Betting On Love

by Danielle Dickson

  I don’t know why I’m bothering, they’re only friendly matches put on as a courtesy to me; their new British PE teacher. Woo for me. But nevertheless, I want them to be good, but if they can’t even run eight hundred metres without acting like they’re running a marathon then they sure as shit can’t play a whole ninety-minute game of football. Yes football, not soccer like they keep reminding me… it’s definitely football.

  I watch them dribble the black and white ball— poorly—in and out of the cones and decide to just leave them to it for a while and come up with a plan of action, they can’t get any worse, right?

  The bell rings out and I dismiss the class and walk past the back of the old side of the building that’s being renovated. As I get close enough, I can hear Highway to Hell being blasted from the high-ceilinged dining room. I’m sure that the song is inappropriate for a Catholic school so I get curious as to who is playing the track and turn back to have a look at what’s going on.

  When I arrived this morning, it wasn’t to the best of welcomes. Dean Harmon still holds a grudge from when I went to this school nine years ago, he said that he never forgot my “antics.” He nearly canceled the whole job until I assured him that I was nothing but professional and reminded him of the company’s reputation. At first he hesitated before waving me and the guys toward the back of the building to show us what he expected to be done.

  The old building renovation of turning old prayer rooms into classrooms would take the longest. I sent the guys to start clearing everything out of the old rooms while I decided to work on the old dining room so that by the time they’d finished the prep, I’d be done in here to help them. The quicker we finished this job, the better.

  I whistle along to AC/DC on the radio as I plaster up a crack in the wall, feeling the adrenaline pumping through me from being this high up; it must be a fifteen-foot drop at least. I’m attached by my belt to the scaffolding, but it’s still a thrill.

  “Excuse me? Oi!”

  I startle at the voice and the spatula with a full dollop of plaster on it flies off the end, I watch as it careens down toward none other than peachy ass herself, splattering straight onto her forehead. I can’t help but laugh like a hyena as she wipes off the majority of it and flicks it onto the floor before glaring up at me through plaster-covered hair strands.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  I hold up my hands, still laughing. “Hey, you’re the one that shouted up at a man on top of high scaffolding. It’s lucky I didn’t jump back and fall instead of just drop a little bit of plaster.”

  She scowls at me.

  “Lucky for who? I’m frigging covered in it!” My laugh rings out throughout the room and she grits her teeth, her jaw ticking with the tense muscles. “This music is inappropriate for the school, could you please turn it off?”

  I put my hand up to my ear as I smirk. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. You’ll have to speak up.”

  She clenches her fists and raises her voice. “I said you need to turn off the music... you daft prick!”

  I lean against the railing as I watch her walk out of the long room, hips swaying almost to the beat of the music… so I turn it up and watch her back stiffen in annoyance. There’s something about this woman that makes me want to rile her up, I just can’t help myself.

  I think she’s going to turn around, but instead, she storms out of the room and I turn the music down, changing it to a different channel after I think she’s far enough away. What got into her? She was a delight this morning! But I figure this school has something to do with it, it has a way of sucking all of the life out of you. Still, there’s no reason for her to act like she’s any better than me, what a turn off!

  So why can I not stop picturing her ass as I pound into her from behind? She’s clearly not my type. If your type isn’t a sexy, librarian-looking school teacher with long blond hair, caramel-colored eyes and a body to die for.

  Great, now I’ve got a raging hard-on in the middle of a Catholic school. Think of something other than her. Chairs. Books. Priests. Well that didn’t help, now I’m thinking of marriage, and with none other than peachy ass herself. What the—

  I’m scaring myself now. I need to find a way to get her into my bed so I can get her out of my system and my head. How can two run-ins with her leave me feeling so affected?

  It’s the ass, it has to be the ass.

  What a tosser! I can’t believe he just poured plaster all over my head! His ego is obviously bigger than I thought if he thinks that I’d just smile sweetly up at him and fall under his charming spell. So what if he has biceps as big as my head and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps, and thick long hair that calls for me to run my fingers through it… wait, what? I’m supposed to be mad at him, not fantasising about jumping his bones.

  “Miss James? Are you alright?” a voice says.

  I turn around and try to smile at one of the algebra teachers who’s clearly caught me rambling away to myself.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just had a little fight with some plaster. And please, call me Billie.” He tries not to laugh but fails miserably and laughter slips through his lips which makes me laugh in return. “I guess I do look pretty funny, don’t I? I should probably go and shower now before I’m late to talk to the parents. Bye, Mr. Allen.”

  He chuckles again and turns around before going back into his classroom as I walk away swiftly toward my office where I have a private shower to use between classes; a perk of being a PE teacher.

  Stupid, ignorant, egotistical prick! I swear under my breath. I don’t know if I can risk running into him all the time. I came to America for one thing and one thing only: to get over an ex. The last thing I need is some Tarzan-looking player trying to complicate things. I’ve been burned once, I won’t let it happen again.

