It's Jamal

"Yo, virgin!" Jamal's voice boomed across the parking lot, his Jordans crunching gravel as he swaggered toward John. The gold chain around his thick neck glinted in the morning sun, bouncing against his varsity jacket with every step. His basketball shorts hung low enough to show the waistband of his Gucci boxers, the fabric straining around his massive thighs.

Sarah's fingers dug into John's shoulder as Jamal got closer, her nails leaving little half-moons in his hoodie. "Just walk," she muttered under her breath, but John's legs locked up like his shitty laptop freezing mid-stream.

Jamal's shadow swallowed them whole when he stopped inches away, his cologne—something expensive and musky—mixing with the stale vape smoke clinging to Megan's hair. "The fuck you starin’ at, dicklet?" His breath smelled like cinnamon gum and last night’s Henny.

John’s phone slipped in his sweaty palm, Lacey’s bikini pic still glowing on the cracked screen. Jamal’s meaty fingers snatched it before it hit the pavement. "Aww, baby dick’s got a crush on Lacey?" He turned the phone toward his crew—three linebackers already snickering by the gym doors. "Bitch wouldn’t even let your toothpick ass sniff her panties."