Slide into his DMs
A/N: this came to me two weeks ago when my students were asking me about my personal life. They asked me what my type was and I showed them a picture of Timo, because why not, and they were begging me to slide into his DMs... I didn't, but I did think it would be a great story.
Pairing: Timo Meier x teacher!reader
Words: 7,5k
Warning(s): none
Sunlight spilt through the tall classroom windows, stretching across the rows of desks where your students were clearly already done with the day. Backpacks were half-zipped, notebooks were closed, and more than one student kept glancing at the clock, as if staring at it might make the seconds move faster. The last ten minutes of class always felt the longest. You capped your marker and stepped away from the whiteboard.
“Alright,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “chapter six, questions one through five. Full sentences, please. I know some of you like to answer in three words.”
A few groans echoed around the room.
“You’ll survive,” you said, leaning casually against your desk.
Your classroom walls were covered in maps, grammar charts, and posters meant to inspire academic motivation. But there was one decoration your students always paid special attention to.
Next to your desk hung a bright red jersey. Across the back of it, in bold white letters, was the name Timo Meier. Above it, pinned neatly to the wall, was a poster of the New Jersey Devils. You had insisted it was simply classroom decoration but your students knew better.
A hand slowly went up in the second row.
You eyed the student suspiciously. “Yes?”
He tried very hard not to smile. “Miss… can I ask you something?”
“That depends,” you replied carefully.
A girl near the window turned around in her chair, already grinning.
“It’s important.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“…Go ahead.”
The boy cleared his throat dramatically.
“Is it true that if the Devils win tonight, you’re wearing your jersey to school tomorrow?” The classroom burst into laughter.
You tried to look offended. “I wear my jersey whenever I want.”
“But they are playing tonight, right?” another student asked.
“Yes.”
“And,” someone added from the back, “Timo Meier is playing.”
You dropped your pen onto your desk and stared at them. “Oh my god.” You covered your face with your hands in embarrassment. The laughter got louder. “You guys act like I’m obsessed.”
“You are,” three students said at once.
“I am not.”
A girl raised her hand like she was presenting a formal argument. “Last week you used the Devils power play to explain teamwork.”
“That was an educational example,” you argued.
“And the week before that,” someone added, “you paused class because Meier scored.”
“That was a very exciting moment,” you try to convince them and explain yourself.
Another student gestured toward the wall. “Miss, his jersey is literally hanging behind you.”
You glanced back at it and sighed. “…It’s a nice jersey.”
A quiet pause filled the room. Then one of the girls slowly opened Instagram on her laptop. Her eyes lit up.
“Oh my god.” You immediately shook your head. “No.”
“Guys,” she whispered excitedly.
“No.”
“I have an idea.”
You pointed at her. “Don’t.” But it was a lost cause because the student turned the laptop slightly so a few students nearby could see. On the screen was the profile of Timo Meier.
“Miss,” she said, barely containing her excitement, “you should DM him.”
The classroom exploded.
“Yes!” “DO IT!” “SLIDE INTO HIS DMS!”
“Absolutely not.” You stared at them in disbelief.
“Why not?” someone asked immediately.
“Because he’s a professional hockey player!”
“And?”
“And he has millions of followers!”
“And?”
“And I am a teacher being peer pressured by a room full of teenagers.”
A boy leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”
“…Did you just quote Wayne Gretzky at me?” You stared at him.
“Yes.”
You rubbed your temples. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Just say good luck,” someone suggested. “That’s not weird.”
“And say we made you do it!” Another student added.
You looked down at your phone sitting on your desk. Your students were watching you with the intensity of a playoff crowd.
“…Fine,” you sighed. The room instantly went silent.
“But if this ruins my life,” you added, unlocking your phone, “you’re all writing essays about peer pressure.”
“Deal.”
You opened Instagram and pulled up his profile. Your heart started beating a little faster the moment the message box appeared.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “What do I write?”
Hands shot up immediately.
“Say hi!” “Say you’re a teacher!” “Say we made you do it!” “Don’t sound creepy!”
You started typing while they called out suggestions.
Hi! This might be a random message, but my students convinced me to send it.
Several students leaned forward.
“Yes!” “Good!”
You kept typing. I’m a teacher and a big fan of the New Jersey Devils.
“Add good luck!” someone shouted.
You smiled slightly and added another line. Just wanted to say good luck in tonight’s game.
You read the message again. It was simple, friendly and most importantly it was a safe message.
“That’s perfect,” a girl said. “Send it!”
You hesitated for a second longer.
“This is the worst decision I’ve ever made,” you said.
“Send it!”
You tapped the button, and the classroom erupted.
