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MyfacethrobbedasI carefully stroked my fingertips over the red mark on my cheek. I couldn’t believe what had happened, and it had been completely my fault.
Not that I usually stood around in the gym and watched people run. I wasn’t a creep. But there were only so many times you could watch someone almost kill themselves on a treadmill, and I hadn’t been thinking. I somehow slipped into teacher mode and wanted to tell the guy who was about to fall flat on his face that his shoelaces were undone, make sure he didn’t hurt himself. He fell anyway, and now I’d have to stand in front of my classes for the next week with this bruise on my face and a high probability of a matching black eye. There was already a tinge of green forming under my eye.
The whole incident had taken me back to my own schooldays, triggering a wild range of junk in my head that I didn’t really want to remember. I’d once hit this kid square in the face over him calling me some derogatory name or other. He’d hit back. My one and only teenaged detention, and I’d been forced to spend it in a room with that very guy. We’d never spoken again.
These days, I sat through intervention meetings with my own students and dished out the same punishments. Nothing had changed, apart from that as a teacher, I tried. I spoke to these kids like grown-ups, but I remembered how that had felt. I tried to see them. I tried to be a better teacher than the ones I’d had growing up, but at the end of the day, I was human. Something I was once again reminded of as I grimaced into the mirror.
Story of my life.
I snapped a quick selfie—not out of vanity, but out of self-pity—wondering if I could call in sick for the coming week, send the picture to the head and ask for some compassionate time off. My headteacher was an understanding soul, and nobody knew better than me how it would look going into work in the morning with a black eye and a mangled face. Everyone would be asking questions, raising concerns over an imaginary abusive partner or something. I shuddered. I’d just have to tell the truth.
Not that anyone would believe the truth.Oh, my face? Got into a fight with that Cass Powell off TV, mate. Was nothing. You should see the state of him!
I cringed a little at the thought. Children could be cruel at the best of times, and being a teacher, a certified proper adult with a degree, didn’t mean shit when you were dealing with kids. You stood at the front of that classroom, and you were judged on every inch of your worn-out body. I’d learnt all those things the hard way as a kid myself.
Now I thought carefully about what I wore. My shirts were smart and tailored to fit, my tie always on point and subtle. On my ID, I had a neutral expression on my stern face, and I went to the gym like a good human being, not just to make sure that those shirts looked good over my skin, but also because it was no mean feat being a teacher. I may not have been lifting weights, but life in an inner-city school meant that I was on my feet all day long. I’d given up on counting my steps because I’d hit the target every day without fail, and you needed strength to deal with the fights, the gangs, the threats. The kids who dealt with life very differently from how I’d grown up.
I’d taken this job, my first teaching job, with gratitude, thinking I would move on within the year to a better school in a nicer area with gentler students and better attitudes. Yet years later, there I was, head of Year 8, still trying to instil a love of maths and history into kids whose life experiences I could barely comprehend. I had compassion, of course I did, but it was a hard pill to swallow when you tried to help these students only to be stabbed in the back as soon as you let your guard down.
It wasn’t all hopeless. I’d gain a few kudos points on my form kids’ scoresheets, walking into class looking like I’d just won a round against Tyson Fury, and it wasn’t as if I’d been that handsome to start with. My dark curly hair was probably my best feature. My ears… Yeah. I wasn’t going to go there. They were mine, and they would always stick out, like the rest of me. Full of angles, all ‘skin and bone’. Hey, maybe the extra bulk in my cheek would add to my looks!
I showered quickly and got dressed. I hadn’t even finished my workout, but I was too embarrassed to stay. Another wave of shame washed over me because this place had always felt safe. Nobody knew me here, and I treasured my time in the evenings, running for miles on that treadmill, losing myself in my music.
God knew what I’d do if I ran into that guy again. He was usually here when I rolled in, always wearing headphones and keeping to himself. He was a bit like me, a gym loner in his own world, staring out into nothing.
And no, I wasn’t a creep, but he had an aura around him. He was one of those handsome guys, built and strong, pale skin full of freckles and lines. Perfectly messy, thick, blonde hair. Legs for days. And he had the most…I blushed and pulled my hoodie over my head. Hood up. Eyes down.
The guy had an arse to die for. One I wanted to sink my teeth in and just… Ugh.
Out of my league. Definitely.
I’d had my fair share of nice hook-ups. Really nice hook-ups. I liked my men built. Tall, bulky and strong. I also really…really…liked sex. But it took a bit of effort to gear myself up for those kinds of encounters. I wasn’t into clubbing and going out, so apps had worked well for me. I had a nice flat, but that was home. So, I’d usually spring for a cheap hotel room across the road and meet someone for an hour of casual fun, no strings attached.
Not that it was something I’d brag about. I wasn’t the kind of guy people asked to see again, and the men I hooked-up with were not the kind of guys I’d want a repeat performance with. It was easier in your head when the parameters were firmly set. One hour. Sex. A lazy kiss goodbye. No guilt attached.
I laughed ruefully as I tapped my card against the gate reader and headed out into the cool evening air. The light was fading, and I paused to grab my phone from my bag. I was starving, and my fridge was bare. I had a bunch of assignments to go through for tomorrow, and the noodles from the takeaway on the corner were calling me like some siren. I could smell them, my stomach growling.
“Hey!”
I spun around.
Oh…bummer.
“Hey…”
There he was. I even knew his name. His real name. Inspector Cass Powell.
“You, all right, mate? I’m so, so sorry.”
His name was not Cass Powell. I knew that. But my mind was suddenly blank. He was taller up close. Broader. Freshly showered and wearing a wrinkled tracksuit.
“I’m…” I stuttered out. I was better than this, but he had this strange air about him. “I’m OK, thank you. No harm done.”
I took a step back. He moved with me and reached out to grab my arm.
“I didn’t mean to hit you like that. I was in my own world, and I didn’t see you.”
“It’s all right. Honestly.”
