Chapter 1: The Coma
I had barely settled in my seat when the first-class attendant slid a mimosa onto the middle drink tray. “Mr. Grayson, I’m Jeremy, and I’ll be taking care of you today.” His eyes scanned me—the TV-actor looks, the sculpted body, the tailored clothes—a little quirk at the corner of his mouth.
“If I may say, Mr. Grayson—my mother absolutely adores you.” His voice dropped to a hush, as if he were sharing my actual medical history. “She says your amnesia episodes were divine, but this new storyline—the medically induced coma? She’s hooked.”
“How nice of you to say,” I replied, professional, practiced. “Give her my best.”
“Oh, I will!” Jeremy beamed. “She says it’s about time your character got some rest. ‘Bless his heart, all that running around shirtless in the jungle.’” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Between you and me, I didn’t mind those jungle scenes myself.”
I wore the smile every TV actor learns—warm enough to charm, cool enough to keep distance. The flirtation wrapped in a compliment was flattering. It wasn’t always like that, but I’d put in the effort—the braces, the hours in the gym, learning to edit my gestures, to moderate my tone.
“I’m glad she’s enjoying it,” I said, sidestepping the flirt. “Honestly, I’m just glad for the break. It’s been a long season on Passion’s Price.”
My phone buzzed—rapid-fire texts from Bebe, my agent: Still no word. They won’t budge. Maybe just take the offer? You’re under contract, Zach. They can sideline you forever.
I set the phone down, apparently cueing the woman beside me to chime in
“I always knew that woman was trouble.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The one you were engaged to,” she said, as if sharing a grave secret. “You really have to be more careful.”
I glanced her way. She had the sort of lacquered hair and nails, the kind of preserved glamour usually reserved for a former Miss Georgia. She gave me a knowing look—equal parts sympathy and small-town judgment.
“You know,” she went on, voice low, “I don’t buy all this coma nonsense. Seems to me you’re just stuck. You just have to…SHAKE yourself out of it. You’re a wonderful doctor, but sometimes you miss the things hiding right in front of you. Happens to the best of us.”
My gaze flicked back to the window, clouds drifting by, free of flirting attendants or strangers confusing me with the part I played. It looked peaceful.
Just then, the unfasten seatbelt sign dinged. Jeremy returned, smoothing his tie, and placed a slip of paper on my tray.
“I’ll be in Atlanta for a layover tonight, Mr. Grayson. If you’re free, maybe I could buy you a drink?”
I glanced down at the napkin, then back up, my voice flat. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be tied up.”
Jeremy’s brow furrowed. “Family?”
I shook my head. “Oh no... my mom moved up north years ago.”
His face lit up again. “Filming? On location? Oh, do tell. My mother will absolutely die if I get the scoop. She will just die!”
I let the mask slip. “Funny choice of words. I’m there for a funeral.”
Chapter 2: Fifteen Years Ago
Fifteen years ago, the high school auditorium smelled like fresh paint. The stage lights hummed softly above. I clutched my chest as if the ache were physical.
Onstage, Marybeth Hayes mangled Cole Porter. I groaned as she mouthed her way through You’re the Top, her voice so flat she might as well have been reciting the school menu.
“Miss Hayes,” Mr. Gutta’s British accent came from the darkness, calm but weary. “You’re so good at the words, dear. Now, find the rhythm. Cole Porter is a heartbeat, not a metronome.”
Marybeth tried again. Somehow, it was even worse.
I couldn’t take it. Jumping onstage, between the leads, I said, “You’re supposed to be telling him he’s the best thing since electricity! Like… he’s the most wonderful thing in the world!” I gestured toward Grant, the leading man. Broad shoulders, blue eyes—he looked like he’d just stepped out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. “Just… look at him.”
I knew what the song should feel like because—well, I felt it. To prove my point, I took her place and sang the opening lines, my voice soft at first, then swelling. “You’re the top… You’re the… Colosseum. You’re the top! You’re the Louvre Museum—”
For a moment, it was just us—me singing to Grant, his beautiful, oblivious face, his feet shifting uncomfortably, Marybeth probably plotting my death. Then something sharp smacked the side of my face.