“MISS Y/L/N DM’D TIMO MEIER!” “THIS IS HISTORY!” “WE DID IT!”
The bell rang moments later, and your students grabbed their bags, still laughing as they headed for the door. One of them pointed at you.
“When he replies, you have to tell us!”
You shook your head, smiling. “He’s not going to reply.”
“Maybe he will,” another student said with a grin.
Soon the classroom was empty again. You slipped your phone back into your bag, already regretting giving into to the peer pressure from your students. For Christ’s sake, you were better than this… but it seems like you weren’t. You could easily delete the message and pretend it never happened, but for some reason you were also very curious to see if anything would come from this.
Days passed by, school continued like normal. You were teaching, giving out homework and tests, correcting papers and answering student’s questions—normal ones about schoolwork.
The first few days your students would ask about the message once or twice, but when you told them there had been no reply, the excitement faded quickly. Eventually, even you stopped thinking about it. The message became one of those funny classroom moments that made everyone laugh for a day or two and then disappeared into the background of busy life.
Two weeks later, on a quiet Thursday evening, you were sitting on your couch grading the English essays of your third-year class. The TV played softly in the background, showing highlights from a New Jersey Devils game, which you hadn’t even been paying full attention to. Your red jersey was draped over the back of the couch. You were halfway through a particularly long essay when your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Without looking up, you reached for it. It was probably your sister in the family group chat. You unlocked the screen, and then you see it, an Instagram notification. Your eyes moved lazily to the name, and your brain froze. It was a message from none other than Timo Meier.
You blinked. Once. Twice.
“…Wait.” You say out loud. Your heart suddenly started racing as you opened the message. There it was. An actual reply from him.
Sorry for the late reply. Your students convinced you to message me? That might be the best reason I’ve heard to slide into someone’s DM 😄
You sat there staring at the screen in complete shock. You had completely forgotten you even sent that message. And now, two weeks later, he had actually replied. You leaned back slowly against the couch, staring at the phone in disbelief. Your classroom was going to lose its mind if you told them what happened tomorrow morning. Should you tell them? They had forgotten all about the message, they hadn’t asked any questions about it. Should you just keep this to yourself?
You weighted the pros and cons for a few minutes and then decided that you would keep it to yourself. If they asked you would answer them honestly, but it felt like now it turned into something more personal. Something that should not be shared with thirty 14-year-olds.
You set your phone down on the coffee table and stared at the stack of essays in front of you. For a moment, the words on the page blurred together. Your brain couldn’t focus on the words in front of you. Timo had actually replied. Not only had he seen your message… he had replied. Two weeks later, but still. Your heart was still beating faster than it should have been. You picked up the phone again, rereading the message. You let out a quiet laugh.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself.
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment. You could reply now, but then another thought crept in. If you answered immediately… wouldn’t that make it look like you had been waiting around for his reply?
You quickly locked the phone and placed it face down on the table.
“Nope,” you said to the empty living room. “We are being normal about this.”
You forced yourself to focus on the essays again. Adjectives. Grammar mistakes. Argument structure. But every few minutes your eyes drifted back to the phone.
Eventually you finished the last essay, stacked the papers neatly, and stretched your arms above your head. The message was still there. You read it one more time. A smile tugged at your lips.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Tomorrow.”
You placed your phone on the nightstand later that evening and turned off the light, but sleep didn’t come quite as easily as usual.
The next morning felt different. It wasn’t a big and dramatic change but just enough that you noticed. You stood in your kitchen stirring your coffee while your phone sat on the counter beside you.
The message was still open. It was still real. You stared at the blank reply box.
“Okay,” you murmured.
Your fingers slowly started typing. I can confirm they were very proud of themselves that day. You paused and deleted it. That seemed too awkward. So you tried again. They were definitely proud of themselves. You frowned and deleted that too.
“Why is this harder than grading essays,” you muttered.
You took a sip of coffee and tried again.
They spent an entire class period convincing me it was a good idea. That sounded… somewhat normal, right? That sounded friendly and not weird.
You hesitated for a moment longer before you pressed send. Your stomach immediately flipped. You locked your phone and grabbed your bag before you could overthink it.
By the time you arrived at school, you had mostly convinced yourself to act completely normal.
Completely.
Totally.
Absolutely normal.
Unfortunately, your students seemed to notice something was off almost immediately.
You walked into the classroom, setting your bag down on your desk and trying to organize your papers.
A few students were already inside chatting.
One of them squinted at you. “Miss?”
“Yes?” You looked up quickly.
“…Are you okay?”
You blinked. “Of course.”
“You seem nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
Another student leaned back in his chair.
“You’re pacing.”
You immediately stopped walking across the room. “I am not pacing.”
