Game On: If I wasn't her student, it would be game on. Read online

  SCDaiko Copyright © SCDaiko 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The locations are a mixture of real and imagined. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or any events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The English used in this publication follows the spelling and idiomatic conventions of the United Kingdom.

  Cover design RBA Designs

  Content editing Trenda Lundin

  All enquiries to [email protected]

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to awesome teachers everywhere, and the students who’ve loved them.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT SC DAIKO

  ALSO BY SC DAIKO

  PROLOGUE

  The music takes me away, the throbbing bass rhythm carrying me into a whirlpool of movement; I sway my hips, arms crossed above my head. I’ve drunk too much but what the hell… I’m having fun. Moving my ass in time to the beat, I head back to the table and take another sip of vodka lemon, trying to act as if this is what I do every Saturday night. The drink burns its way down to my belly, and stokes my excitement.

  Megan, my bestie and the bride-to-be, grins at me from where she’s sprawled on the corner sofa of the nightclub. “You okay, my lovely?”

  “Having a blast,” I say, giving her a high-five.

  We’re here on the party island of Ibiza for her hen weekend… me, my twin sister Sophie (who’s not drinking as she’s trying for a baby) and Meg’s sister, Lowri, who’s had more than Meg and I combined. Lowri shoots me a tipsy look. “You’re such an amazing dancer,” she slurs.

  Dance is my exercise of choice, and I love it. I grab her hand and pull her onto the floor, spinning her around while I shimmy to the sound, tossing my hair back from my face. “Oh God,” Lowri squeals, and her face turns green, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Oops,” I lead her back to the chair she just vacated. “Put your head between your knees, sweetie, and I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m back on the dance floor, having left the recovering Lowri with Meg and Soph. I’m lost in my own world, a world of music and movement. All around me, people are caught up in the buzz of the rave, a mosh-pit of gyrating bodies high on hedonism. Dutch house bounces off the walls, the floor vibrates beneath my feet, and lights strobe across the ceiling.

  I smell him before I see him, a mix of musky male sweat and woody cologne. He towers over my five foot six frame, broad shoulders, slim waist, and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. I’m not wearing my glasses, and his denim-blue eyes clash with mine. He smiles, his teeth flashing white in a tanned face. “Hola,” he smirks, and it’s a smirk full of promise. “Cómo te llamas?”

  “Beth,” I shout to be heard above the high-volume music.

  “English?”

  I nod as he steps forward to grasp my hips with strong hands. We sway together and I feel his hardness pushing against my tummy. My head tucks under his chin and I breathe him in. It’s been too long since I felt the pleasure of a man…

  No need to ask his name. He’s almost certainly a local and I doubt I’ll meet him again. I’ll just enjoy this for what it is: a brief encounter. I’m so turned on; I can feel my knickers sticking to me under my party dress.

  His hot breath tickles my earlobe as he bends his head to nuzzle my neck. And then he’s kissing me, his lips warm and filled with lust, his tongue chasing mine. “Come, princesa,” he breaks away and tugs on my hand. “Let’s find somewhere quieter.”

  The sensible voice in my head tells me not to be stupid. That I don’t have one-night stands. Never have. Never thought I would. But the past three years have taken their toll, and I’m fed up with listening to sensible Beth. Just this once. What harm can it do? I’ll make sure we use protection…

  The cool night air is a relief from the sweaty heat of the club. We stagger through the fire escape and into an alleyway, where he picks me up as if I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist; he presses me against the brick wall under a street light and kisses me again, harder this time, sucking my lower lip into his mouth before biting down on it and making me yelp with delight. His hands palm my needy tits, and I feel my nipples peak. Sweet Jesus, I’m so wet I could come right now.

  “So, princesa,” he breathes, “you staying on the island long?” His voice is deep and melodic, but it doesn’t sound Spanish. It sounds… Welsh. No, that can’t be right. I must be in an alcohol-induced fog.

  “Just for the weekend,” I manage to say between panting breaths. I run my hands over his ripped abs. God, he’s hot. I lean my weight into the wall and brace myself.

  He pulls at my knickers, his fingers delving, testing. “Gonna fuck you, princesa. Is that what you want?”

  “Oh, yes, fuck me, please,” I groan.

  He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a foil packet, ripping it open with his teeth.

  But a shout echoes down the passageway and a skinny young man comes running up to us. He holds out a cell phone, and gives it to my Ibizan (as I’ll think of him for the next six months). It’s then that I notice the tattoo of a scorpion on his hand... it burns its way into my memory like a branding iron, its tail raised ready to sting. I shiver to myself.

  He puts me down and holds the phone to his ear, his blue eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry, Beth,” he says, pocketing the device, “there’s been some trouble at home.” He pauses. “Really nice meeting you, but I have to go.” He kisses me briefly on the forehead, and I notice the regret in his expression.

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. I was burning up for him. “Hope you get the trouble sorted.”

  “Me too,” he gives a hollow laugh.

  I watch him stride away from me, and sensible Beth’s voice in my head tells me I’ve had a lucky escape. Six months later, I learn she couldn’t have been more wrong.

