A teacher with secrets meets her strict Sir match. Izzy earns hot bedroom lessons but scoring as Sir’s mistress brings red cards and penalties.
Teacher and football fan turned secret erotica author Izzy Tennant needs full-on steam scenes and real-life experience for her debut novel. Ex-premier league footballer now PE head Will Darby has the moves but his sports pedigree causes friction. Their sass threatens a lust volcano or an ugly fistfight. The sensual tension builds to an inferno when they re-enact erotica scenes at his player mansion.
Scoring items on her X-rated kink list provides Izzy with bestseller spice. But how will her Penalty Master take the revelation that he’s just research? And how will Izzy handle the news that Will’s keeping secrets of his own? Falling for her sex mentor and craving his extreme play wasn’t part of the bonk-buster plan. Nor was reliving past hurts in action replay.
Scoring with Sir is a contemporary romantic erotic comedy with a Glee setting, a Dom/sub secret, a football crazy heroine and an A-list football star hero. Banter and bedroom action guaranteed and fantasies scored in memorable style.
General Release Date: 10th May 2016
“Dis me and you’re roadkill.”
“You and whose skankwad army, loserboy?”
It’s a gray Monday morning and I can’t miss the yelled swearing across the school car park. My iPhone’s Bruno Mars megamix can’t sweeten the F-bomb napalm by the third years at the tennis courts. I long to flee but I still have hours of teaching torture ahead.
Today will herald a watershed in my life. Because I—Izzy Tennant, English teacher at Netherfield Secondary School in Barnet, North London—have a secret. Over the years, I’ve hidden the real me behind the mask of an oh-so-nice and proper English teacher. But at heart I have dark, private appetites. I may teach the classics of literature to kids that don’t give a stuff by day, but at night I’m an insatiable erotica-holic.
Little do I realize that my fantasies are about to ignite with a man who can liberate these passions.
This is the story of my journey.
With he who must be called Sir.
* * * *
If David Attenborough studied chavvy North London school kids, instead of mating penguins ice-bonking for hours, he’d explain the brawling teenager ritual. I’ve consumed insufficient coffee to try. I beeline for the school’s back door but the yelling mob turns and charges straight toward me.
“Is it true, Miss Tennant?” asks Darren Blackwater. He has the name and look of a repugnantly splendid extra in Game of Thrones. One you hope will get impaled before the ad break. From what his mother said at open day he’s no stranger to sticky ends—he gets a little too much solo bedroom exercise and I don’t mean kickboxing his punch-bag.
“Tell us,” Eddie Childs butts in. “They’re sayin’ ’es comin’ ’ere? We’re askin’ you cos, for a woman and a teacher, you know most about football.”
I yank out my iPhone earbuds, succeeding in thwacking myself in the teeth. I remember not to swear but shouldn’t bother—none of the pupils pay me such regard.
“I’ve nothing to impart. And no time at present, boys.”
But Darren, Small Lord of the Blackwater and perpetrator of much school evil, is not mollified. “Ethan’s brother said we’re gettin’ a new PE teacher and ’e’s famous. Tell us if it’s true, miss.”
My tooth’s throbbing. I’m more interested in calculating if I’ve brought painkillers or my dentist’s number.
“I don’t know anything about a new teacher.”
“Ethan’s bruvver said, miss,” says Darren, “’E ’erd it from Matt Riley. ’Is mum’s a cleaner an’ she reads stuff on the desks. An ex-premier league player as head of phys ed, she says.”
“If Matt’s mum’s so good at surveillance, who is he?”
Always answer a challenge with a question. This is my ‘teacher’s gold’ tactic. “Tell Matt Riley he should employ his mother’s reading habits himself if he wants to pass English.”
I walk away, feeling like Khaleesi in Game of Thrones and pretending I look like her. Then I hear words uttered from behind a hand.
“Told ya she don’t effin’ know. Told ya not ta bovver!”
It’s Mickey Peters. The boy who dented my car bonnet with a cricket ball. I pounce like a cougar.
“Peters!” I yell and his rigor mortis response gives me a delicious trickle of thrill. “Another word and it’ll be detention and Mr. Rogerson’s office. If I hear another curse, I’ll be mentioning Matt Riley’s mother. Then you’ll have Knuckles Riley at your door and he’s only weeks out of detention center.”
They pout at me but I’m already high-fiving myself from atop my high horse.
“If I knew about the school’s latest staff member, do you think I’d tell a car smasher? Disperse now.”
I’m only through the door when Jack Carson, school janitor, corners me breathlessly. Creosote Carson, as he’s affectionately nicknamed, is out of puff.
“Are you still seeing the doctor about your emphysema, Jack? If not, you need to go and get checked out.”
Jack stops me with a hand. “Izzy, love, we’re getting a new teacher.”
I’m more worried about his dicky ticker and the wheeze like my nana’s busted accordion than school staffing. “I know. Apparently he’s a premier league footballer. As if.” I roll eyes.
Jack stares with squished‑up eyebrows. “How in feck’s name did you know that, girl?”
Jack has fingered more gossip pies than Betty Crocker—he’s a loveable Columbo with a wood preserver and chutney-stained coat. I hate to see him thus disappointed.
“Heard it from the future prison inmate reserves in the car park.”
“Then you’ll already know the worst.”
“I know the bare minimum, Jack. It’s best with Viagra Rogerson in charge.”
Jack’s jowls wobble at me. “The new sports head—he only used to play for feckin’ Spurs, Izzy. Sacrilege! And us Gunners lifers—a viper in our midst.”
I take this as my cue—Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen, could play this no better. I throw down my bags and breathe deeply, closing my eyes. Then I stare at Jack with the iced fire of Boadicea.
“Oh fuck. Bollocks. Crap. Piss. No!”
In the religion that is Arsenal Football Club, at the cathedral that is the Emirates, I am bishop in training to Carson’s cardinal of fan worship.
Being a loyal season ticket holder for two decades solid does not come without fortitude and sacrifice. Nor does it allow for a high‑caliber Tottenham Hotspur ex-striker to come waltzing into our school staffroom without comment.
We’re reeling—and I don’t mean doing Riverdance—as we head past phys ed toward the English corridor.
“Who is it?”
“You don’t wanna know, girl.”
“I do. You can’t not tell me.” Much as I’m dreading the answer, there’s no avoiding it.
“Brilliant finisher—two hundred and five goals in two hundred and fifty games. He joined Spurs juniors in 1994…”
“Naff off, Carson! Don’t play Question of Sport with me at eight‑forty‑two on a Monday morning or I’m liable to kick you hard. My shoes are killing me, I set fire to the toaster this morning and my key broke in the back door again. Spit it out in the name of Arsene Wenger.”
He pouts but his stare goes soul deep, so intense I see the name before he speaks.
“Darby. Will bloody Darby!” we say in unison.
I take a step backward to hold on to the wall for support and my ankles feel wobbly.