“You just walked from the desk to the window three times.”
“I was thinking.” You crossed your arms defensively.
“About what?” someone asked.
“Teacher things.”
That answer clearly satisfied absolutely no one.
A girl tilted her head. “You look like you’re waiting for something,” she said.
“I am waiting for the bell,” you said quickly.
The students exchanged suspicious looks.
One of the boys pointed toward the wall where the red jersey still hung.
“Did the New Jersey Devils lose again or something?”
You laughed a little too quickly.
“No! Nothing like that.”
Another student shrugged. “Maybe she’s just had too much coffee.”
“That’s probably it,” someone else agreed.
You quietly exhaled in relief as they returned to their conversations. You were trying very hard not to look at your phone. It sat inside your bag on your desk, completely silent, yet somehow it felt like it was calling your attention every few seconds.
You had sent the message less than an hour ago. He was probably at practice. Or travelling. Or doing anything other than answering Instagram messages. Still, the curiosity itched at the back of your mind.
You picked up a stack of papers and forced yourself to focus on the lesson plan for the day.
“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands lightly to get the class’s attention. “Everyone take out your notebooks.”
Chairs scraped across the floor as students shifted and reached into their bags.
“Today we’re going to talk about persuasive writing.”
You started explaining the assignment, writing a few key points on the whiteboard. Your handwriting was neat, but your thoughts kept drifting.
Did he see the message yet?
No. Stop it.
You turned back to the class.
“Your task is to write a short argument about a topic you care about. Something you feel strongly about.”
A hand shot up immediately.
You pointed at the student. “Yes?”
“Can it be about why the New Jersey Devils are the best team in the NHL?”
The class laughed. You tried not to smile.
“As long as you support your argument with good reasoning,” you said.
“Easy,” the student replied confidently.
Another hand went up. “Can I argue that Timo Meier is the best player?”
Your marker froze halfway through writing on the board. You slowly turned around.
“Focus,” you said, trying to sound stern. More laughter rippled through the room.
You continued the lesson, explaining the structure of an argument, walking between the desks while students started brainstorming their topics.
Every few minutes your eyes drifted toward your desk. Toward your bag. Toward the phone inside.
Don’t check it.
You stopped beside one student’s desk.
“Good topic,” you said, reading his first sentence. “But explain why you think that.”
He nodded and started writing again. You moved on to the next desk. Another ten minutes passed and still no buzzing from your bag.
See? Nothing to worry about. You were just overthinking everything.
Eventually the class settled into the quiet hum of writing and thinking. Pens scratched across paper. Someone tapped their foot against the floor. The occasional whisper passed between desks.
You walked back to your desk and sat down, pretending to organize papers. Your bag sat beside you, your phone was right there.
Just check quickly. No.
You lasted about thirty more seconds. Then you carefully reached into your bag, pulling the phone out just enough so it was hidden behind the stack of papers on your desk.
You unlocked the screen and immediately opened Instagram. Your stomach dropped slightly when you opened the messages. Still nothing. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Miss?”
You jumped slightly, locking the phone and looking up. A girl in the front row was watching you.
“Yes?”
“Can you read this sentence? I think it sounds weird.”
You stood up quickly.
“Of course.”
You walked over to her desk, grateful for the distraction.
It was better to focus on teaching than waiting around for a hockey player to reply to a DM.
The rest of the class passed fairly normally after that. When the bell finally rang, students packed their bags and headed toward the door.
One of them paused on the way out. “You seem less nervous now, Miss.”
You blinked. “I was never nervous.”
“Sure,” he said with a grin before leaving.
Soon the classroom was empty again. You leaned back in your chair and looked down at your phone. There was still no reply. You shrugged and slipped it back into your bag. See, nothing to panic about. He had taken two weeks to answer the first message. A few hours were nothing.
Later that afternoon, you were sitting at your desk during your free period, quietly grading assignments. The hallway outside was peaceful, broken only by distant footsteps and the muffled sound of another class somewhere down the corridor.
Your phone buzzed. You didn’t even think about it at first. It was probably another school email, but then it buzzed again.
You glanced down. An Instagram notification. Your heart skipped. You unlocked the phone slowly, and there it was.
A new message from Timo. Your stomach flipped as you opened it.
Sounds like they run the classroom then 😄
Another message followed a second later.
Do they always get you to do things like that?
You stared at the screen for a moment, a smile slowly spreading across your face. Well, that was definitely not the direction you expected your Thursday to go. You read the messages again just to make sure they were real. A quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
You quickly looked around the empty classroom, half-expecting someone to be standing in the doorway watching you grin at your phone like an idiot, but the room was quiet. Your free period had only just started, and most of the hallway noise had faded.