  1

  Meg and I met the first morning of uni, sitting next to each other in Spanish class. She’s Welsh, and proud of it, coming from a village near Pontypool, whereas I’m English born and bred. “I’m a valleys girl,” she told me in her lilting accent. “My Spanish teacher was an inspiration, though, and opened up the world to me. If I can teach languages half as well as her, then I’ll die happy.”

  We found out we have a lot in common, the main thing being our love of kids. Megan did her teacher training right after graduation. I took three years out, travelling before doing voluntary work in Santiago, Chile, where I taught English to disadvantaged youngsters. Communicating a knowledge of Spanish to first-world teenagers is a completely different ball game; I’ve had to learn a whole new range of skills. I love it, though, and can’t wait to start my firs
t job.

  I’ve attended interview after interview, but my lack of a second language that’s taught in UK schools has been a hindrance. Maybe I should have majored in Spanish with French or German instead of Portuguese? Except, at the time, I thought my future would be in Latin America with Paulo. Ha, bloody ha!

  Meg came to my rescue, prepping me for an interview at the school where she’s now head of languages. It’s a large state school in the Wye Valley, the border region where Wales butts onto England. I’ll be substituting a teacher on maternity leave, but numbers taking Spanish are growing, Megan said, and there might be a permanent position up for grabs at the end of the year.

  I close the door to the small apartment I’ve rented, and set off to walk the short distance to Wyemouth High. Yesterday, we had an in-service training day, so I’ve already met my colleagues in the languages department.

  I cross the street and head up the road towards the school, walking through a crowd of kids in their dull grey uniforms, bags slung over their shoulders. Heavy iron gates open onto a steep driveway, and a two-storey red-bricked building perches at the top. I learnt yesterday there’s a huge campus behind with more buildings, a gym, massive sports fields and various play areas. Over one and a half thousand pupils attend this school, and most are bussed in from the surrounding countryside.

  After stepping through the wide front door, I remember to take a left turn for the staffroom. Meg is already there, looking professional with her red hair in a bun. She comes up to me. “Hey! You ready for your first day?”

  I wipe my hands nervously down my pencil skirt, and smile with more confidence than I feel. Butterflies flutter in my tummy. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say. “I can’t wait to meet the kids.”

  “Apropos of which, I’ve just learned we have a couple of new additions.” She hands me a cup of coffee she’s just poured from the coffeemaker. “A boy and his sister from Spain. They’re bi-lingual, fortunately, as their mother is Welsh. Ryan will be in your senior Spanish class, and Sara will be in your tutor group.”

  “Perfect.” I sit on a seat by the window next to my friend, who is now my boss. Glancing at my watch, I realize we only have ten minutes before the bell. “I’ll drink this quickly,” I tell her, swirling my coffee, “and then maybe I should go to my classroom.”

  “No need for that. First years will be directed to the hall and told who their form tutor will be. You’ll meet them there before taking them upstairs.”

  I nod. There’s so much I need to learn. Will I be up to the task? I’d better be. This is what I’ve always wanted to do with my life. And I’m thankful Megan has helped me get my foot on the ladder. It will be up to me, though, to keep it there and start climbing the rungs to a successful teaching career. Meg has made head of department in record time, but she’s exceptional. It’s my goal, for the future… in a different school, of course, as Megan is already in charge at Wyemouth.

  One step at a time, Beth. You haven’t even had your first day yet.

  Movement catches my eye, and a tall light-haired man sits himself down in the seat on the other side of Meg. “Mornin’,” he chuckles. “I swear those six weeks off were more like two.” He smiles at her. “How did the wedding go? Sorry I couldn’t be there, but I’d booked my trek in the Himalayas a year ago, and it was impossible to change the dates.”

  “It went really well. Beth Matthews, here, was one of my bridesmaids.” She indicates towards me.

  I notice how good-looking he is in a rugged kind of way. He’s dressed casually, a given as he spends most of the day outdoors. “I’ve got a first form too,” he adds. “We can go to the hall together, if you like.”

  “Thanks.” I knock back the rest of my coffee and take the mug to the basin opposite. There’s a schedule for washing-up pinned above it and I make a mental note that my turn will be next week.

  Megan approaches and whispers in my ear. “He likes you.”

  I glance at Aled, take in how fit he appears under his track-suit. “He’s just being friendly, and, in any case, I’m not interested,” I whisper back.

  No way am I ready for a new relationship.

  Megan holds up her hands. “Ok.” She laughs. “Good luck with the teaching. You’ll ace it, I’m sure. See you at break.” And, with a breezy wave, she heads for the door.

  Within minutes, Aled and I are standing at the side of the hall, which is filled with excited eleven and twelve-year-olds. Their first day in high school after six years in primary. I remember clearly how shit-scared I was when I was in their shoes, and my own nerves disappear.

