my office is nestled.
As I step inside, I move away from the door to let Harry in. I glide beside him, close the door, secure the lock, then grab his shirt and push him against the metal frame.
My lips are on his, and we’re right back in the hotel room. He’s inhaling, gasping for air, but also attempting to gulp my face down with it. All the avoidance. The ignored texts. All of it seems to vanish in the seven-by-nine-foot confines of my office.
Harry smells like something clean. Soapy. Laundry maybe? His hands are at my back, clutching me, grabbing, and oh shit, now they’re pawing at my ass. With no button, snap, or zipper, I could shimmy out of these track pants easily.
Harry pushes me so I’m against the door now, and he pulls back, peering at me with those deep brown eyes. There’s a loose curl covering his right eye, but he’s got me pinned, and I don’t dare try to move.
With a shake of his head, he silences my question, his mouth covering mine, his tongue pushing past my lips and into my mouth.
I’m caught off guard by his sudden move, but the intensity of his kiss quickly consumes me.
Our lips dance in a fervent tango, entangled with the yearning desire that’s built between us since the first day he walked into Crossroads.
Time seems to stand still as our tongues explore, teasing and tasting every inch of each other’s mouths.
Pinned against the door by Harry, words become unnecessary—the heat of our entwined bodies ignites something profound.
Okay, maybe it’s just our erections thrashing against each other as the custodian slams tables outside against the floor to prepare for students.
How did I ever doubt his feelings? His lips, they’re so damn soft, even as my scruff and his smooth, clean-shaven skin create friction. Harry Peterson might just be the man that ends my dry spell. Well, technically, more of a drought.
There’s a nip at my bottom lip, maybe a little harder than he meant, but hey, maybe Harry’s caught up in the moment. At this point, he could make me bleed and I wouldn’t care. Part of me wonders if we stayed hidden in my office, tucked in the back of the gym forever, if anyone would notice.
“Coach Hill,” he says, but he’s out of breath, panting.
He’s sexy as fuck.
“Stop.” He pulls back, wiping the saliva from his mouth. “We have to. Stop.” Harry points to his mouth, tracing his bottom lip. “This.”
“Of course.” My track jacket has become all askew from Harry’s roughhousing, and I adjust it. “Whatever you say, Harry.”
“Also, that. Why are you calling me Harry?”
“Because it’s your name.”
“In the four years I’ve been at Crossroads, you’ve literally never called me Harry. It’s always Mr. Peterson. Occasionally ‘Teach’ or ‘Bookworm,’ but Harry? Where is this coming from?”
“I thought you might prefer it. Your name. First name. Harry, um, Peterson, I’ll call you whatever you like.”
“Coach,” he says, walking to the corner of the room, but the baskets of rubber balls block his path.
“Darius,” I say. “Or Coach. Coach Hill. Whatever you prefer.”
He huffs and then sucks in a deep breath.
“We can’t do this. You. Me. What happened at the hotel was a mistake.”
And there it is. His words land like a missed shot, a ball bouncing off the rim, leaving the game unfinished.
“Oh.”
I don’t even realize it comes out of my mouth until it’s there, floating between us.
“That’s fine. I mean, sure, of course, if that’s what you want. Or don’t want, I suppose.”
I move my hand to the door, preparing to open it for him.
“I just can’t. With you. We can’t.”
I open my mouth to reply, but Harry interrupts me.
“This is what’s best.”
Harry moves toward the door. Me. But before I open it, letting him out, I ask, “Did I do something wrong?”
He closes his eyes, and I can hear the air escaping his nostrils.
“Never mind,” I say and open the door. “See you around, I guess.”
And that’s it. He walks out of my office, and the silence he leaves behind feels heavier than anything he could have said.