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

by Daiko, SC

  I run my hand through my hair. I must reassure Beth; she might be scared I’ll brag about her to make a good impression. Except, I’m not like that. Not with someone I care about. And, for some inexplicable reason, I care about her.

  I release a slow breath. This school is so different from what I’m used to. Back home the class stayed together in one room, and the teachers came to us. There were only about four hundred of us. We started at eight in the morning, not nine like here. We had a half-hour break at eleven, and the day finished at two. After lunch at home with Mam and Sara, I used to do the minimum amount of homework and go to rugby club.

  Rugby. I live and breathe it. Wyemouth is the top rugby school in Wales, apparently, and rugby is the national sport of the nation… giving the Welsh their cultural adrenalin. If I can play both in school and in the community at club level, it will ease the pain of having to move here.

  I dry my hands and make my way to the Years 12 and 13 Common Room. It’s where the older students hang out if they have a free period. It will take me a while to get used to the terminology here; but if I keep in my head that the years refer to how long a kid has been in school and not their age, it shouldn’t be too fucking difficult.

  I push open the door to the rectangular-shaped room. Everyone in there, about thirty kids, stops talking and stares at me. ¡Joder! It’s like I’ve grown two heads. Josh comes up and punches me playfully on the arm. “Hey, douchebag,” he jokes, “we got PE after break. Can’t wait to see how you handle the ball.”

  “And I can’t wait to show you.”

  Later, out on the field, I realize every guy there, from fly half to flanker, is built like a tank. Not a looks-good-but-can-barely-move kind of tank, but a lightning fast, brutal, near-indestructible, all-guns-blazing kind of tank. Christ, these boys train… and they train hard. Within minutes, Mr Davis has us running figure-of-eights up and down the pitch.

  I’m big, heavy, and strong, so I played in the forwards at home. Looking around, I see several guys with similar physiques to me, and I hope Mr Davis will let me continue in my preferred position. Josh, smaller and faster, is almost certainly a back.

  Mr Davis gets us to do some ball-handling drills, keeping the passes at chest height. We finish up with isometric exercises. I’m paired with ginger-haired Gareth, who runs at me, making like a battering ram. I hold my own, giving as good as I get.

  At the end of the session, we’re covered in mud and head for the showers. I strip off and stand under a jet of warm water. “Fuck, Ryan,” Josh nudges me. “You’re supposed to shower in swim boxers, not fucking naked.” He hands me a towel, and I wrap it around my waist.

  “Sorry, hombre,” I laugh. “What a bunch of fucking puritans.”

  “Hey, who are you calling a puritan?” He whips the towel off me and flicks it against my ass. Within seconds, every guy in the shower room has joined in and we’re having a full-on towel-fight.

  A whistle blows and Mr Davis bellows at us. “You have five minutes to get dressed and to your next lesson. If any of your teachers complain you’re late, I’ll slam the lot of you in after-school detention.”

  Having lunch in school is a first. And eating so fucking early is something I’ll need to get used to. Nobody has their main meal at midday in Spain, and even two p.m. is considered a little premature. I grab a tray and get in line, feeling hundreds of eyes on me. I scan the room for my sister before remembering the younger pupils have a separate dining room. I’ll look for her when I’ve finished eating.

  I sit next to Josh. “You gonna try out for the team tomorrow after school?” he asks.

  I grin. “What do you think?”

  He strokes his chin and smirks, a spirited glint in his eyes. “You might have a chance.”

  “Might?” I growl, pretending to be pissed off. “What do you mean?”

  “Wales is ranked fifth in the world for rugby, and Spain is way down the leader board. So, Spanish-boy, you’ll need to fucking prove yourself.”

  “Hey, I’m half-Welsh, don’t forget.” I point my fork at him. “And the Spanish half fucking knows how to kick ass.”

  “Okay, okay. I was just havin’ a laugh.”