  The year group is made up of eight forms, and mine, 7BM, bears my initials. The kids will stay together as a tutor group until they finish compulsory education in Year 11. Years 12 and 13 are optional, and would prepare them for higher education. I’m so looking forward to the challenge of my Year 13 class. And to have a boy from Spain will be perfect. I just hope he won’t be bored.

  It will be up to me to make sure he isn’t.

  Half an hour later, I’ve taken the register, having done a plan so the kids are sitting with pupils from a different primary school than the one they attended. The Spanish girl, Sara López, is one of the younger members of the form, and won’t turn twelve until the summer. She has denim-blue eyes, curly dark hair, and a tan to die for. I don’t want her to feel like an outsider, so I place her next to one of the more confident-appearing young ladies, Nia, who went to Wyemouth Primary.

  We have an hour together before they go to their first class, and I teach mine. I talk them through the school rules, give them maps of the campus to find their way around, and get them to introduce themselves to each other.

  It’s when I’m walking between the desks, that I notice Sara crying. She’s sobbing like her heart will break.

  I bend down. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  “Nada,” she says. “Nothing.”

  Maybe she’s homesick for Spain and her friends there? Poor baby. I ask Nia to stick by her side. “Think how you would feel if you moved to a new country and didn’t know anyone.”

  “Yes, Miss Matthews,” Nia smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after her.”

  At the end of the session, I sit at my desk and wait for my senior class to arrive. They don’t take long. It’s a largish group, twenty kids, and three-quarters of them are girls. I scan the rows of expectant faces until my eyes come to rest on the Spanish boy. He looks like his sister, which is probably why he appears familiar. His deep-blue eyes meet mine; he leans back in his chair and stares at me boldly. Surely, he’s older than eighteen? Dark stubble covers his chin and his shoulders are so broad he dwarfs the blond boy sitting next to him. Time for introductions. I tell them a little about myself, in Spanish, and then get each of them to do the same.

  Ryan explains he comes from Ibiza, and a twinge pangs in my tummy. I haven’t thought about my Ibizan in ages, and I barely remember what he looked like. I wasn’t wearing my glasses that night, so the image in my mind is somewhat fuzzy. In any case, I’m a different person today than the wild girl I was then. I’d behaved totally out-of-character…

  I set the class a reading task, and walk between the rows of desks to monitor their progress. Two girls in the front are chatting instead of focussing on their work. I sneak up behind them, ready to pounce. Catrin, straightened blond hair hanging half-way down her back, nudges her friend, Eleri. “That new boy is so cute I could lick him from head to toe.”

  I clear my throat. “Would you like to repeat what you said in front of the whole class?”

  Catrin goes bright red. “No, Miss Matthews.”

  I smile at her and nod before making my way to the back of the room. There’s a buzz in the air, the buzz of kids getting on with their learning, and it makes me feel like doing a happy-dance.

  Ryan is working with his classmate, Josh, who isn’t that small up close; he only seems so in comparison to Ryan. They’re discussing the text and working out how to summarize it in Spanish li
ke I asked. Ryan lifts his hand to his mouth to cover a yawn, and my eyes follow the movement. Oh. My. God. There’s a tat on his hand. A tattoo of a scorpion. Shit!

  I step back and raise my own hand to my mouth. My cheeks burn as my gaze clashes with his. He smirks. It’s him. He remembers. He knows who I am.

  I spin on my heel and march to the front of the class. Act calm. Pretend nothing is wrong. But something IS wrong. Something is very wrong. If he says anything it’s likely to put an end to my teaching career before it has even started.

  2

  I avoid meeting Miss Matthews’ eye for the duration of the final fifteen minutes of the lesson, but I remember looking for her the day after meeting her in that club. I couldn’t get her out of my head. Her sexy smile, her beautiful body and her chocolate-brown eyes. All I had to go on was her name. Beth. I’d searched in the usual places, the bars and beaches, but the Easter vacation is a busy time of the year and it was like looking for a fucking needle in a haystack.

  Time passed. I played rugby as much as I could, and, when I had the money, I’d go clubbing with my friends. We knew some of the bouncers, and they let us in to mix with the foreign women. Sometimes I’d get laid. What healthy eighteen-year-old wouldn’t take what was on offer? Beth, though. She seemed different. I’d never attempted to hook up with a woman after a fast fuck, even a failed one like Beth and I had. There was a spark to her that attracted me, and seeing her teach today, her dedication, sent a tingle up my spine.

  ¡Joder! The look of horror on her face, when she put two and two together and made four, is one I’ll never forget. How can she be old enough to be my fucking teacher? She looks so young with her pale English skin… like she’s my own age. Jesus Christ!

  I sit through Spanish with a hard on, so stiff it hurts like hell, and, as soon as class is dismissed, I race to the boys’ toilets and shut myself in a cubicle. I unzip my flies and take hold of my dick; I work it until my balls draw up tight into my body, and spurts of hot cum spill out over my fingers. I catch my jizz in toilet paper and flush it away. Rinsing my hands, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look like shit. Dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. I think about my nemesis, the reason my family and I left Spain. Will he find us here? Jesus, if he does, I’ll fucking kill him.