Easy 'A'

Easy A - A Coach!Negan One-Shot

My first ever fanfic! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or Negan. They belong to AMC, Robert Kirkman, Skybound and Jeffrey Dean Morgan.

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The halls of Jefferson-Wilson High were buzzing with activity as students were getting ready to leave for the day. Rachel and her friend, Ellen were standing by Ellen's locker as she fished around in her backpack, "Can't believe Coach Negan failed you on that test, Rachie!", exclaimed Ellen.

"No kidding," Rachel said disappointedly, "I mean, what is the point of having a written test in a gym class?!" she proclaimed.

Ellen closed her locker and turned to face her friend; slinging her bag up on her shoulder. "Isn't that the truth. But, Rachie; you can't afford to have a shit grade in that class!" Ellen told Rachel concernedly.

Rachel rolled her eyes and said, "I know Elly.", she sighed, "Maybe I can see if Coach Negan would give me an extra credit assignment or something to bring my grade up?"

"It's worth a shot," said Ellen, "I'll call you later tonight okay?"

Rachel nodded her head and both girls hugged either other goodbye. As Ellen left, Rachel couldn't help but feel a sudden sense of dread wash over her body as she made her way to the gymnasium area of the school building.

Coach Negan wasn't an easy man to get along with, in fact he was a douchebag to almost everyone, but he was still a damn good teacher regardless of his attitude.

Converse clad feet squeaked their way down the hall leading to the locker room entrances. The footsteps halted for a bit, Rachel taking a deep breath as she stood outside the cold, grey, metal door that had the words Coach Negan printed on the clear, plastic name plate.

Muffled sounds of music could be heard coming through the door. 'Good. He's still here.' thought Rachel, a mixture of fear and a slight hint of happiness laced in those words.

Rachel, as well as the rest of the female students and teachers of Jefferson-Wilson, couldn't deny that Coach Negan Morgan was a fine specimen of the male form; tall, but lean frame with some muscle definition, large hands with thick-ish fingers that appeared rough from labor, dimples that made his million watt smile all the more handsome (especially if he wrinkled his broad nose), a perfect mixture of salt 'n pepper facial hair graced his jawline, and his voice? As lovely as a well tuned cello in a orchestra.

Rachel had always been attracted to older men; not Hugh Hefner old (gross), but more of the George Clooney type.

Exhaling the breath that she was holding, Rachel reached out and knocked on the door. The volume of the radio was turned down and a gruff voice spoke out, "Come in!"

She grasped the doorknob and turned it, opening the door all the way revealing a basic office set up: various amounts of sports equipment that needed maintenance, a desk that a computer and other nicknacks sat upon.

Athletic posters and awards plastered the white brick walls, a wooden book shelf holding miscellaneous books with an old boombox radio perched on the top shelf, and seated in his black, leather office chair was Coach Negan.

"Ms. Presley! What a sur-fucking-prize!" he exclaimed, lifting his black, thick-rimmed reading glasses off his nose, and placing them on his finely combed hair.

Negan lifted his feet onto his desk, folding his arms across his chest. Leaning backwards, the chair creaked and he said amusingly, "What brings your ass to my fine humble abode?"