Page 2 of The Cheerleader is Off Limits

We met before she was a student.

My. Fucking. Student.

And she’s of age—I pause, and my eyes widen.

Wait, how old is she?

She was twenty- one! I’ve seen her ID. We had a drink at multiple bars over the past week.

Yeah, because high school seniors have no way of obtaining fake IDs.

And wait… a few of those nights she didn’t drink.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

I’d had a hard enough time coming to terms with the fact that she was twenty-one, and now she’s probably what, a few days over eighteen?

What if she’s not?

My heart begins pounding even faster, and I drop to the chair at my desk and immediately log in to the school’s portal and pull up the records of all my students. After going through a few not to draw attention to the fact that I’m about to pore over one particular student’s file, I see her name.

Sloane Hunter.

I click her name, and for the first time in the past five minutes, I feel the firstvery tinybit of relief to see that she’s nineteen. She’s actually closer to twenty than nineteen, not that it matters, but it makes itmarginallybetter.

At least I’m not going to jail for sleeping with a minor, and I am never touching her again, so I can safely say that I have never had any inappropriate contact with a student. I immediately go to my phone, block her number, and consider deleting our messages, which include some spicy texts and a few pictures showing both of our faces. But in case things blow up, I’ll have proof that she’d spent a little over a week lying to me about everything and that I’d have no way of knowing that she’d be my student, given that I thought she was preparing to be a freshman at a fucking university an hour away.

I didn’t know. I had no way of knowing.

I briefly remember the night I filmed and took pictures of us messing around, and while I deleted them, would there be a way to retrieve them?

Fuck.

If I could somehow convince people that our texts didn’t necessarily mean that we’d slept together, those videos and photos of my tongue in her cunt and her mouth wrapped around my dick surely would.

Anger comes to the forefront of my senses, and I feel some of the panic calming within me because she put me in the most impossible situation without my knowledge.

Does it matter, though?

She can’t be serious. How did she think she’d get away with this?

Even if she didn’t go to this school, she thought she could get away with being in fucking HIGH SCHOOL, and I’d never find out?

She thought she could get away with being a cheerleader in the county in which I coach football, and I’d NEVER FIND OUT?!

My mind is practically screaming, and I could jump out of my skin with the raging anxiety coursing through me.

After a brief scan of her file, I see that most of what she told me is true regarding her background and family.

Not that it matters.

None of this matters because I fucked a student.

I fucked a student multiple times.

In multiple positions.

I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could rid my brain of the visuals of my head between her legs, her tight body on top of mine, her soft lips wrapped around me while she was on her knees—STOP.