Track leader

The hinges squealed wider, and in stepped one of the boys from the track group—the one who’d looked like their leader. Average height, compact and strong from running, shoulders squared with a kind of easy confidence.

Emily recognized him instantly—recognized, too, the way his eyes had burned into her when her sports bra burst, the flick of his gaze over her body, the way his jaw had tightened as though he couldn’t stop staring.

Now he stood framed in the doorway.

Her breath caught.

His eyes landed on her bare chest, flushed and heaving, her nipples stiff and red from the run and the shame. His mouth parted, not in shock so much as in stunned silence. For one endless heartbeat, neither of them moved.

The only sound was the buzz of the fluorescent and the hammer of Emily’s pulse in her ears.

Then—

“Hey!” a voice shouted from outside, muffled but clear. Another boy. “We did what the girls asked and checked the bathroom, can we get moving already?”

Emily’s stomach flipped. If they opened the door—

The boy’s head turned. His voice came back steady, casual:

“Yeah, she’s not here, but I’ve gotta take a shit. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

Laughter spilled back through the crack of the door, a few voices chuckling.

And then a girl’s voice—half laughing, half scandalized. “Michael! You can’t just say that!”

More laughter followed. Footsteps drifted away.

The door clicked shut again.

Michael.

That was his name.

Now it was just the two of them.

His hand was still on the handle, knuckles white from gripping it. His chest rose and fell a little quicker than before. His eyes darted once more to Emily’s breasts, then up to her face, and stayed there.

The air between them was thick. Charged.

Emily’s blush deepened until she could feel it in her throat.

He’d just lied for her. Covered for her.