You looked back down at the messages. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard and typed something before deleting it and retyping again, but you deleted that too.
“Why is this so stressful?” you muttered under your breath. Eventually you forced yourself to stop overthinking and just answer.
Only when they think it will embarrass me.
You hesitated, then added another line.
Which, unfortunately for me, happens quite often.
You hit send before you could rethink it. For a moment nothing happened.
You placed the phone face down on the desk and tried to return to grading. You made it through exactly two sentences of a student’s assignment before your phone buzzed again. Your hand moved automatically. You flipped the phone over. There was another message from Timo. Your heart did that strange little jump again.
That sounds dangerous.
You laughed softly.
You have no idea, you typed back.
There was a short pause this time before another message appeared.
So, did they make you send that message as part of a lesson or just for their own entertainment?
You smiled at that.
Definitely their own entertainment.
You paused, then added: I’m pretty sure half the class thought it would be funny if you blocked me.
Three dots appeared almost immediately. You watched them nervously.
Then his reply came: That would have been kind of mean.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, relaxing for the first time since opening the messages. This felt surprisingly normal, like you were chatting with someone you already knew.
Another message appeared. What do you teach?
You typed your answer. English.
A few seconds passed. That explains the persuasive argument your students made.
You actually laughed out loud at that. The sound echoed slightly in the empty classroom. For the next few minutes, the conversation continued in short bursts. Nothing dramatic, just some easy, and simple messages. He asked how old your students were. You told him fourteen.
He replied: That’s a dangerous age.
You answered: You’re telling me.
You didn’t notice how much time had passed until the bell rang somewhere down the hall, signalling the end of the next period. You blinked and looked at the clock. You had spent almost twenty minutes messaging him. Your next class would arrive any minute.
You quickly typed one more message.
I should probably get ready for my next class before they start wondering where I disappeared to.
A reply came a moment later. Probably a good idea. Then another message appeared right after. Good luck with them.
You smiled. Thanks. I’ll need it.
You slipped the phone back into your bag just as the first students started entering the classroom.
Over the next few days, something small began to change. You didn’t notice it right away, but your students did. It started with little things. You smiled more during lessons. You laughed more easily when someone made a joke. You were even making some jokes yourself.
One morning you walked into class humming quietly to yourself while setting your bag down on the desk.
A student immediately looked up.
“Miss?”
You glanced over. “Yes?”
“…Why are you in such a good mood?”
You blinked. “I’m always in a good mood.”
Several students exchanged sceptical looks. “Not like this,” someone said. Another student leaned back in his chair, studying you. “You’re smiling a lot.”
“I smile normally,” you said defensively.
“You were humming when you walked in.”
You froze slightly. “I was not.”
“Yes, you were.”
You grabbed a marker and turned toward the whiteboard. “Open your notebooks,” you said quickly. “We’re starting the lesson.”
But the class wasn’t convinced. A girl near the front tilted her head thoughtfully. “Did something good happen?”
Your stomach did a tiny flip, but you chose not to answer that question. You tried to focus on preparing the lesson. But every now and then, your phone buzzed quietly inside your bag. Each time it happened, a small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
Apparently, your students noticed. One of the boys leaned toward his friend and whispered—loud enough that you could still hear it.
“She’s definitely happier today.”
“Maybe the Devils won.”
Another student shook his head. “No, she would’ve worn the jersey.”
A girl glanced at you thoughtfully. “Maybe something good happened.”
You quickly turned around before they could see the smile spreading across your face. Your phone buzzed again. You were in the middle of explaining the difference between a claim and supporting evidence, but the faint vibration from inside your bag was impossible to ignore.
You tried to keep your voice steady.
“Remember,” you said, writing on the board, “a strong argument always explains why—” You paused. A few students looked up.
“You okay, Miss?” someone asked.
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Continue writing your introductions.”
You turned back to the board, but your focus was completely gone now. Your phone buzzed again. Alright, that was suspicious. You walked calmly back to your desk, pretending to grab a marker. Instead, you slipped your phone halfway out of your bag and glanced at the screen.
Another message from Timo. Your stomach did a small flip as you opened the chat.
Do you always teach persuasive writing this seriously?
A smile immediately tugged at your lips. You quickly typed back.
Only when I’m being judged by thirty teenagers.
You sent the message before you could overthink it and slid the phone back into your bag. A minute later, it buzzed again. You definitely shouldn’t check it during class. You absolutely shouldn’t, but you checked it anyway.
That sounds like a tough crowd. You bit back a laugh. You have no idea.