  It took four lots of shampoo to get all the plaster out of my hair due to the fact some of it had already dried up; it’s a good job that was my last class because I’m now late to parent’s evening, just what I need to finish off a fantastic day. Of course, I’m being sarcastic.

  I quickly brush my long blonde hair and wrap it up into a bun— still wet—at the nape of my neck and pull on my blouse and pencil skirt, slipping on my black patent pointed heels and clicking my way down the hall toward the classroom I was supposed to be in fifteen minutes ago.

  “So sorry I’m late, I had an unfortunate accident with some of the builders’ wall plaster,” I say as I bustle into the room and look around at twenty stern faces. I gulp, oops, I’ve obviously not made the best first impression.

  I clear my throat. “Anyway, my name is Miss James and I’ve only been teaching your kids for a month now, but I can say they’re all great kids.” I get the same blank stare and one of them coughs. Oh bollocks, I’m completely cocking this up. “At the moment, I’m trying to build up their cardiovascular endurance and get them out there and interested in sport—” A stuffy looking woman puts up her hand, interrupting my thought process. “Yes?” I ask, pointing at her.

  She stands up and straightens out her blouse. “Hello, Miss James, I’m sure you already know this but this is a private school, none of us in here care about our child’s... cardiovascular endurance. What we really want to hear about is their academic studies.”

  Several other parents nod and my face flushes before I clear my throat and rifle through some papers on my desk.

  “Yes, of course. Well we’ve been learning the correct terms for the muscle groups and body types, and getting them ready for next year when we—”

  “I’m sorry,” she interrupts. “But what do muscle groups and body types have to do with academic studies? How are they going to help my daughter get into college?”

  That’s it! I’ve had a shitty day and I’m not about to let these entitled, rich parents think they can speak down to me just because I don’t teach core subjects like math or literature. I lean against my desk and cross my arms. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”
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br />   She straightens her shoulders. “Cecelia Harris, I’m Amanda’s mother.”

  I scan my brain to try and remember who Amanda Harris is. Bingo. “Your daughter wants to be a plastic surgeon does she not, Cecelia?”

  She looks around the room with a smirk on her perfectly made-up face. “She does.”

  “And wouldn’t you agree that if she knew all the muscles and how they all work before she goes off to college, she’d have an advantage over any other student in perhaps a school that doesn’t have theory physical education classes?” I ask her.

  She stutters. “I... I—”

  “And until she has the support and guidance at home to do well in my class, she won’t get the grades she needs to pass, therefore dropping her grade point average. So, that is how muscle groups and body types will help get your daughter into college.”

  Her mouth gapes open and closed but she doesn’t say another word, sitting slowly back down in her chair, tucking a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear. None of the parents question me after that, they all sit back and listen intently to the curriculum I’ve put in place.

  At the end of my talk, the parents thank me and file out one by one leaving me feeling smug as I strut my way through the halls to the music playing in the background. Music?

  I look down at my watch, it’s quarter past six, everybody should’ve gone home by now, but I continue to follow the music until it leads back to the room my new pain in the arse was in earlier.

  I sneak a peek around the corner of the doorway and stifle a laugh as I see Mr. Egotistical rolling his hips to Pony by Ginuwine—you know the one, the one from Magic Mike—and if it isn’t a sight to behold.

  I lean against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest as I watch his hips roll in every direction and he does some inappropriate motions with a hammer. I can’t help myself and a laugh slips past my lips that sounds more like a cackle, making him turn around. Any normal person would be embarrassed that they were caught, but he smirks and crooks his finger at me to join him. When I don’t move, he saunters over until he’s standing mere inches away.

  “Like what you see?” he asks, his husky voice caressing my face.

  “You were molesting a hammer, what wasn’t there to like?” I reply sarcastically, smirking back at him.

  He chuckles. “Well we can’t be serious all of the time.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, immediately getting on the defensive.

  “It means that you don’t have to be a stick in the mud all of the time. When I met you this morning you seemed like someone I could have fun with, but in this getup…” His eyes roam my body and they fill with lust as he bites his lips. “You’re sexy as hell, but you have a stick up your ass.”

  I scoff at him. “Fuck off, you threw plaster on my head. How was I supposed to react?”

  He laughs and walks away, putting the hammer back in his tool box. “In my defense... that was your fault.”

  He scoops his hair up into a knot at the back of his head and my eyes drop as his shirt rides up to show off the v sitting just above his tight, dark denim jeans. Damn, I never thought I’d find a man with a top-knot so sexy. He’s like a Greek god. Just a shorter-haired, whiskey-coloured eyed version of Brock O’Hurn.

  He sees me staring and raises his brow as he walks toward me again, but just as I think he’s going to stop, he winks and walks straight past me and out of the door. I take a deep, thankful breath that he’s gone and walk out myself, letting out a little squeal as I walk into his hard, muscled chest on the way out.

  “Bloody hell! Are you always just there all of the time?”

