Page 23 of Please, Sir

What it may feel like to leave a mark on her ass with my whip, to bring my lips to the rough, pink edges of that mark and kiss away the soreness while she gains strength for another swat. I think about that too often, and now, with a list of things to make stuffed into my pocket, I have a legitimate reason.

She stays on my mind the entire drive back to Turner Saddlery, and she’s still there when I get to work on Dolly’s list that afternoon.

The thing about private thoughts is that no one has to know. And in that way, exploring this side of myself with Miss Riley in my head is the absolute best escape.

CHAPTER

NINE

Beingfriends with Leah has its perks, but it also has a downside, which is jealousy. If anyone used their frickin’ brains, they’d realize that Leah Mitchell has worked hard for and cares about her career, and isn’t going to do anything to jeopardize that. But high school teachers are still in high school, and it’s been clear to me that they are not my biggest fans. They’re jealous of my connection to Leah, and they view that connection as a free pass to favoritism,which then equates to getting the things I need as both a teacher and coach.

Bluebell High has a shortage of extra money, so the truth is, no one is getting a damn thing this year. I’m pretty sure they spent the remainder of their budget on my job. Still, their glares and whispers tell me I need to work harder to integrate myself with current staff. I have to try harder to make friends.

There is never a time when high school is easy, is there?

The teachers’ lounge radiates laughter and conversation, the smell of freshly reheated day-old lasagna and buttered popcorn infiltrating my senses, reminding me I only had a granola bar for breakfast. Despite my nerves, my stomach rumbles. I smooth my hands down my skirt—and yes, I went with a skirt today. Because in my efforts to make teacher friends, I realized that dressing casual all the time could be part of it, too. Cadence Caine, the frosh coach, wears heels and skirts everyday, and only opts for jeans or warmups at practice. Maybe I’m just too casual. Maybe it’s the combo of knowing Leah personally and not dressing the right way?

I roll my lips together and finger comb my waves, making sure I feel good when I walk in. With a deep breath, I push open the door, and eleven heads turn to stare at me. Conversation halts, forks pause their journeys to mouths, and the science teacher, who was clearly showing something to another teacher on her phone, locks her screen with a loud click.

Cadence is here, but her body language does not call for me to sit with her, and her eyes never leave her plastic container filled with greens and protein. Fine. Just because we both cheer doesn’t mean Cadence has to be my friend. The door closes behind me, bumping my ass, sending me forward a few paces. With my nylon lunch bag between my hands, Ikeep my chin high as I walk toward the open window seat overlooking the football field.

I came here to make friends, or at least try to be social, and now I’m beelining for the only seat alone. C’mon Riley, I hum under my breath, determined to be successful. I need something to go right, and I’m not going to sit around and hope it falls into my lap. I’m chasing it, damn it.

Stopping a few paces before the glorious empty window seat, I sink into a chair at a mostly full table, setting my bag down.

“Hello,” I say awkwardly, testing out my voice volume so as to not be heard by the entire room. Slowly, chatter picks back up, filling in around me, allowing me to breathe.

“Hi,” another woman says, one I’ve never seen around the halls or in the gym or… anywhere. Not yet at least. She extends a hand over her glass container full of brown rice and salmon. “I’m Denae, I’m the executive assistant to Ms. Mitchell.”

“Ahh,” I nod, because Leah has mentioned her new assistant a few times. Makes sense now as to why I haven’t met her–she’s always busy. “Nice to meet you Denae. I’m Riley Rivers, I started here this school year, too. I teach health and I’m also coaching JV cheer.”

From the table adjacent to mine, in her flowy lavender colored skirt and flowery pink blouse, Cadence dunks her spoon into her yogurt, clearing her throat to get everyone’s attention. “How are you liking JV coaching, Miss Riley?” she asks, licking vanilla yogurt from her plastic spoon. She would like plain vanilla, and her plastic spoon is ruining the planet. I narrow my eyes but plaster on a smile.

“I really like it, thank you.”

She taps the end of the spoon against her chin. “How many years did you coach frosh at your last school?” I knowthe question is rhetorical, but I don’t know if all the people in this break room know the game Cadence is playing, and I’ll only look like a pompous asshole if I don’t reply, so with my fake smile I say, “Three.”

She nods, her shiny blonde hair literally nearly blinding me. How does she do that? Seriously, and how does her makeup still look so perfect by this time of day? It’s lunch. I sweated through my first layer of mascara hours ago. But of course, yogurt eating, clothes ironed, shiny hair having Cadence looks perfect, even at noon.

I want to roll my eyes, but I don’t.

“Oh wow, so you’re new to coaching then,” she states and before I can defend my honor, she adds, “I’ve been coaching freshman girls for nine years. This is actually my tenth year.”

I know I should take a second and check myself. I should. And next time, I will. But I’ve been fielding glares and snotty remarks from Cadence for three months and I’m fucking over it. She let a student get hurt, she talks to the girls like crap, and she is not a leader.

“Well, if you want to shadow me, you’re more than welcome.” I open my lunch bag and take my turkey and cheese sandwich out. The mayo is warm, and the cheese is soft, but I eat it with so much confidence you’d think they were filming a fucking sandwich commercial.

“Shadow you?” she laughs around another bite of boring-gurt.

I overly chew the bite in my mouth before swallowing. “Yeah, I mean, if you want to see how to coach in a way that leads to promotion, shadow me. I can teach you some stuff.”

A man at the table with me who I’ve learned is, Coach Dean McAllister, chokes on his bite of chili. I slide him my metal water bottle. “Water?”

He shakes his head, bringing a napkin stained withorange grease to his lips. “Uh, no, ma’am,” he says. I look around my table, maybe for the first time, and notice no one is making eye contact with me except Denae. “I’m not an asshole,” I whisper to her, as our heads come together conspiratorially. “She’s been super rude to me for months. She hates my guts and you know what? I’m a nice person. Honestly. I am. So I’m just… sick of it, you know?”

Denae keeps her focus on me while she eats forkfuls of massive green salad, nodding. “Good for you. I mean, you didn’t say anything that wasn’t kind of true.”

I glance around the table, gauging how much privacy we have. Coach Dean is powering through his chili, doing his best to get away from the table, while the other two are engrossed in their phones.

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