Three dots appeared again. You watched them for a second before forcing yourself to put the phone down. Then another message came through. It might be easier to talk somewhere other than Instagram.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. The next message appeared almost immediately.
If you’re comfortable with it, you could send me your number.
Your heart skipped. You stared at the screen for a long moment. This was suddenly very real. You glanced around the classroom. Your students were busy writing their persuasive essays, completely unaware that their teacher was currently debating whether or not to give her phone number to an NHL player.
You let out a quiet breath and then you typed.
I think my students would lose their minds if they knew this conversation was happening. You pressed send.
His reply came quickly. They’re the reason it started.
That made you laugh quietly. You thought for another moment, but you finally decided to give him your number. You stared at it. Once you sent it, there was no taking it back.
“…Okay,” you whispered to yourself and pressed send.
Your phone buzzed less than thirty seconds later, but this time it wasn’t Instagram. It was a new text message from an unknown number. You opened it.
Hey, it’s Timo. You let out a nervous laugh of disbelief this time. A few heads in the classroom popped up.
“Miss?” someone asked suspiciously.
You quickly covered your mouth.
“Sorry,” you said. “Continue working.”
You turned slightly away from the class and typed a quick reply. Hi. That was fast.
Three dots appeared. Figured it was easier.
You leaned against your desk, trying to act like your entire morning wasn’t suddenly surreal.
Another message came through. So what are the essays about?
You smiled.
School subjects.
There was a short pause before the next message arrived. Sounds important.
It is, you replied.
Then another message popped up. How many students do you have?
Thirty.
A few seconds passed. Then a message came in that had you stop in your tracks. If they all pass… maybe the Devils could stop by.
“…What?”
You whispered it before you even realized you had spoken.
One of the students looked up. “Miss?”
You quickly cleared your throat. “Nothing.”
Your heart was beating faster now as you looked back down at the phone.
You’re joking.
The reply came quickly. I’m serious. Another message followed. Motivation works, right?
You stared at the screen in disbelief. Your students, your class, meeting the New Jersey Devils. You could practically hear the chaos already.
You typed slowly. You realise if I tell them this they will work harder than they ever have in their lives.
The response came almost instantly. Then it sounds like a good deal.
You leaned back in your chair, laughing quietly to yourself. Well, you had absolutely no way of keeping this a secret.
Twenty minutes later, you were standing at the front of the classroom again. Your students were still working on their essays, though the room had grown restless. You clapped your hands lightly.
“Alright everyone, pause for a second.”
Their pens stopped and their heads lifted up from their work.
You folded your arms, trying very hard to keep a straight face.
“So… I have an announcement.”
Immediately the room buzzed with curiosity. One student leaned forward. “Is it about the essays?”
“…Sort of.” You hesitated.
This was definitely going to spiral out of control, but there was no backing out now.
You cleared your throat.
“Remember how you all made me send a message to Timo Meier a few weeks ago?”
The room exploded instantly.
“HE REPLIED?!” “NO WAY!” “I KNEW IT!”
You raised your hands quickly.
“Calm down!” They did not calm down.
“He texted you back?!”
“Yes,” you admitted.
The noise somehow got even louder.
One student nearly fell out of his chair.
“I TOLD YOU!”
You tried to keep your composure.
“We’ve exchanged a few messages,” you continued.
Thirty jaws dropped.
“BUT,” you said quickly, pointing at them, “that is all the information you’re getting.”
A chorus of groans filled the room.
“Miss Y/L/N, that’s not fair!” “Tell us everything!”
“Nope.”
You waited for the room to quiet down again and then you continued.
“But… we did make a deal.”
The classroom went completely silent. Thirty teenagers stared at you.
You crossed your arms.
“If everyone passes their persuasive essay…”
You paused dramatically.
“…the New Jersey Devils might stop by.”
For two seconds the room was completely silent.
Then the entire classroom exploded.
“WHAT?!” “NO WAY!” “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” “MISS THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!”
You tried to hide your smile as the chaos erupted.
One student stood up dramatically.
“I AM WRITING THE BEST ESSAY OF MY LIFE.”
Another slammed his notebook open.
“NOBODY FAILS.”
A girl pointed at the class.
“IF ANYONE FAILS WE ARE NEVER FORGIVING YOU.”
You shook your head, laughing.
“Well,” you said, gesturing toward their papers, “I guess you all have some essays to finish.”
And suddenly, you had the most motivated class in the entire school.
For the rest of the lesson, your classroom sounded less like a normal school environment and more like a group of students preparing for the most important exam of their lives. Pens moved faster than you had ever seen. Notebooks flipped open. One student even asked for an extra sheet of paper.
You stood near your desk, arms folded, trying very hard not to laugh at the sudden transformation.