  He snorts. “You looked like you needed a few minutes to cool down. I was just coming back in to walk you to your car.”

  I roll my eyes and walk ahead and down the corridor, not waiting for him. He catches up in a few strides and starts whistling the tune to Pony.

  Reaching the car park, he clears his throat and turns to me. “Do you like Chinese?”

  “What?”

  “I said... Do. You. Like. Chinese?” He enunciates his words like I’m an idiot.

  “I heard you perfectly, I’m just confused,” I reply.

  “Well do you?”

  I scoff and walk off in the direction of my car, needing to be away from the proximity of him.

  “I get it, you like to play hard to get,” he deadpans.

  I spin around, glaring at him. “I caught you in your underwear this morning, then you dump plaster on my head twenty minutes before I’m supposed to speak to parents so I had to shower, making me late, and all you really want to say to me is ‘do you like Chinese’? I don’t even know who you are, but for some strange reason fate has put us together again at this bloody school, so the least you could do is apologise and stop beating around the bush and tell me what it is you really want.”

  He puts his hands palms up, facing me and laughs. “Whoa! Someone has anger issues. I didn’t mean to make you so riled up…” His face says different as he sticks out his hand to me. “We started off on the wrong foot, clearly, my name’s Mac, and I apologize for dropping plaster on your head, even though as we’ve already established, it was kinda your fault.”

  I leave him hanging with the handshake and scoff, turning around to open my car door.

  “You not gonna at least tell me your name?” he asks.

  “It’s Billie with an i e, can I go now?” I look down at his hand on my car door and raise a brow.

  He smirks at me and moves his hand away. I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat, shutting the door as he says, “Well, Billie with an i e, be ready in an hour, we’re going out for Chinese.”

  I roll my eyes, in your dreams, pal.

  A knock on the door startles me and I lick the peanut butter off my fingers before padding over to it and looking through the peephole. I roll my eyes as I see Mac standing there looking delish with his hands in his ripped, light denim jeans pockets like he owns the world.

  Opening the door, I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms over my chest. “How did you know which apartment I live in?”

  A cheeky grin spreads across his face. “Let’s just say I owe the landlord a favor. I can be… very persuasive.”

  I refrain from rolling my eyes again. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  I watch his eyes rove over my pyjama shorts and tank top. “As good as you look, that’s weird going-out attire. I mean, if that’s what you Brits are into then that’s cool, but here in America we like to dress up a little for our dates.”

  “Date? What are you talking about?” I retort.

  He looks down at his dark brown watch. “I told you to be ready in an hour.”

  “Oh, you were actually being serious about that?” I reply sarcastically.

  “You’ve got five minutes to go and get changed. If you’re not ready, then I’ll be carrying you over my shoulder dressed exactly like you are.”

  I take a step back and shut the door in his face, how frigging rude! I shake my head and walk into my open plan kitchen, finishing making my sandwich and cursing at my traitorous stomach as it growls at the thought of Chinese. I push it to the back of my mind and scoff, screwing the lid back on and turning to put the jar back in the cupboard.

  Mac is leant up against my kitchen bench watching me and I jump at the sight of him before I throw the jar across the room, hitting him square in the face. He curses as I stand frozen to the spot, hands covering my mouth.

  “Motherfucker!” he booms, pinching his nose to try to stop the blood from rushing out. “A little help?”

  “Shit,” I say, jumping to action and cringing as I grab one of my white tea towels for him to hold against his nose. He takes it off me while I grab some ice to wrap in another, sighing. I’ve only just bought those.

  “What was that for?” he asks when the blood has stopped and he has the ice pressed to his face.

  “Keep your head tilted back,” I admonish him. �
�You appeared in front of me in my apartment… uninvited, may I add. What did you expect?”

  “Not a sandwich filling thrown at my face. I apologized for the plaster situation, I didn’t think it was that much of a big deal.” He tries to keep a straight face as though he’s mad, but his lip lifting up at the corner tells me he’s just joking with me to try to make me feel bad.

  I do feel a little bad, but it’s his own fault. “More importantly, how did you get into my apartment? I shut my door.”

  He smiles slightly and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a key. “Master key. Snuck it off the landlord one time when I was wasted and never gave it back.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I could get you done for breaking and entering.”

  “Get me done? I’m guessing that means you’ll call the cops?” he asks, sitting down on one of my stools at the breakfast bar.

  “Don’t make yourself at home! You need to leave.”

  “Leave? The least you could do is humor me and come out for Chinese. You did just nearly break my nose.”

  “For breaking into my apartment!” I scoff.

  “I have a key, remember? I didn’t break into anything,” he says so sweet like butter wouldn’t melt.

  “You know what I meant,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.

  He pulls the ice away and feels around the area. “Alright, let me try something different. Billie, would you please grace me with your presence tonight? The restaurant is just around the corner and all you have to do is throw on a pair of jeans.” He grins. “I’ll be eternally grateful if you would just do me this honor. It’s got to be better than having a peanut butter sandwich.”