Page 17 of Taming His Teacher

Practice ended a few minutes ago. We tromped off the ice, filtering through the cinder-block hallway, tugging off sweat-drenched gear while the sharp edges of our skates dug into the rubber mats lining the way to the locker room.

We’ve each claimed our slice of bench, yanking skates off, tossing helmets into lockers and lobbing practice uniforms in the direction of the huge canvas laundry bins on wheels. As the gear gets stripped away, the gossip starts.

I let it run over me, unmoved, until a sophomore—new to varsity this year and doesn’t know me well enough to know better—is saying some ugly things about a certain brown-haired, brown-eyed math teacher.

“Can it, Tom.”

“Look, man, I’m just—”

“I said, shut. The fuck. Up.”

“Whatever, dude.”

He strips off the last of his pads and wraps a towel around his waist to hit the showers. My hands are clenched tight at my sides, tight enough for my non-existent nails dig into my palms.Fucking breathe, Shepherd. It’s a rumor. An ugly, untrue rumor.It’s not the first time something like this has gone around about some female faculty member but it’s the first time I’ve given a shit.

There’s no way, no fucking way Erin’s pregnant. And by Will Chase. She wouldn’t. Would she? Okay, as much as I hate it, maybe they had sex. The idea makes me want to punch my locker so hard I’d leave a fist print in the metal, but the only thing I’d have to show for it is a broken hand. She’s a grown woman. A pretty, smart, sexy woman and I’m no prude. Despite her prim teacher’s exterior, maybe there’s a little of the naughty librarian to her. Hell, I would love to fuck Erin Brewster and I’d want her to enjoy it. Lose herself under my hands, cry out because it feels so good. I’d want her to make tiny, pleading sex noises while I pushed inside of her, begging me to stop even though I’d know she wanted anything but.

Don’t even think about it, Shepherd.Can’t walk into the showers with my dick as hard as the hockey stick I threw into my locker. Christ. A second thought of Will fucking Erin throws cold water on my hard-on, and I shove my shorts off.

So maybe Erin fucked Will. But she’s an intelligent person. It’s called birth control, and if she’s going to… I can’t even think it without a cold wave of jealousy flooding through me. If she’s going to do it, she’s going to do it without getting knocked up.

The rumors must be flat-out wrong. Rage is swarming in my head like a million bees, all bumping into my skull because they’re trying to get out and too pea-brained to find the exit. In the middle of it all is a hot kernel of doubt. She wouldn’t.

Would she?

I’ve got to stop thinking about this. I stuff my gear into my locker, grab up the thin towel that’s gone through too many wash cycles and head toward the showers before I yank myself back. If I leave my stuff in a heap, it’s going to be rank and sweaty when I have to suit up for the game tomorrow. Hockey gear is gross enough without me adding to the problem. I hang it up to air out overnight, a chant in my head:She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t.

* * *

Erin

Late Sunday night, there’s a knock at my door. When I open it, Will is standing there, a forearm braced on the doorframe, eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, hair disheveled, wearing the same clothes I last saw him in. He looks terrible and smells worse.

“Where have you been?”

“Out.”

His one-word answer scares the living crap out of me and my plan to wed this man sours further in my mind and in my stomach. He pushes by me and I catch a whiff of something that’s not just unwashed man. It’s liquor. Gin, if my summers of fetching G&Ts and gimlets for the guests at the country club taught me anything.

I peek into the hallway to make sure none of the boys have seen him, but the doors are closed and no lights are shining from under them. The hallway is dark and silent. When I turn back, he’s sprawled on my couch. Maybe he’s asleep.

But when I close the door, an eye cracks open.

“Yorright.”

Jeez, how drunk is he? I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at him. “I often am. About what?”

“We have teh get hitched. Merried. Shack up.”

I want to point out that shacking up is the opposite of getting married but the finer points of just about anything would be lost on him right now.

“This is your way of proposing? Showing up drunk at my apartment at midnight? What is wrong with you?”

“Same thing’s wrong with you. Stubborn, selfish.”

How can he possibly say that? But arguing isn’t going to do me any good. I clench my fists and close my eyes. “Are you sure about this, Will? You’re plastered. I don’t want you making this decision when you’re not sober.”

“I was sober. It sucked. This’s better.”

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