  I prod a tomato and put it in my mouth. Completely without any flavour, like most of the fruit and vegetables in this country. Probably from lack of sun. I really miss the sunshine of Ibiza; since moving here, I’ve hardly seen any of it. No wonder people are so pale. I take a sip from my glass of water to wash the taste away, longing for a spicy gazpacho instead.

  “What do you think of Miss Matthews?” Josh asks out of the blue. “She’s a lot sexier than Mrs Jones, our regular teacher.”

  I shift position in my seat to ease the sudden tingle in my balls. Just thinking about Beth has made me hard again. I take another sip of water. “What do you mean, your regular teacher?”

  “Miss Matthews is covering for her while she’s on maternity leave. Mrs Jones is from Madrid. But she’s married to a Welshman.”

  “I’m impressed how well you all speak Spanish,” and I am. The kids in my English class at home could barely string a sentence together. “Kudos.”

  “Thanks, man. I’m hoping Miss Matthews will continue the tradition of taking us on a trip to Spain before the half-term break. That would be awesome.”

  Mainland Spain, okay. Ibiza, no fucking way.

  “Why don’t you ask her next lesson?”

  “Good idea.” He mops up the remains of his watery stew with a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth. “The older kids are allowed off campus at lunchtime, you know. A bunch of them goes down to the river to smoke weed. Are you into that?”

  “Hell no. Weed and rugby don’t mix.”

  “Well said,” Josh chuckles.

  I pick up my tray. “I’m gonna try and find my sister. Check on how she’s getting on. I’ll catch you later.”

  Josh leaves the canteen with me, then makes his way to the art block. He’s doing design as one of his subjects, and says he needs to start some coursework. Outside, I stroll past a group of girls, sitting on a bench chatting. They stop talking as I walk past them, and I recognize Catrin and Eleri from my Spanish class. “Hey, Ryan,” Cat calls out. “Come and sit with us.”

  “Sorry. Can’t right now.”

  I don’t wait for their response. Sara is standing in the middle of a field up ahead, surrounded by a group of boys, and even from this distance, I can tell she’s fucking petrified. Bunching my hands into fists, I sprint towards them.

  The crowd parts as I elbow my way through. I put my arm around Sara and face the fuckwits. “This is my little sister. As you can see, I’m much bigger and stronger than you. If anyone messes with her, they’ll have me to answer to. Is that clear?”

  Like magic, the group disperses. “So, chiquita,” I say to my sis. “What was all that about?”

  Fifteen minutes later, I tap on the door to Beth’s classroom. I’ve found out that she’s Sara’s form tutor, and I need to share my concerns with her. Hopefully, she’s here. I didn’t wanna stand in the corridor outside the staffroom, didn’t want anyone to listen in.

  I pull down on the door handle, and it opens.

  Beth looks up at me through the rectangular rims of her glasses. “Ryan! What are you doing here?” Her voice is startled.

  “My sister is being bullied by the boys in your form. I found her down on the field and the kids were calling her an immigrant. Telling her to go back to where she came from.”

  Beth puts a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I’ll have a word with them during reg tomorrow morning. Is she alright?”

  “She is now. There’s a girl with her, a skinny girl with pigtails. They’ve gone to the library.”

  “Good. I asked Nia to look after her. There’s a homework club, I believe. They can make a start on that so they don’t need to spend too long on it tonight.”

  “I’m not used to school lunch-hours, and neither is Sara.”

  “I worked in a school
in Toledo during my year abroad at uni, so I know what you mean.” She stares at me, frowning. “You recognise me, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” I fight the urge to stroke her soft cheek. She looks slightly different in glasses, a mixture of nerdy and sexy, but I’d recognised her straight away. “You don’t need to worry. I won’t say anything.”

  She releases a puff of breath. “Thank you, Ryan. That means a lot to me.”

  “I didn’t forget you, Beth,” I groan.

  “Miss Matthews, please.’ Her voice is stern. “I’m your teacher.”

  “You don’t need to remind me, Miss.” I stress the last word. “Hasta luego.”

