Time to leave

Coach Wilson’s loafers squeaked toward the door, his heavy breathing fading as he stepped into the hallway. The door swung shut behind him with a metallic clang, leaving John alone with the stink of bleach, sweat, and Lacey’s cheap perfume. His dick was still half-hard, twitching against his thigh, sticky with drying cum.

John wiped his hand on his jeans, grimacing at the wet spot near his zipper. His phone buzzed again—third time now—but he didn’t check it. Not yet. Not until he was sure Coach and Lacey were long gone.

He eased the stall door open, wincing at the creak. The bathroom was empty except for some freshman puking in the far stall, his skinny knees shaking as he hunched over the toilet. John ignored him, shuffling to the sinks, his sneakers sticking to the piss-wet tile.

The mirror was fogged from Coach’s heavy breathing, streaked with fingerprints. John splashed cold water on his face, the shock making his skin prickle. His reflection looked like shit—pale, sweaty, dark circles under his eyes. He tugged his hoodie sleeves down over his wrists, trying to hide the shake in his hands.

His phone buzzed again.

John’s phone buzzed again—fourth fucking time—and he finally yanked it out of his pocket, thumb smearing cum residue across the screen. The notification was from Bryan: u alive? Jamal’s crew was asking where u went.

John’s stomach lurched. He wiped his hand on his jeans again, leaving another gross streak, before typing back: Bathroom. Felt like shit.

The three dots bounced immediately. Bryan: Coach just walked out looking like he ran a marathon lmao. U good? Wanna hit up my place after school? Mom’s got night shift.

John’s dick twitched at the thought of Bryan’s basement—dim LED strips, the crusty gaming chair, the smell of weed and stale Doritos. Grace would probably be there too, all nerdy and sweet in her stupid cat-eye glasses and those tight jeans that made her ass look—