A Skittle. Orange, bouncing off my cheek and skittering across the stage. From the back of the auditorium, a snort broke the silence, followed by a raspy laugh.
“Look at the fruit, he’s gonna cry!” Sawyer—the loudest of the jocks—called out. The bunch of them, on their way to practice, had cut through the auditorium for their daily entertainment.
Heat shot up my neck and my face burned. I started toward them, down the stage and into the aisle, fists balled, no plan except to do something, anything.
Just as I neared Sawyer, block-headed Mark Moran stepped between us. I slammed right into his thick wrestler build as if it were a wall, bounced off, and hit the floor, the laughter spiked around me.
I started to clamber up, but Mark shoved me back down with one hand. His brick-colored hair fell in a thick wave over his forehead and his jaw jutted forward.
“Stay down, Grayson.” In all the time in high school, we’d barely exchanged a dozen words. Those were three of them.
Then he stood back up, barely looking at me. He turned to his friends, voice bored. “Are we gonna play or what?”
Just like that, they lost interest and filed out, stepping over me sprawled on the carpet.
I scrambled up, burning with embarrassment, to see everyone staring at me—even Grant. Finally the center of his attention, but for all the wrong reasons.
“You people don’t deserve Cole Porter!” I erupted before turning to bolt down the hall, my vision blurring with tears.
Five minutes later, the silence of the props closet was broken by the creak of the door. Mr. Gutta slipped inside, closing it gently behind him.
“Mr. Grayson,” he said softly, “you’re a long way from the stage.”
“They called me a fruit,” I said, not quite looking at him. “And he’s so… pretty.”
He perched on the worktable beside me and sighed, like he’d seen this a thousand times before.
“Well,” he said, “Time will fix the latter. But as to the former—what kind of fruit would you like to be?”
I blinked, confused. “Is that a trick question?”
He smiled. “I’m partial to the passionfruit myself. Not as pedestrian as apples or oranges. Tart but sweet, a little misunderstood. Not everyone gets it, but for those who do...” He sighed. “And the name… pure theater!” He waved his hand in a flourish, as if accepting his standing ovation.
I let out a choked laugh. It was a joke and a comfort all at once.
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m mad at the world, my boy, sometimes. But not at you.” He reached into his tweed jacket and pulled out a tissue, dabbing at my cheek. “Most people spend their whole lives pretending. You? You let yourself feel everything, right out in the open. That’s rare. That’s—” He sighed again. “That’s brave.”
“Thanks,” I sniffled.
“We fruits have to stick together, Mr. Grayson.” Mr. Gutta wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “You’re going to have a hell of a future. You’ll see.”
I had no idea, in that brief moment of kinship, that the man who rescued me would be the one whose funeral would finally bring me home fifteen years later.
Chapter 3: The Star on the Stage of My Past
The reception after the funeral was in the high school cafeteria—the same linoleum floors, the faint scent of floor cleaner and tater tots lingering in the air. I hadn’t been back since graduation, but the place felt frozen in time, like an awkward yearbook photo that stays the same even as you grow into yourself.
Not picturesque, but Mr. Gutta had touched so many lives over the years that there was nowhere else big enough in our drowsy suburb to hold the crowd. So the school had opened its doors to the community—the place where he’d spent decades shaping kids like me.
I have to admit, it made me teary to see how many people cared about him. I wondered how many other kids he’d had those special moments with.
No sooner had I walked in than a woman with a nametag that said “Sharon” spotted me. “Zach Grayson?” she shrieked, her voice slicing through the crowd, hands fluttering like hummingbirds. “Oh my God, it’s you! My daughter watches your show every day. She will not BELIEVE it when I tell her I met you!”
Carol-Ann, who I remembered from third-period English attached to my arm. “I knew it—I just knew you were going places. So talented, so…theatrical!” I didn’t know how, but she seemed to insert extra syllables in “theatrical”, maybe to convey all her added meanings.
Every conversation went like that—some combination of starstruck and a retroactive claim that they were always—always—my biggest supporter.
