Chapter 10 Harry
HARRY
“He brought skates for you?”
“He did. It was . . . sweet.”
Christine and I may have finished with this year’s musical, but we typically begin planning for next year immediately after.
It gives us an excuse to eat lunch in one of our rooms a couple days a week and talk about topics we typically wouldn’t in the teacher’s lounge.
Today, we’re in my classroom, and she’s brought a tub of her homemade coconut chocolate chip cookies.
“Honestly, Harry. You and Coach Hill hooking up was not on my bingo card.”
Christine’s black hair is pulled up into a high ponytail. I’m not entirely sure how it stays up, but there’s always at least one pencil sticking out of it, sometimes two.
“To be fair, it wasn’t on mine either.” I take a bite of the turkey sandwich I made this morning and wish it was a melt from Sammy’s.
“He brought me lunch.” I scoot back from the kidney-shaped table and cross my legs.
“Darius Hill made that pathetic dry-ass turkey sandwich for you?” Her hair shakes in perpetual motion as she tilts her head.
“No, no. I made this. He saved the day last week when I forgot my lunch. I didn’t have time to shop over the weekend.”
“Because you were exhausted from your sexy hotel romp with the hot, awful, but maybe not-so-awful-anymore PE teacher-slash-hockey coach.”
“Exactly.” I abandon my sandwich for the bag of salt and vinegar chips. “And the jury’s still out. I’m proceeding with extreme caution.”
“But, you’re proceeding.”
“He brought me skates.”
“It’s like a bad cable TV romantic comedy.” She pokes at her salad, presumably hoping for it to turn into something other than salad. “I wish Landon would take me skating. Or to dinner. Or to a crappy hotel with the peewee hockey team so we could have amazing hotel sex.”
“Well, Landon’s straight. Straight guys rarely do romantic stuff.”
“Yes, but until very recently, we thought Darius was straight.”
“True. But he’s not.” I shrug at the realization we were both completely wrong about him. “Most definitely not.”
My eyebrows raise as I crunch on another chip.
Four years. That’s a long time to think something about someone and find out you’re completely wrong.
I don’t regret what happened in Rhode Island.
It was fun. And hot. I’m not one to lust after straight guys, so I never really considered Darius.
Plus, he teased me in that way that reminded me way too much of the boys in middle school.
And then, of course, the sports. The way my father and brothers always were playing sports or talking about sports or planning to attend sports.
Darius is the PE teacher. Hockey coach. My complete lack of hand-eye coordination has instilled in me a lifelong fear of anything related to sports.
And guys don’t come much sportier than Darius.
I shake my head, trying to push away the uncertainty.
He apologized. Brought me lunch. Sat with me.
Bought me dinner. Had skates for me. Caught me when I fell.
And the kissing. That wasn’t first date, let’s see how the chemistry is kissing.
That was soul-changing, insides-on-fire kissing.
It’s like a switch flipped in that hotel room, and Darius turned into someone else.
Someone who not only likes me but treats me like a prince.
But has the man he was for all those years really disappeared?
Or has he simply stopped pretending? Maybe he hasn’t changed at all—maybe this is who he’s been the whole time, just hidden behind a carefully constructed mask.
Now, the mask has slipped, and what we’re seeing isn’t a transformation but a revelation.
Perhaps the truth was always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the moment he no longer felt the need to hide it—in bed with me.
“Damn Yankees,” Christine says.
“Excuse me? You know I don’t do sports.”
“Besides the hockey coach?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
“I’m talking about the show. For next year.
With you connecting with the boys on the hockey team—and their coach—in a new way, I’m thinking we can finally pull off a show with so many male parts.
Plus, it’s sports-adjacent, and now we can ask Darius to consult.
I’m sure he’d be happy to spend extra time with you. ”
A noise comes out of me I’m not familiar with. Something between a groan and grumble.
“What?” Christine has given up on her salad and moved onto the tupperware of cookies she’s baked for us. “Hearing ‘Whatever Lola Wants, Lola Gets’ belted in the cafegymatorium doesn’t interest you?”
“Christine Wong, you’re not playing Lola.”
“I know!” Cookie crumbs fall onto the table as she protests. “But it would be such campy fun for one of the girls.”
I take a cookie. “Or boys. Remember, Apollo played Ursula. And he nailed it.”
“Whoever. I just love that show. We need more sports representation on the stage.”
“Damn, Christine. These are your best yet.” I do my best to talk with a full mouth. “Crisp on the outside and gooey in the middle.”
“It’s the coconut,” she says, mouth full, not that either of us cares. “I use organic, too. None of that hydrolyzed chemical stuff. That’s the secret.”
“I’ve never had anything so scrumptious in my mouth.” I cover my lips, attempting to have a modicum of decorum. “Heavenly.”
“What’s so heavenly in your mouth?” A voice comes from the cracked door.
We both turn toward the culprit. Darius.
“My cookies,” Christine says, standing and offering him the container. “Want one?”
“I do love cookies.” Darius closes the classroom door, takes a treat, and then, without batting an eye, sits in the chair closest to me.