Twenty minutes ago you had been struggling to get them to focus.
Now the entire class was writing like their lives depended on it.
A boy in the second row suddenly looked up.
“Miss?”
“Yes?”
“Just to confirm… everyone has to pass, right?”
You nodded.
“Yes. Everyone.”
The entire room turned toward the back corner where one particular student sat.
“Dude,” someone whispered dramatically, “you better not ruin this for us.”
“I WON’T,” he protested immediately.
You raised your hands.
“Alright, relax. You still have to write good essays. I’m not just handing out grades.”
Another student leaned forward.
“But if we pass…”
You sighed, smiling slightly.
“If you all pass,” you repeated, “then the New Jersey Devils might stop by.”
The room erupted again. You shook your head, amused, and walked back to your desk. Inside your bag, your phone buzzed quietly. You slipped it out carefully while the class was busy writing.
A new message: Did you tell them yet?
You smiled immediately. Your thumbs moved quickly across the screen.
Yes.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
And?
You glanced up at your class. Two students were arguing about thesis statements. Someone else had already filled half a page. Another student was whispering aggressively to a friend about comma placement.
You laughed softly.
I think you just created the most motivated classroom in the country.
His reply came a few seconds later.
That good?
You typed back. One of them just threatened to disown anyone who fails.
Sounds like serious pressure.
You smiled.
You have no idea.
Before you could type anything else, a student appeared beside your desk.
“Miss?”
You quickly locked your phone and looked up.
“Yes?”
“Is this a good thesis?”
You leaned forward to read the sentence.
“It’s a good start,” you said, pointing at the paper. “But explain why more clearly.”
He nodded and returned to his desk. When you looked down again, another message had appeared.
So now you have thirty students working for the Devils.
You quickly replied.
Thirty very stressed students.
A few seconds passed. Then another message appeared.
Do you have to grade all those essays today?
You looked at the stack of papers already forming on your desk.
Unfortunately… yes.
That sounds like a long evening.
You sighed quietly.
It will be.
The typing dots appeared again. Then his next message popped up.
If you want, we could call.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly.
The message continued.
You can still grade while we talk. Might make it less boring.
You stared at the screen for a moment. A phone call with Timo. It was starting to get more unreal with the second.
You glanced around the classroom again. Your students were still fully absorbed in their essays.
Your heart beat a little faster. You typed carefully.
I don’t have a lot of time during the day.
His reply came quickly.
That’s okay.
We can keep it short.
You hesitated then typed again.
I still have another class after this.
A few seconds passed.
Then we’ll talk while you grade later.
You leaned back slightly in your chair, smiling at the screen. That sounded nice. You typed one last message before slipping the phone back into your bag.
Alright. But if my students find out about this, they will never let me live it down.
His response appeared almost immediately.
Your secret is safe.
You looked up just as one of your students raised their hand again.
“Miss?”
You stood up quickly.
“Yes?”
“Can you read this paragraph?”
You walked over to the desk, trying to focus on the essay in front of you.
But for the first time since you started teaching, you were actually looking forward to grading papers tonight.
The final bell of the day rang louder than usual, or maybe it just felt louder.
Chairs scraped across the floor as your students packed up their bags, but unlike most afternoons, no one rushed out immediately. Instead, several of them hovered near their desks, still talking about the essays.
“Miss, when do we find out the grades?” someone asked.
“As soon as I finish reading them,” you replied, stacking the papers on your desk.
A boy leaned over his chair. “Be honest… are we close?”
“I haven’t even looked at them yet,” you said.
“But like… hypothetically.”
You sighed, trying not to smile.
Another student pointed dramatically at the stack of papers.
“That pile decides our future.”
You shook your head.
“It decides your grade.”
“And our chance to meet the New Jersey Devils,” someone added.
The classroom buzzed again.
“Alright, out,” you said, waving them toward the door. “Go home.”
One of them paused at the doorway and turned back.
“Miss?”
“Yes?”
“You seem happier today.”
You froze for half a second.
“I’m always happy.”
He grinned. “Not like this.”
Before you could respond, he disappeared into the hallway with the rest of the class.
Soon the room was quiet again. You let out a slow breath and sank into your chair. You checked your phone again almost immediately. When you unlocked it and saw a message from Timo, a small smile spread across your face.
How many essays are we talking about?
You glanced down at the stack.
Thirty.
The reply came quickly.
That’s a lot of grading.
You laughed softly.
You’re the one who motivated them.
Three dots appeared.
Sounds like I should help then.
You raised an eyebrow at the screen.
How exactly do you plan on helping?
A second later your phone started ringing. Your eyes widened at the incoming call. You stared at the screen for a moment, your heart suddenly racing.