“You always had that special something,” says Mrs. Keener, who once gave me detention for “flamboyant hallway conduct.” "I told the other teachers, 'He's not being difficult—he's researching a role!'" She said it like she’d personally discovered me. Sure, right after she wrote me up for “jazz hands.”
Everywhere I turn, it’s the same: “You were always so dramatic!” “I said you’d be a star, didn’t I?” “We all knew, Zach. Even in kindergarten.” "Your one-man show, ‘Kesha: the Voice of a Generation?’ I still have goosebumps from your interpretive dance to 'Tik Tok'—I mean, I do!'"
I gave the practiced smile I’d perfected over the years. I started to wonder if any of them remembered pelting me with Skittles at sophomore talent show, during my scene from Postcards From the Edge. I played both parts.
“Mr. Gutta was real proud of you, Zach, honey,” said Miss Renee, the school secretary. “You were his star student! And what you did for him!” She put her hands on her heart, somewhere under her big bosom.
I had to sigh, hearing his name spoken in the past tense.
Then back to the same. “You’re even better looking in person! My mother never misses an episode. She lights a candle when you’re in trouble,” said one jolly woman, patting my shoulder. “And my nephew, he just adores your show, hopes to grow up to be a star too.”
I kept it light. “Tell her I appreciate the prayers. And that the coma storyline is ending soon, I hope.” I refrained from commenting on her plainly baby-gay nephew.
Then, a man in a button-down with a neat, conservative haircut and the beginnings of a dad gut wheeled a baby stroller into my path. For a moment, I thought, “Oh, that’s nice—Grant’s dad came to the memorial.”
Then it clicked. “Grant?”
Grant Michaels—the golden boy from my high school days. My most heartfelt crush. Still good-looking, but like he’d traded Abercrombie ads for Eddie Bauer.
“Hey, man. Didn’t know if you’d be here,” he said, stepping closer, a hopeful edge in his voice. “But I hoped you would.” I braced myself, thinking maybe—just maybe—he was about to say he’d had feelings all those years ago.
I could feel all the years melting away—could almost sing, You’re the Top. Instead, I said, “Yeah. Funerals have a way of bringing people back.”
“Zach… I wanted to tell you…”
Suddenly, tugging at his arm, I looked down to see a tow-headed kid. And another. And another. Good lord—four of them?
He waved someone over. “Babe! Look who it is!”
Marybeth Hayes—the world’s worst Cole Porter stylist turned mom, sporting yoga pants and a spit-up stain, an infant on one hip, wheeling a second stroller. Five kids.
“We DVR your show,” she said, smiling. “But we don’t always get to watch.”
“Oh, of course,” I said, privately horrified at the Children of the Corn situation. “With five kids…”
The stroller top popped open like a clown car, and one more tow-headed toddler emerged.
“SIX kids,” I corrected myself. Oh Marybeth, honey, it’s a vagina, not a clown car—haven’t you heard of contraception?
Grant grinned, kids climbing his legs. “I wanted to tell you… if you ever need a sweet deal on a mini-van, I’m your guy.” He pressed a business card into my hand.
I recoiled. The dadbod was one thing—Grant carried it well—but a mini-van?
The kids seemed to consume Grant. I pulled my bag over my shoulder and decided to make my escape.
Looking for an out, my eyes swept the room, and snagged on one figure. Standing at the refreshment table, paper cup in hand. Athletic, beefy, solid. Unf.
Then he turned.
Mark Moran.
That sports asshole. Definitely filled out since high school, but those same squinty eyes and blockhead, the same brick-colored hair. Forearms that looked like he could bench-press a rhino.
He raised a cup and nodded.
Chapter 4: Old Grudges Revisited
I was almost at the door, giving Mark my best chilling glare as I passed, when Miss Anderson, the principal, grabbed my arm—literally—a stranglehold on my bicep like I was the school’s golden goose about to run loose.
“Now, Mr. Grayson,” she said, “I simply must talk with you about the school’s endowment before you leave.”
Mark caught my eye again and gave me a slow, casual smile.
