Page 11 of The Lineman

“I—uh—what?”

She smiled, utterly unbothered by my impending death. “You know. Are you dating someone?”

I tried to remember how words worked. “That is . . . not an appropriate question to ask a teacher.”

“Why not? We’re just eager to, you know, get to know you better.” She smacked her gum and blinked innocently.

A boy in the back murmured, “Damn, Jessica, let him live,” but he was clearly also invested.

I cleared my throat. “You know what we should get to know? Shakespeare. Because this is English class, not Mr. Albert’sPersonalLife.”

Jessica pooched out an overly painted lower lip. “Ugh. You’re no fun.”

I exhaled, barely having survived another round.

Then something struck: Why was Jessica even in my class twice?

By the time lunch rolled around, I felt like I had been through a minor war.

The kids weren’t bad, per se—just sharp, observant little chaos imps who could smell weakness a mile away.

I grabbed my lunch and headed for the teachers’ lounge, still processing the morning. Once inside the safety of the adult-only chamber, I plopped into a chair and began reading a book I’d brought in case down time was a thing at my new school.

The door creaked open, and in walked a man who looked like he had been sculpted by the gods themselves. He wore a purple polo emblazoned with the flaming mustang, the logo of our vaunted academy’s athletic program. His jet-black hair accented chocolate eyes that reminded me of those boxes filled with goodies, the ones you never knew what was inside until you took a good bite.

Not that I was into eating eyes.

That would’ve been weird.

Mateo Ricci, our head basketball coach, was in his late twenties, built like a tank, with tanned skin, and arms that definitely lifted more than books.

He caught me staring and grinned, giving me a bro nod before dropping into the chair opposite mine.

“New teachers sit with me. It’s a rule. I’m Mateo,” he said, his accent a mix of espresso and tiramisu, all sweet and bitter and begging to be swallowed. “You look lost.”

“Mike.” I set my book down, nodded up, and took a bite of sandwich. “And I look lost because Ifeellost.”

“So,” he said, eyeing me. “First day? How bad?”

I groaned. “It’s been fine, if you consider public humiliation and thinly veiled bullying ‘fine.’”

He laughed. “Let me guess. Jessica hit on you?”

I pointed at him. “That should come with a warning!”

Mateo grinned. “Oh, she does it to all the new male teachers. Last year, she asked Mr. Reynolds if he had an OnlyFans.”

I nearly choked on my soda. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. She’s fearless.” He unwrapped some sort of sub and took a bite. “Just wait till you meet her mother.”

I stared at my lunch. “I am not being paid enough for this.”

“None of us are,” he said, completely unbothered. “So, what do you teach?”

“English. You?”

“World history. Imagine that, they gave the Italian guy history of the world. Is that typecasting or what?”

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