“…Okay,” you whispered to yourself.
You answered.
“Hello?”
There was a brief pause before his voice came through the phone, warm and slightly amused.
“Hi.”
You leaned back in your chair, suddenly very aware of the empty classroom around you.
“Hi.”
For a moment neither of you said anything but then he laughed softly.
“So… thirty essays?”
You groaned. “Thirty essays.”
“Your students must really want that visit.”
“You have no idea,” you said. “One of them threatened to never forgive anyone who fails.”
He laughed again.
“That’s serious motivation.”
You picked up the first essay from the stack and grabbed your red pen.
“Well,” you said, “I guess we’ll find out how motivated they really are.”
There was a brief rustling sound on the other end of the call.
“Are you grading right now?”
“Yes,” you replied. “You said we could talk while I grade.”
“Right,” he said. “I meant it.”
You started reading the first paragraph, making a small correction in the margin.
“So, what are they writing about?” he asked.
“Anything they care about,” you said.
You paused and smiled slightly.
“Apparently a lot of them care about hockey.”
“I wonder why.”
You laughed quietly. “Your influence.”
“That’s dangerous.”
You marked another sentence and moved on to the next paragraph. For a moment the only sounds were the soft scratch of your pen and the quiet hum of the classroom lights.
Then he asked, “Do they always have this much energy?”
“Always,” you said immediately. “Teenagers run on chaos.”
“That explains a lot.”
You finished the first essay and placed it on the graded pile.
“Alright,” you said.
“Did they pass?” he asked.
You glanced at the paper.
“…So far.”
“Good start.”
You picked up the second essay. Somehow, grading papers had never felt this easy before. And as the conversation continued—easy jokes, small stories about your students, the occasional laugh—you realized something strange. You weren’t nervous anymore. You were just enjoying talking to him.
Halfway through the stack, you leaned back in your chair and stretched.
“Okay,” you said.
“That bad?” he asked.
“No,” you admitted.
You glanced down at the growing graded pile.
“Actually… they’re doing really well.”
There was a pause on the other end of the call. Then he said, “Guess we might have to stop by after all.”
You smiled down at the essays. You didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you looked at the clock on the wall. It had been nearly an hour. Your red pen hovered above the next essay as you blinked at the time.
“Wait,” you said into the phone.
“What?” Timo asked.
“You’ve been on the phone with me for almost an hour.”
There was a small pause. “…And?”
You laughed quietly. “Don’t you have better things to do than listen to me complain about essays?”
“I’m not complaining,” he said easily. “It’s interesting.”
You looked down at the paper in front of you.
“Interesting?”
“Yeah.”
You flipped the page. “Well, this one is arguing that the New Jersey Devils have the best fans in the NHL.”
He laughed softly on the other end of the line. “Smart student.”
“That’s what they’re hoping I’ll think.” You finished reading the paragraph and scribbled a quick note in the margin. “You’re definitely influencing these topics,” you added.
“That wasn’t my plan.”
You stacked the essay with the others and grabbed the next one.
“So how many have passed?” he asked.
You glanced at the graded pile.
“…Most of them so far.”
“That’s promising.”
You smiled slightly.
“Don’t celebrate yet. I still have ten left.”
“You sound like a coach.”
“I feel like one right now,” you said. “Except instead of hockey players it’s thirty fourteen-year-olds with questionable grammar.”
He chuckled.
“You’re doing important work.”
“Thank you for the support.”
For a moment the conversation settled into something comfortable again. You read another essay, circled a few mistakes, and wrote a short comment at the bottom. On the other end of the line, you could hear faint background noise—voices, maybe a locker room somewhere.
“Where are you?” you asked casually.
“At the rink,” he replied.
You raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t see you.
“You’re at the rink and still talking to me?”
“Practice ended a while ago.”
You placed another finished essay onto the pile.
“Well, I appreciate the company.”
A small pause followed.
Then he said, “How’s the nervous teacher doing now?”
“I was not nervous.” You laughed.
“You were definitely nervous earlier.”
“I was not.”
“You told me your students would never let you live it down if they found out.”
“That’s because they won’t.”
He laughed again. The sound was warm and easy, and it made you smile without realizing it. You flipped to the last page of another essay and finished marking it.
“Alright,” you said slowly.
“That sounded serious.”
“It’s the last one.”
“Final student.”
You looked down at the paper dramatically. “The fate of the class rests on this essay.”
“You’re making it intense.”
“They made it intense.” You skimmed the final paragraph, correcting a couple small mistakes. Then you leaned back in your chair.
“Well?” he asked.
You tapped the pen against the desk once.
“…They all passed.”