“Mr. Grayson… Mr… Oh, my manners. Zach Grayson, this is Mark Moran,” she said, practically glowing. “He’s our history teacher and gym teacher—both! Can you imagine? Well, you know, with budget cuts…”
Her words faded into background noise because, honestly, I was locked on Mark. Up close, my eyes confirmed my earlier impression—he wasn’t a kid anymore. He’d bulked up, his ginger hair a bit faded, but still unfairly fit—like he never got the memo about aging. I knew a guy who lived at the gym when I saw one.
“We have history,” I said.
“Oh, that’s right! You two were students together!” She turned to Mark. “Well! You’ll have so much to talk about!”
Mark grinned. I thought he might chuckle.
Really? You’re laughing at me here, at Mr. Gutta’s funeral?
He filled a paper cup from the punch bowl—a wholly unnatural pink, 90% sugar, at least—and extended his arm. Then, the words came out in slow motion: “Fruit punch?”
To anyone else, it might have sounded like an innocent offer. To me, it was a full-on taunt.
Something snapped. I wasn’t the scrawny kid who let the jocks walk all over him anymore. I’d been on the cover of Men’s Fitness!
I could almost hear swelling violins as I took the cup and raised it—not to drink, but to eye level.
In a voice that would have done Julia Sugarbaker proud, I said, “Did you really think the fruit was gonna take it forever?”
With a flick of my wrist, practiced and perfect, I sent the punch flying. It hit Mark square in the face and chest, splattering neon pink all over his shirt, dripping from his nose as he blinked.
The cafeteria froze.
For a beat, silence.
Then a shrill voice from the back squealed, “It’s just like Passion’s Price!”
“Oh, honey, he was always dramatic. I told you—”
“You’re one to talk, after the Great Bake Off Meltdown of ’23!”
Sharon’s eyes narrowed, voice dripping with venom. “Oh please, Carol-Ann. Those deep fried lasagna pops were just diabetes on a stick. If your cooking was any good, maybe your husband wouldn’t be dining out every night... if you catch my drift.”
A hush fell over the cafeteria, then a slow, wicked murmur spread like wildfire.
“Ladies,” Miss Anderson, the principal, tried to cut in, voice sharp. “Let’s keep this civil—”
But she didn’t get far.
“Just stay out of it,” snapped Mrs. Keener, my old nemesis, voice low. “Everyone knows you’re only principal because of that little ‘accident’ back in ’98. You know what I mean.”
The cafeteria erupted.
I saw a deviled egg fly by like Haley’s comet, and fights broke out throughout the crowd, as if I’d unleashed years of resentments and accusations.
“Oh, bless your heart!” came Carol-Ann’s scalding voice.
“No, bless YOUR heart!” came the retort.
“Oh… YOU!” came another voice as a glass of punch splattered one woman’s face, then another—neither with my panache, obviously.
A plastic fork sailed through the air like a harpoon, and the temperature in the cafeteria skyrocketed.
Mark stood there, dripping like a soggy, ginger Buddha with a CrossFit habit.
I heard Marybeth scream—with a hundred times more passion than she ever sang with—“Not the biscuits!”
Out of nowhere, a pale, doughy missile sailed through the air, landing with a splat on the principal’s shoe.
Then—I didn’t know who said it—“Marybeth, I wouldn’t feed your biscuits to a dog.”
The fatal blow.
The screams started. Hair was pulled. Food flew free.
Grant tried to gather his pale-haired children, circling the strollers like wagons, dodging cheesy grits and potato salad projectiles.
And there we were—Mark, punch dripping, unreadable as ever, and me—the calm eye in the ridiculous, chaotic storm.
“Still theatrical, I see.” He wiped his face with monk-like calm and turned, walking away, leaving me standing there, an empty cup in my hand, as my classmates finally lived out their soap opera dreams.
Chapter 5: Revelations
I followed Mark down the hall, where lockers lined the corridor, their paint chipped and scratched, some still sporting the old-school stickers I remembered. The memories hit me like a punch to the gut.
“Hey! Don’t you walk away from me!” I shouted.
But Mark threw up his hands without looking back, like he was done with whatever this was. “Save some drama for your soap opera.” He turned left without hesitation into the old coaches’ office.
