Page 4

Chapter four

Mike

There were two types of people in this world: those who exuded effortless authority . . .

And me.

Standing in front of my first-period class at Mount Vernon High School, I had never felt less like an authority figure in my life. Sure, I’d been a teacher for more than a decade, but any self-respecting gay man who’d endured a youth filled with bullying would admit a simple truth:

The first day of school—any school—was mortifying, and it didn’t matter if you were a student or teacher. I loved high school kids, but they were spawns of Satan, pure and simple.

Okay, not so pure.

The classroom was standard high school fare—beige walls, motivational posters, rows of desks filled with sleepy teenagers who looked at me like I was either their next victim or their new favorite form of entertainment.

Possibly both.

A blonde girl wearing the lipstick of a cover model—or professional sex worker—in the front row twirled her hair around her finger, smacked the five or six pieces of gum she’d shoved in her chipmunk cheeks, and gave me a slow, hungry smile.

“Hey, Mr. Albert,” she purred.

I blinked. “Uh. Hello.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “I like your glasses. They make you look smart.”

I was smart, damn it, but something about the way she said it made me feel like I was about to get bullied.

“That’s . . . the goal?” I said weakly.

The girl—Jessica, according to my seating chart of doom—gave me a look that was entirely too amused for eight in the morning.

In the back of the room, a kid snickered.

“All right, let’s get started,” I said, desperate to gain some measure of control.

The rest of the morning was a crash course in teenage social hierarchy.

The freshmen, with the painfully obvious exception of Jessica, were terrified of me, which was a small mercy.

The tenth graders, however, were positively devious.

At some point during second period, I made the grievous mistake of drinking from my coffee mug, which had a very respectable Shakespeare quote on it: “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”

And, naturally, one of the kids caught it.

“Yo, Mr. Albert!” a boy in the middle row dressed in a football jersey said. “Why you got a girl power mug?”

I lowered the cup. “Because I support strong women, Timothy.”

The boy blinked, clearly not expecting that response. His friends cackled like gremlins.

“Are you one of those feminist teachers?” another kid asked with a sly grin.

“Yes,” I said immediately. “And also one of those teachers who gives pop quizzes when provoked.”

There was a collective groan of betrayal.

“That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair, Mister . . . Beacher,” I shot back, scanning my roll book to get the right name and finding my stride now. “Now, open your books to page thirty-seven.”

I could feel their respect for me growing. Either that or they were plotting my downfall.

With a pack of teens and a waxing moon, it was always hard to say.

By fourth period, I had established myself as a semi-capable adult who would not be bullied into submission.

Then Jessica struck again.

“So, Mr. Albert,” she said sweetly. “Are you single?”

Every single student turned to look at me.

I felt my soul leave my body.

“I—uh—what?”

She smiled, utterly unbothered by my impending death. “You know. Are you dating someone?”

I tried to remember how words worked. “That is . . . not an appropriate question to ask a teacher.”

“Why not? We’re just eager to, you know, get to know you better.” She smacked her gum and blinked innocently.

A boy in the back murmured, “Damn, Jessica, let him live,” but he was clearly also invested.

I cleared my throat. “You know what we should get to know? Shakespeare. Because this is English class, not Mr. Albert’s Personal Life.”

Jessica pooched out an overly painted lower lip. “Ugh. You’re no fun.”

I exhaled, barely having survived another round.

Then something struck: Why was Jessica even in my class twice?

By the time lunch rolled around, I felt like I had been through a minor war.

The kids weren’t bad, per se—just sharp, observant little chaos imps who could smell weakness a mile away.

I grabbed my lunch and headed for the teachers’ lounge, still processing the morning. Once inside the safety of the adult-only chamber, I plopped into a chair and began reading a book I’d brought in case down time was a thing at my new school.

The door creaked open, and in walked a man who looked like he had been sculpted by the gods themselves. He wore a purple polo emblazoned with the flaming mustang, the logo of our vaunted academy’s athletic program. His jet-black hair accented chocolate eyes that reminded me of those boxes filled with goodies, the ones you never knew what was inside until you took a good bite.

Not that I was into eating eyes.

That would’ve been weird.

Mateo Ricci, our head basketball coach, was in his late twenties, built like a tank, with tanned skin, and arms that definitely lifted more than books.

He caught me staring and grinned, giving me a bro nod before dropping into the chair opposite mine.

“New teachers sit with me. It’s a rule. I’m Mateo,” he said, his accent a mix of espresso and tiramisu, all sweet and bitter and begging to be swallowed. “You look lost.”

“Mike.” I set my book down, nodded up, and took a bite of sandwich. “And I look lost because I feel lost.”

“So,” he said, eyeing me. “First day? How bad?”

I groaned. “It’s been fine, if you consider public humiliation and thinly veiled bullying ‘fine.’”

He laughed. “Let me guess. Jessica hit on you?”

I pointed at him. “That should come with a warning!”

Mateo grinned. “Oh, she does it to all the new male teachers. Last year, she asked Mr. Reynolds if he had an OnlyFans.”

I nearly choked on my soda. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. She’s fearless.” He unwrapped some sort of sub and took a bite. “Just wait till you meet her mother.”

I stared at my lunch. “I am not being paid enough for this.”

“None of us are,” he said, completely unbothered. “So, what do you teach?”

“English. You?”

“World history. Imagine that, they gave the Italian guy history of the world. Is that typecasting or what?”

I chuckled. “If the Armani fits . . .”

He hefted his Coke bottle in salute. “Oh, I’m the basketball coach, too. You get assigned a sponsorship yet?”

I shook my head. “No, I think they’re still trying to figure me out.”

He took another bite of his sub and thought a moment, before leaning forward and whispering, “You should find something and propose it; otherwise, they’ll choose for you, and that doesn’t always work out so well, ya know?”

I did know. At my last school, I watched a mousy young thing get assigned to coach wrestling. He’d never wrestled in his life. I doubted he knew what the mats were for. Needless to say, our team didn’t make it to State. We barely made it to our meets.

And the poor teacher? He suffered the indignity of a parent revolt. That was the last thing I wanted.

“Good call,” I said. “Open to ideas.”

“Lemme think about it,” he said. “I got your back, ragazzo .”

“Ragazzo?” I quirked a brow.

“Sorry. I slip into Italian sometimes. It means—well, it is like saying ‘dude’ in American.”

Dude? I couldn’t remember the last time anyone called me that. Still, out of the mouth of an honest-to-risotto Italian, it sounded nice. Ragazzo certainly sounded sexier than our version.

We chatted as we ate, and I quickly realized Mateo was awesome. He was charming, quick-witted, and just the right amount of sarcastic.

And definitely gay.

Which he confirmed about five minutes later when he leaned in and whispered, “By the way, don’t worry. I’m not hitting on you.”

I blinked. “Uh, okay?”

He smirked. “I’m just saying, I can see the panic behind your eyes. I know that look. It’s the ‘Oh God, is the coach flirting with me?’ look.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, “That obvious?”

He chuckled. “To me? Yeah.”

“So you’re gay?”

“Oh, honey,” he said, patting my arm. Despite his effeminate words, they came out overly masculine. It felt like glitter-covered verbal whiplash. “So, so gay.”

I relaxed immediately.

“Good to know,” I said. “Because honestly, if you were flirting, I wouldn’t have survived it. I’m at my embarrassment limit for the day.”

“I promise, no flirting.” Mateo grinned. “But, I’m definitely still going to tease you.”

“Lovely. Get it line.”

“It’s good to be a Mustang!” he said, winking.