  “Hasta luego, Ryan. And try not to worry about Sara.”

  If only you knew, princesa, how much I worry about my family.

  3

  I shouldn’t let him affect me. Shouldn’t feel my body burn in his presence. Shouldn’t want him to pull me against his hard chest and do what he did to me in Ibiza. If only I hadn’t gone out to that alleyway and stood under the street light with him; I wouldn’t have noticed the scorpion tat on his hand, and he wouldn’t have seen enough of me to remember what I look like.

  Deal with it, Beth!

  Ok. He’s my pupil, and he’s nearly eight years younger than me. Being with him wouldn’t be illegal, though; he’s already eighteen and he’ll be nineteen in November. (I checked his records on the staff shared area… he must have repeated a school year in Spain.) But the General Teaching Council Code was drilled into me while training, so I’m fully aware of the need ‘to maintain appropriate professional boundaries’. If anything were to happen between Ryan and me and it was discovered, I’d be struck off… banned from teaching for life. I cannot, WILL NOT, let that happen.

  The shrill sound of the bell interrupts my tormented thoughts, and I go to stand at the door to welcome my next class. Year 9 are a notoriously difficult year group. Some of them will have decided not to continue with Spanish next year when they start their GCSEs, the compulsory school-leaving exams. Spanish is an optional subject, and I’ll need to make sure they enjoy it enough to choose to go on with it. Megan said numbers taking Spanish are rising; my chance of a permanent job here depends on how well I deliver.

  The lesson takes everything out of me, and I’m shattered by the end of it. Activity after activity with competitions between one half of the class pitted against the other half to test new vocabulary. I still have one more group to teach… Year 8. They’re a lively lot, and they challenge me, chatting so much I want to scream, ‘Shut up’, but I’ve learnt that raising my voice only causes pupils to raise theirs. The opposite often works, so I change my tone to slightly above a whisper. Yay, they start to listen. Go, me!

  Finally, the last bell of the day rings and I dismiss them. Peace descends on my room; I walk to the window and look out through the dusty pane. Below, hordes of kids are queueing for the buses that will take them home, and those that live locally are trooping in the direction of the school gates. I can’t help scanning the crowd for Ryan, and spot him with Josh, Sara and Nia. My two ‘immigrants’ have found friends, and I’m glad of that. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to the boys in my tutor group, and stress the importance of tolerance.

  I pack my bag with the books I’ll need for lesson planning, and step into the corridor. Megan’s classroom is opposite mine and her door is open. “Everything okay?” she calls out.

  As okay as it can be with a noose hanging over my head.

  “Everything’s fine,” I lie.

  The constant worry of what if Ryan has bragged to Josh swirls in my head. He said he wouldn’t, but he could have been lying. I saw in his face that he wasn’t happy when I’d reminded him I was his teacher. Oh, God…

  “There’s something I’d like to run by you,” Meg says, joining me in the corridor.

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve had a message from the teacher who’s in charge of Year 13. Ryan will need to catch up on the material he missed in Year 12, and take his AS Level exams together with his A Levels in the summer. You’ve got an extra free lesson on your timetable, so we’d like you to liaise with Ryan, see if any of his frees coincide with yours. One session a week should do it.”

  “You mean you’d like me to tutor him one-to-one?”

  “Yep.”

  I swallow the lump of unease in my throat. “Perfect.”

  Perfect? Christ, no!

  The noose hanging over my head has just dropped down a notch.

  On Friday of the following week, Ryan sits himself down in front of my desk at the start of the second-last lesson. I’ve deliberately left the door open. It’s bad enough having him in my Year 13 class every day… being with him on his own will be a real test of my professionalism.

  I talk him through the Spanish exam specifications, trying not to let his musky scent affect me. “The topics are quite interesting,” I explain. “Media, popular culture, healthy lifestyle, family and relationships.”

  He furrows his brow. “And?”