I barreled after him, slamming the door behind me, and suddenly it was just us. My nose wrinkled from the odor of teenage sweat and talcum. “Good lord, does it always smell like this?”
He spun around, and for the first time ever I thought I saw some feeling in his face. “Is that what you came here to ask?”
He stood by the desk, thick arms crossed, punch drying sticky on his face and shirt.
“You called me a fruit,” I said, voice tight. “You threw… Skittles at me! You and your friends made my life hell. You even used Mr. Gutta’s memorial to TAUNT me.”
Mark’s eyes flickered with something—annoyance, frustration. “You’re certifiable!”
“Oh yeah? ‘Fruit punch’?” I shot back, voice laced with 15 years of resentment.
“It was fruit punch, you psycho! What was I supposed to call it? And besides—” He took a breath, voice softer now, “—you’re not the only one upset that he’s gone. He was my friend.”
The words caught me off guard.
He turned away and started unbuttoning his ruined polo, slow and methodical, eyes anywhere but on mine. He peeled it off, wad of fabric in hand, and wiped his face. I couldn’t look away—the gold-red hair dusting his chest, the broad shoulders, the line of muscle down his stomach. I was dizzy, and I hated it.
He tossed the shirt aside, voice low. “I never called you a fruit, Zach.”
I blinked, checking my mental receipts. For a second, I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t pinpoint any one time when I’d heard him say it. It just seemed like he had.
“You… you PUSHED me down,” I insisted, “and then you said to stay down.”
He ran a hand through his hair, like it was a tired gesture. “I blocked you. When I pushed you down, it was to keep things from getting worse. If I hadn’t, those guys would’ve done more than just call you names.”
I couldn’t breathe. My anger was still there, but tangled up with something else—something hot and sharp and startling.
“You could’ve done more. You could’ve—You—I spent all these years—”
“I know,” he interrupted, voice rough. “I should’ve. I’m not proud of it. But I was a coward. I wasn’t like you.”
I snorted. “Yeah, right. I was the freak.”
He stepped closer, and I saw it in his eyes—he meant every word. “I'm not proud I didn't do more, but I wasn't proud of them either. You were the only guy in this school who knew exactly who he was. And to me, that was the most fearless thing in the world.”
The room spun. He was so close now that I could see the green of his sleepy eyes, the copper flecks on his jaw, in the line of his collarbone. He grinned, just a little.
Only then did I really see him—the way his hair fell just so on his forehead, the way his lips parted when he spoke, his ruddy cheeks and the set of his shoulders. Mark was no longer just the block-headed, squinty-eyed kid I remembered—now I saw something else.
I was wrong about him. Maybe for fifteen years.
I let out a shaky laugh. “God, I was so sure. My whole life, I’ve been so damn sure—”
He leaned in, his mouth just a breath from mine. “You’re cute when you’re mad, Grayson. Always were.”
And that’s when he kissed me—slow at first, like he was letting me decide, then deeper, hungrier, as my fingers wrapped around his bare back, pulling him closer.
For the first time all day, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Chapter 6: The Coach’s Office
We crashed together, lips and hands everywhere, years of tension and misunderstanding finally burning off. Mark’s sandpaper beard scratched my jaw as he kissed me, his hands slipping under my suit jacket, fumbling with my tie.
“God, you still dress like you’re about to accept an award,” he muttered, tugging my jacket off and tossing it onto the old wrestling mats.
“Sorry I didn’t wear gym shorts to a funeral, Mark MORON,” I gasped, pulling him on top of me—his body all heat and muscle, chest broad and solid under my palms, gold-red hair dusting his torso, catching the harsh fluorescent light.
“Mark Moron? A fifteen year mad-on and that’s the best you’ve got?” he asked, opening my shirt, teeth scraping my collarbone. He cursed softly while struggling with my belt before just yanking my pants down to my knees.
“I’ve got… more where that came from,” I gasped. I was already hard, cock pressed up against him as his thigh, rough with hair, wedged between mine.
I twisted out of my shirt like Houdini in a straitjacket, lying back on his desk, the wood cool against my bare back. He grinned down at me, eyes dark and sharp, as his hands traced over my smooth chest and abs.