There was a short silence before you heard his laugh through the phone again.
“Looks like we have a deal.”
You shook your head, smiling to yourself. “You realize what you just did.”
“What did I do?”
“You created the most motivated classroom in the history of education.”
“That sounds like a good thing.”
“It is,” you admitted.
You glanced at the stack of essays again. Tomorrow morning was going to be chaos. Thirty teenagers were about to hear the best news of their lives. You leaned back in your chair, twirling the red pen between your fingers.
“They’re going to lose their minds when I tell them.”
“I kind of want to see that.”
You laughed softly. “Trust me… you will.”
And somehow, the idea of that moment—standing in your classroom, watching your students explode with excitement—suddenly felt even more exciting knowing who was on the other end of the phone.
The next morning you arrived at school earlier than usual. Not because you had to but because you were excited. Which, as a teacher, was slightly dangerous. Excited teachers tended to accidentally reveal things too early.
Your bag landed on your desk, and you immediately pulled out the stack of essays you had finished grading the night before. A bright green sticky note sat on top of the pile with two words written across it.
Everyone Passed.
You smiled to yourself. Thirty teenagers were about to have the best morning of their school year.
Another message appeared.
At what time are you going to share the good news?
You glanced at the clock on the wall. Your class started in about fifteen minutes.
Very soon.
Three dots appeared.
That sounds like something I should see.
You raised an eyebrow at the phone.
You want to see thirty teenagers lose their minds?
Yes.
You stared at the message for a moment, then laughed.
I don’t think my classroom is prepared for that level of chaos.
Another message appeared.
Video call me.
Your heart skipped slightly.
You’re serious?
Of course.
You thought about it for a moment. Your students already knew you had texted him. Seeing him on a call would probably cause absolute mayhem… but honestly, the news alone was going to cause mayhem anyway. And part of you thought it would be funny.
Alright, you typed. But if the classroom explodes it’s your fault.
His reply came almost instantly. Deal.
Ten minutes later your students started arriving. Backpacks dropped onto chairs. Conversations filled the room. A few students immediately looked toward your desk where the stack of essays sat.
One of them pointed.
“Miss.”
You pretended to organize your papers.
“Yes?”
“Are those the essays?”
“Maybe.”
The entire room perked up instantly.
“Did you grade them?!”
“Miss, you said you would tell us today!”
Another student leaned forward dramatically.
“Please tell me nobody failed.”
You lifted your hands. “Relax.”
They did not relax.
“MISS.” “Did we pass?” “Did we pass?!”
You glanced down at your phone. A notification popped up from an incoming video call. Timo. Your heart jumped.
You quickly grabbed your phone and propped it discreetly against your work laptop, so the camera faced you. The screen lit up with his face.
You lowered your voice slightly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he said with a grin. “Is this the famous classroom?”
You turned the phone slightly so he could see the room. Students were still talking loudly, completely unaware.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Prepare yourself.”
He laughed. “Alright.”
You angled the phone so it leaned against your laptop screen, just enough that he could see you and the class.
Then you stood up and clapped your hands.
“Alright everyone.”
The room slowly quieted. Thirty students stared at you with intense anticipation. You picked up the stack of essays.
“So… I finished grading.”
Instant tension filled the room.
A boy near the back whispered dramatically. “This is it.”
You paused for effect. “You all worked really hard.”
More nervous looks.
“And I’m happy to say…” You lifted the green sticky note. “…everyone passed.”
For a split second there was complete silence then the classroom exploded.
“YESSS!” “NO WAY!” “I TOLD YOU!” “WE DID IT!”
One student literally jumped out of his chair. Another slammed his notebook shut in victory. You tried not to laugh as the chaos unfolded. Behind your laptop screen, Timo was watching the entire scene, grinning.
Once the noise settled just slightly, you raised your hand again.
“And remember the deal?”
Instant silence. Thirty students leaned forward.
“If everyone passed…” You glanced briefly toward the phone before continuing. “…the New Jersey Devils might stop by.”
The whole room was silent again for two seconds before all her students absolutely lost it, they were screaming, cheering, someone nearly knocked over their chair.
“MISS ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” “THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!” “WE’RE MEETING THE DEVILS?!”
You were laughing now, trying to calm them down. “Alright, alright!”
But then one student suddenly squinted toward your desk.
“…Miss?”
You froze slightly.
“Yes?”
“…Why is your phone on?”
A few students turned, and that’s when one of them leaned forward and gasped.
“…WAIT.”
The room went quiet again. Thirty pairs of eyes slowly turned toward the phone sitting against your laptop, and the face on the screen.
One student whispered in disbelief. “…Is that… Timo Meier?”
