Take care of a few things first

"I need five minutes," you reply. "I'll catch up with you."

"Suit yourself," Rebecca says. Before she slips out of the locker room, she tosses you Rachel's phone. "You earned it, tiger," she purrs and slinks off.

Your heart is pounding; you know the smart thing to do is take care of a few hanging details, though you deeply regret missing even a few minutes of the fun. Still, you're confident you're making the best long-term choice as you head back into the women's coaches' office and retrieve your video camera and the janitor's keys.

You hotfoot it back to the Industry and Technology lab. It's weird running through your school without shoes on (Who has my clothes, anyway?), but that's the least of your worries. You scurry back into the broadcasting booth and sit down at the desktop computer.

You nearly decide to worship Mr. Warren, the shop teacher, as you expertly pluck the SD card from the video camera and slide it into the computer's hard drive. You log in to the file transfer site to which Mr. Warren has subscribed each shop student and begin uploading to your personal cloud storage. The contents of this forbidden footage are worth their weight in bitcoin, and you have a vision of yourself jacking off fifty years from now to those same sets of familiar tits seen tonight for the first time.

The file transfer is going to take a little while, so you allow yourself the opportunity you missed before to snoop. You don't want to get too lost in Rachel's email and logins -- plenty of time for that later -- but it can't hurt to have a short look.

You glance at her passwords and something new catches your eye. You look again, not sure you believe what you see. But yes, it's there - and realization shines on you like sun after a rainstorm.

There are logins stored here not just for Rachel but also for someone else. The email address is unmistakable - it's your school nurse. Who you only just now realized has the same last name as Rachel. "Rachel's mom is our fucking nurse," you say aloud, your head swimming.

All the students call her "Mrs. Pill" because she's constantly going on about birth control. The story goes that when she was a senior at this very high school, she got knocked up. She put herself through nursing school and made it her mission to protect teens from the hardships she had to face.

The running joke, of course, is that it's no wonder Mrs. Pill was "active" in high school. She's definitely a 10: an obviously fantastic rack hidden beneath sensible tops; long legs plunging out of modest skirts; full, black hair that always smells of lavender or something. If she had Rachel when she was 18, that makes Mrs. Pill only 36 years old - a MILF if any high school boy ever knew one.

And now, if he wanted to, Sam could log in to her email. Her photos. Her fucking Tinder account!

"Well, well, well," you say.