“Always thought you’d look good like this,” he muttered. “Jesus, Grayson. You grew up.”
“Shut up and get over here,” I muttered, reaching between my legs, yanking his pants halfway down. My tongue caught the faint taste of punch on his thick neck, mixed with sweat.
Mark kicked his pants and briefs off, and I heard them hit the floor. There was barely time to breathe before he was grinding against me, our clothes half-off. His thick, heavy cock strained and I reached for it, feeling the heft in my hand.
“You still talk too much,” he muttered, then kissed me hard, stealing my next breath as my legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.
He hesitated just a second, then said, “Hold on.” His hand scanned the desktop, knocking over a cup of pens and scattering papers until it landed on a battered tube of… something.
“It’s the track team’s chafing stuff. Should work,” he said, deadpan. “Welcome to gym class.”
He squirted some on his palm. I could see his shoulder and bicep flex as he smeared it onto his cock and worked his fingers into me. I snorted but was already pulling him in—slick and ready, the world tilting as he pressed into me.
“Come on, Coach,” I growled, and he pushed in slow at first, then all at once, filling me, stretching me open.
My head fell back, a low moan escaping as he got his bearings. Mark braced his hands on my hips, pulling almost all the way out, then thrust back in—steady and deep—and my vision went white.
We moved fast, the desk creaking beneath us. I clawed at the muscles flexing in his back, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my nails. His eyes locked on mine, sweat building on his chest. He gritted his teeth, growled something that might have been my name, and fucked me like we’d waited fifteen years for this.
The sounds—his grunts, my gasps, skin slapping skin—echoed in the tiny office. I was already close, so close, and Mark’s hand wrapped around me. He stroked me in time with his thrusts. My breath caught as I came, shuddering, biting his shoulder to muffle my moan.
Mark’s pace faltered; he groaned, voice rough, and his hips slammed, cock deep inside me, teeth gnashing at my neck. His final thrusts were punctuated by hot breaths before he collapsed against me, heavy and shuddering.
It was fast, messy, all pent-up need—the edge of the desk digging into the back of my legs, his breath warm in my ear, my hands locked around his shoulders.
We stayed tangled there on the desk, sweaty, legs still wrapped around him. Mark laughed low and spent, brushing hair from my forehead.
“Still theatrical.”
I grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. “You’re not so bad yourself, Coach.”
Chapter 7: The Quiet After
He pulled me up off the desk and we settled on the mat on the floor, tangled in a mess of half-buttoned shirts and discarded dress pants. We draped over each other, and our fingers traced circles on each other’s sweaty skin, like we couldn’t quite believe each other was real.
For the first time all day, I could breathe.
Mark grinned and shook his head. “I’m gonna miss the old man. Did you know he wasn’t even English? His whole accent—”
“He told me once,” I cut in, affecting Mr. Gutta’s droll voice, “‘My dear boy, when you’re from Buffalo, you have to do SOMEthing.’”
We both laughed. It came easily, filling the quiet space between us.
“He appreciated what you did,” Mark said, voice low, “his job got saved. Even with all those budget cuts.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I couldn’t let them lay him off.”
It didn’t take too much convincing to raise an endowment. It was good PR for the show, and I was… relentless. A gift of a cool million, the interest ensuring there’d always be a drama coach at this school. That was before things got tense—but at least something good came of my soap career.
Mark’s grin softened. “We had lunch together a lot. Talk about the old days. He was sweet, you know? But had a tough core, underneath. Had to be, I guess.”
“A peach.” I nodded again, then shifted topics. “Never would have pegged you for a teacher.”
He shrugged. “I like it. It’s frustrating every day—too many kids struggling, too much noise and nonsense—not just on the mats. But every day I feel like I’m making a difference. Maybe I’m trying to be the Mr. Gutta to some of these kids, in my own way.”
There was a quiet pride in his voice, like he found something real here, even if it wasn’t easy.
His fingers kneaded into my back. “And you? What’s next for you?”
“Ugh,” I answered, as it all came back, suffocating.
“What? What what what?”
“The future,” I muttered.
“Well you know what Kierkegaard said, ‘Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.’”
