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 tracksuitin 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 alreadyheaded 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. Firstname. 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.