The chair I keep for kids who need to sit next to me because they’re distracting the class and themselves and unable to do any independent work without being right next to the teacher.
And then, without saying another word, he leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Harry.”
The word comes out of his mouth softer than I expect, and I’m caught somewhere between surprise and something I don’t quite want to name. My skin still tingles where his lips touched, like the moment’s trying to linger.
He holds the cookie up like it’s a trophy he’s won in some sportsball match and takes a bite.
“Ms. Wong, these are amazing.” The coconut chocolate aroma of Darius’s breath so close to my face intoxicates me. “I never realized you could bake like this.”
“Yes, Darius, I have more skills than teaching music to children.” She smiles wide, tilting her head so quickly, I’m certain her ponytail will whip around and smack her in the face, but it doesn’t.
Darius jerks his head back, his mouth falling open, exposing the half-chewed cookie and sensing the tension, I stand.
“Christine, maybe we should go to your room.”
“No, no, I need to prep for third grade, anyway. If you hear a noise that sounds like a thousand swans slowly dying, it’s just my class with recorders jammed into their mouths for the first time.”
She gathers her things, including the remaining cookies, and heads for the door, turning before she leaves.
“Damn Yankees. Think about it.”
And with that, she leaves me alone with Coach Hill.
“What’s she so upset about?”
With Christine gone, he takes another bite of his cookie, crumbs falling right onto the name stitched on his tracksuit.
“Darius . . .” I gently reach out and brush away the tiny crumbs on his chest. “You have to understand, all that time you were picking on me, I wasn’t the only one who noticed. You may have thought it was just playful teasing, but believe me, others noticed too.”
“You mean Wong is mad at me, too?”
“Not mad. Just . . . cautious.”
He nods and pulls his lips in. “Okay, I need to do more work with Christine. Got it.”
“You don’t have to do anything.” I glance over and double-check that the door is closed before placing my hand on his thigh. “But it wouldn’t hurt.”
“But why is she so mad at the Yankees? Never would have pegged her for such a Red Sox fan.”
“No, Damn Yankees is a musical. Christine couldn't care less about . . . basketball?”
With a massive grin, Darius swallows the last of his cookie. “Baseball, but gosh, you're cute.”
He leans over, his chocolate coconut breath tickling my lips as he kisses me gently. Yeah, those soft, sweet lips might be the end of me.
“Door’s not locked,” I whisper as he pulls back.
“Harry, I don’t care if the entire school knows how nuts I am for you.”
I grab a pen from the caddy on the table and lean back in my chair.
My fingers click the pen on and off as Darius stares at me with giant eyes.
The finals are next weekend. I promised I’d chaperone.
To help Coach Applegate and his puppies.
The kids. For Darius. I have a ton of work to do before then, but that’s over a week away, and I want to see him sooner.
“So, the finals,” I begin, not sure how to ask. “You feeling ready for them?”
He shrugs, but his smile betrays a bit of nervous energy. “We will be. We have a few more practices between now and then. I don’t want to overdo it, but I want to keep the boys’ heads in the game.”
“Sounds smart,” I say.
“How about you? Ready for your next big chaperone gig?”
“I will be,” I say, rubbing my temple. “I’m swamped. I’ve got essays to grade, meetings, prep work . . . It’s gonna be a hell of a weekend.”
Darius looks thoughtful for a moment before he says, “It sounds like you’re going to be busy this weekend, but I’ve got tickets to the Mariners game next Wednesday. I’d love to take you. But I totally understand if your hands are full.”
The idea of attending a professional sports game makes my skin crawl, but he’s inviting me into his world. My lips press together as I stare at Darius’s sweet face.
“I’d like that,” I reply, fingers still clicking away on the pen.
Did I just agree to attend another sports event? My father would be shocked, then ecstatic. “But I want to see you before that.”
“You do?”
I nod, biting my lower lip. “We could have another date.” I’m already thinking about getting him alone. I inhale, leaning forward. “But this time at my place.”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Your place, huh? What’s the occasion?”
I shrug, trying to act casual, though my pulse is quickening and blood rushes to my groin. “I thought maybe we could just hang out. How about Friday night? I’ll order something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Friday night?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ve got practice Friday night. Maybe I can get Maynor to cover for me . . . depending on the puppies.”
I try not to smile too wide, picturing him wrangling the boys. “What time does practice end?”
“Seven,” he says, tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair.
“So . . . come after practice?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. My stomach twists with anticipation.
He looks like he’s considering it for a second. “I’d need to go home and shower first.”
“No, you don’t,” I say almost too quickly. “Just come over. You’ll be fine.”
The thought of Darius after practice, all sweaty and ripe, makes my dick lurch in my khakis.
His lips curl up at the corners, and he nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll be there.”
I grin, a little relief flooding through me. I’ve got him. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
“See you,” he says, standing and giving me a knowing look before heading for the door.
My heart races as I watch him leave. His ass perfectly fills out those damn track pants. Excitement and nerves swirl in my torso. Friday night can’t come soon enough.