Chapter 15 - Harry
HARRY
I’m standing before the whiteboard, trying to ignore the mild panic creeping up through my shoulders.
This isn’t the typical Monday morning blues.
It’s something else. Something to do with a certain PE teacher and coach who always wears a tracksuit and baseball cap and possesses a perfectly sized cock.
I should be focusing on the lesson plan for the day.
Lord of the Flies. Civilization vs. savagery.
The characters had every intention to act civilized, but what makes them devolve into savagery?
The kids will have a lot to say about it.
Savage. Untamed. Raw. Like the way Darius pounded me on my sofa. Fuck.
I need to focus on the day ahead, but my silly brain keeps bouncing back to Friday night. Saturday morning. Coach Darius Hill.
Darius, who held me so tightly that I was convinced he’d never let me go—like his entire existence depended on it.
Between the sex and cuddling, he managed to make me feel both unraveled and safe at the same time.
How is that even possible? Is that how other people feel?
Please let it be how other people feel, because wow.
And then Saturday morning—the pancakes. Soft, fluffy clouds of breakfast deliciousness.
I wasn’t sure I had the ingredients, but Darius managed to scrounge up what he needed.
I’m not sure if flour expires, but neither of us has gotten sick so far.
He had flour all over his face by the time he was done, and honestly, it was the cutest. I tried to make a joke about it, but he just grinned like he didn’t care about anything other than making me breakfast.
It’s like I’m soaring above the clouds. Not in a plane. Just me. Gliding as the air whooshes around me and the world spins beneath me.
With a shake of my head, I pull myself together and focus on the pen in my hand.
I write “Lord of the Flies, Themes” in big, bold letters, but my mind ricochets back to how Darius looked in my kitchen.
Tossing him into the tub and pouring maple syrup all over him seemed like a viable option.
I’m usually not one to miss clues, so how did I overlook the signs that he fancied me all these years?
“Knock, knock.”
The voice breaks me out of my reverie. I turn to see Christine stepping into the classroom with her usual half-closed smile. She may be my best friend around here, but . . . well, that’s exactly the reason she’s not running for president of Darius’ fan club anytime soon.
“Good morning, friend. How was your weekend?” I ask, trying really hard to hide the sex afterglow I’m afraid is written all over my face.
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Well, Denise threw up on the one tiny rug in my bathroom. Not on the tile, not on the wood floor—nope, the rug. It’s like she knows that’s the one place not to do it and seeks it out.
So I woke up having to do laundry before school, which, you know, is fantastic.
” She gives a little shrug, as if it’s not the least bit tragic.
I grin. “Well, at least it wasn’t on your bed. Could’ve been worse.”
“You have no idea. That rug is like . . . one square foot. Why can’t she be a normal cat?” She shakes her head in mock disbelief. “Honestly, I’m thinking of giving her away. Not like she’d care.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure she’d care. Denise adores you. And she’d just puke somewhere else in protest.”
“Probably,” she agrees, still shaking her head. “Anyway, that’s my morning. How about you? How’s the whole Darius situation progressing?”
My stomach flutters at the mention of his name, but I do my best to keep it cool.
“It’s . . . good,” I say, making a little circular motion with my hand, like I’m trying to catch the right words in the air.
“Honestly? Better than good. We’re figuring it out.
I’m trying to get over my deep-seated fear of anything sports-related, and he’s been, well, trying.
More open, more—” I stop myself. I don’t want to sound like I’m gushing, but it’s hard not to after the weekend. “Just . . . more.”
Christine narrows her eyes, folding her arms over her chest. “More what? I don’t know, Harry. After everything he’s done. Wouldn’t you prefer someone who treats you like a prince from the beginning rather than someone who suddenly changes once he recognizes his mistakes?”
I sigh, reminding myself Christine cares about me. She doesn’t want me to get hurt.
“I get that, I really do,” I say, leaning against the desk in the front row.
“But I think he was just . . . insecure. He actually told me he never thought someone like me would go for someone like him.” I purse my lips and wait for her cool expression to shift.
It doesn’t. “I’m not making excuses for the way he treated me—believe me, I’ve had my share of conversations with him about that—but he’s trying, Christine. He made me pancakes.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, her arms still crossed as she studies me. “And you think fluffy carbs are enough? After all the years he treated you like trash?”
I bite my lip, thinking it over. “I think it’s enough for now. It’s like the kids. The way Victor picks on Rebecca. You’ve seen that, right?”