  “You’ll need to express your opinion and sustain an argument while I take an opposing view.” I gaze at him, losing myself in his deep blues. His hair is messy, he must have stepped out of the shower and not bothered with a comb.

  Briefly closing my eyes, I smile to myself, remembering Catrin and Eleri telling me the gossip about Ryan as we’d walked out of the school gate together last week, about how he’d stripped off in the showers. “He’s covered in tats and, apparently, he’s hung like a horse,” Catrin had giggled, blushing and covering her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I’ve just said that to a teacher.”

  I’d laughed with the two girls, but now, the thought of Ryan’s package makes me feel more than a little over-heated. I experienced his hardness thrusting into my belly in Ibiza. What would it be like to see it in the flesh? And why am I torturing myself with these inappropriate thoughts?

  I shake my head and he smiles knowingly, as if he’s guessed the effect he has on me. “Is that it?” he asks.

  For a second I’ve no idea what he’s talking about… I’m so distracted. Pull yourself together, girl!

  I take in a deep breath. “You’ll do a written paper. Listen to an MP3 in Spanish and answer questions. There are reading texts and finally a short essay on one of the topics. None of it will be a problem for you as you’re a native speaker.”

  He smirks and his gaze roves down to my cleavage. “Should be easy.”

  I fold my arms across my chest, wishing I hadn’t worn this tight blouse. “What other subjects are you taking?”

  “PE… I really like it.” His expression morphs from lust to boyish enthusiasm. He laughs. “I can’t believe I can earn 30% of the marks from playing rugby. It’s awesome.”

  “Did you play rugby in Ibiza?”

  “All the time.” He unleashes a candid smile. “Are you into sports, Miss?”

  “I love dance.” My cheeks burn as an image pops into my head of the two of us dancing at that club. “Oh, and running. I run every day after school.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “What else are you studying?”

  “Maths, although I’ll probably only do AS. The course is quite difficult, and I’m not a good student. Rugby takes up too much of my time.”

  The reason why he had to repeat a year, I imagine.

  “Ok,” I say, business-like. “We’d better get started. If you get high enough grades in Spanish and PE, you’ll still be able to go to university.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  He beams. “Could I study sport and become a PE teacher?”

  I nod. “Maybe.”

  “It’s my back-up plan. What I’d really like to do is to play professional rugby,” he says with passion. “I’m gonna try out for the Wyemouth Rugby Club. They play in the first division, you know.”

  “That’s great, Ryan.” I slide my hand forward without thinking, but pull it back before touching him. “Why did you and your family move here,
if you don’t mind me asking?”

  It’s like a shutter has come down over his face. “I can’t talk about it.” He picks up a card from my desk and turns it over. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a past speaking exam. Why don’t you have a look at the suggestions and formulate some ideas?”

  For the next fifteen minutes, we converse in Spanish about healthy lifestyles. Ryan has strong opinions about the dangers of drugs and alcohol, and defends his position forcefully. I get him to swap roles, test his ability to assume the opposite point-of-view, and I’m pleased he has the imagination to do so. “Well done,” I smile.

  The next card he turns over instigates a discussion on the pros and cons of school uniforms. I can’t help noticing how well his shirt hugs his broad shoulders, and how the colour compliments his denim-blue eyes. But he tells me he dislikes the uniform intensely, especially having to wear a tie. He pulls at the knot below his collar. “I feel like I’m being strangled,” he groans.

  We move on to the family relationships topic. He tells me that he, his mother and his sister are living with his grandfather. When he asks me about my own family, I reveal that I have a married twin sister and my parents live in Bristol, an hour’s drive from here.

  I set him an essay for homework, and walk him to the door. He pauses, and, without warning, traces his index finger down my cheek, making me gasp. “Can you feel it, Beth?” His eyes lock with mine. “Can you feel the heat between us? It’s driving me crazy.”

  I jump back like I’ve been stung. “Don’t, Ryan,” I murmur. “You’re making things worse.”

  “I knew it,” he says, his tone triumphant. “You do feel it. You feel it as strongly as me.”