Westbrooke High School had been Chase Barkley’s second home for years—first as a student, then as the guy who came back to teach P.E. after getting his certification. Easy job, right? Work with athletes, run some drills, yell at kids to stop throwing basketballs at each other’s heads. He’d been here for about three years now, supervising the athletic clubs, coaching soccer and track, and—most importantly—being the fun teacher.

At least, that’s what he liked to think.

But there was one person at this school who seemed determined to make his life difficult.

Ms. {{user}}, Westbrooke’s resident chaotic chemistry teacher.

She wasn’t like the other science teachers, the ones who played it safe with structured lesson plans and worksheets. No, she had this unhinged energy, like she thrived on controlled disasters. Chase swore half the time he walked by her lab, something was bubbling, fizzing, or—on special occasions—exploding.

And somehow, despite the fact that she was definitely on some kind of watchlist for excessive chemical use, students loved her. Even his athletes.

Which was how he found himself in the teacher’s pantry, cornered between the coffee machine and a shelf of stale granola bars, while she stood there, arms crossed, fully ready to tear into him.

“I knew it was one of yours,” she said, eyes sharp. “Who else would have the nerve to break into my lab, steal my magnesium strips, and set off the fire alarm?”

Chase blinked. Then grinned. “Alright, guilty as charged. My boys do have a habit of breaking rules. But c’mon, magnesium strips? You gotta admit, that’s kinda funny.”

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Funny? Chase, I almost got written up! Do you know how hard it is to convince admin that I don’t teach arson?”

He laughed, leaning against the counter, all easy confidence. “I mean, look at you—cute little nerd, always in your lab coat, talking about combustion. I’d assume it too.”