“Yes, but Darius isn’t a ten-year-old boy.”
“Fair. But he apologized. Many times. He bought me ice skates.” I give her my best pleading smile. “Can you please give him a chance? I’m not saying you have to be best friends, but just . . . try.”
Christine sighs, clearly not thrilled with this request, but she uncrosses her arms and stands. “I’ll try. But you’re my chief concern, Harry. If he hurts you, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“Plot twist. The music teacher is a badass.”
“Damn right.” She makes some martial arts move I don’t know with her hands, and we both smile.
“Who’s a badass?”
My stomach flips at the sound of his voice, and then I see his hazel eyes and that damn tracksuit.
“Me,” Christine says. “Did you have any doubt?”
Darius walks in and stops near the table, forming a triangle between the three of us.
“Listen, anyone who can make a third-grade recorder concert bearable—let alone enjoyable—is the very definition of a badass.”
Christine glares at him, and I take a deep breath, waiting for her reply.
“True.” She pulls her lips in, and I can almost see the wheels in her head turning. “The recorder is the most misunderstood instrument.”
“Exactly,” Darius says.
A half smile meanders onto Christine’s face, and she turns toward me and winks.
“Well, gentlemen, I have to go get the boomwhackers ready.”
“Another critically undervalued instrument,” Darius says.
At the door, Christine pauses and turns to face us. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Noted,” Darius says with a nod.
Christine leaves, carefully closing the door behind her, and we’re alone.
“She really hates me, doesn’t she?” He leans over and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Hate is a strong word.” I lean into his lips, their warmth permeating my skin. “Just be patient. It’s going to take time.”
Darius nods and leans back in his chair. “I’ll just keep showing up.”
I glance over at the closed door, the thin window reminding me anyone could walk by and see us. My classroom is on the second floor, so only the squirrels and birds in the tree outside can see in, but even before the day has started, staff are wandering the halls.
“Hold that thought,” I say, standing.
I walk over to the door, throw the lock, and pull the tiny shade down. When I turn around, Darius’s pupils blow wide as he focuses on my face. I return to the chair, straddling him, and wrapping my fingers around the back of his head.
“You really don’t leave the house without a baseball cap, do you?”
“Nope. Only take it off . . .”
“In bed.” I ghost my lips over his, and his minty breath fills my nostrils.
“And to shower.” His voice is soft, barely audible.
Darius tips his head forward and captures my mouth with his.
I pull him closer, my thumb brushing the plastic clasp of his hat as our tongues tangle.
He lets out a soft moan—and that, right there, undoes me.
That sliver of vulnerability. Him giving in to the kiss.
To me. I realize I’m grinding against him slightly—and he’s clearly just as affected.
“Coach.” I pause the kiss, but leave my lips near his. “If my class weren’t arriving in five minutes, I’d be taking care of this.”
I reach back with a hand and run my fingers over his tented track pants.
Through the thin fabric, my thumb catches the head and adds a little pressure.
Darius throws his head back, exhaling, and I lean over and kiss his neck.
He’s freshly showered, and between his mountain spring freshness and rock-hard cock, my own pants have become a little snug.
Our fun is interrupted by the two-minute bell, and I pull back. But Darius takes my hands, holding me in place.
“Harry, will you go on another date with me?”
“The finals are this weekend.” I give his hands a little squeeze. “I’m expecting we’ll share a room again.”
“Damn right we will, but I can’t wait all week.” He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Are we still on for the Mariners game on Wednesday night?”
“An opportunity to gape at sailors? What exactly are we watching them do? Push around some crates on a shipping container? Yell ‘Aye Aye Captain’ while walking the plank?”
“Uh, no . . . it’s a hockey game.”
“Oh, so they stick it to each other and puck around the ice? Got it.”
“You’re fucking adorable.” He takes my face in his hands.
“Wednesday night. Hmm. I had very important plans to stay home and read.”
“Harry, please. Come with me.”
“Dinner first?”
“I’ll take you for wings. Give you the full experience.” He grins, looking so pleased with himself.
“Alright, fine. But if anyone asks, I’m going for the wings, not the sports.”
“Sure, Peterson. Whatever you say.”
I stand and extend my hand to him, helping him to his feet. As he rises, he leans in, pressing a soft peck to my cheek. It’s quick, but it lingers in the air between us as he turns toward the door, a quiet smile playing on his lips.
If more hockey means more Darius, then I guess it’s more hockey for me.