I turned to him, brows knit. “Kierkegaard? Who even are you, Moran?”
He chuckled.
“I’m not even supposed to be here.” I hesitated, the familiar knot twisting in my gut. “I’m in the middle of contract negotiations with the bastards at Passion’s Price. I want to do something real. You know. Theater.” I rolled my eyes. “A play. My play.”
He ran a thumb along my knee. “You wrote a play?”
“Yeah. A one-man show. Passionfruit. All the stuff I never got to say back then. But their contract has this morals clause, and they don’t want their junior heartthrob doctor on stage talking about being a faggy teen. Not the look they’re going for.”
“Can they really stop you?”
“It’s in the fine print, buried right under the clause about not changing my hair without permission.” I tried to make it a joke, but it fell flat. “A restricted covenant. I can leave the show, but if I do—I can flip burgers, I can be an… airline attendant. I can do anything but the single thing I’m qualified to do—acting. For the duration of my contract, If I so much as sneeze on another set or stage, they’ll sue me into next year.”
He looked at me, steady and quiet. “That’s rough. Would you really leave?”
I nodded, feeling exposed. “I want to do something that scares me. Something that matters. But they’ve got me by the balls, and not in the fun way. That’s why I’ve been in a coma all season. It’s a power move. A reminder that they can stop me from acting altogether, or leave me in a hospital bed for the duration.”
Mark laughed, all rough edges and warmth. “You’ll figure something out. You always were the gutsiest kid in the room.”
He stretched, chest flexing—thick, solid muscle, the kind no amount of LA gym time can fake. I couldn’t help staring.
“How do you still look like that?” I asked, running a hand down his shoulder, over the curve of his bicep. “Weren’t you supposed to let yourself go after high school?”
He shrugged, a slow grin spreading. “Not much else to do around here but read and lift. I coach wrestling—spot the kids, spot myself. And I like eating. Gotta earn it somehow.”
He leaned in close, mouth grazing my ear as his hand slid down to rest lightly on my abs. “Looks like you’re not doing so bad yourself, Grayson. You know how much I beat off to your Men’s Fitness cover?”
I shifted against him, cock to hip, heat rising. “I HAVE learned a few things since high school.”
He grinned, teeth flashing in the low light. “Show me.”
Chapter 8: The Second Act
This time, it was different—slower, deliberate. I pushed him back, pinning his wrists above his head. God, his arms were amazing. My mouth sank onto his with a deep, unhurried kiss. We took our time, tracing each other’s skin like we were rediscovering a territory only half-remembered.
I slicked us both up and pressed in slow, inch by inch, watching the way his jaw clenched, muscles flexing under my hands. His eyes fluttered closed, hips shifting up—a silent invitation to go deeper.
Mark’s hands gripped my hips like anchors. His voice was rough in my ear, “Fuck, Zach… —don’t stop—”
I leaned down, lips tracing his collarbone, feeling the tightness wrapped around my cock, the heat building. “Hold on, Moran. I’m just getting started.”
He chuckled as I pulled back but groaned when I slid back in, filling him again. His fingers dug into my ass, pulling me closer, ready for more.
I rolled my hips, setting the pace, letting the pleasure build as the world shrank to just us—the hard kisses, the wet, squelching sound of the lotion between us. I picked up the rhythm, wrapping a hand around his thick erection.
“Fuckkk,” he exhaled, lips parted, hips rising to match me. “You’re killing me, Zach.”
I grinned into his mouth, biting his lower lip gently. “Good. I like to get a rise out of you.”
His hands slid from my hips down to his cock, taking over for me. I felt his ass tightening around me—his pace faltered, then stuttered as he gave in. His body quaked, shooting his load onto the ginger fur on his abs. His groans and the way his body tensed and released around me hit a nerve.
Without warning, I clenched, hips driving harder, shooting in him. His fingers raked my sides, pulling me in tight.
I dropped onto him, heart pounding, clinging like we might fall apart if we let go.
After, we lay tangled together, sweat cooling, heartbeats slowing. Mark pulled me close, kissed the top of my head. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing.
“Show off,” he murmured.
I grinned, pressing my face into his chest. “You love it.”
We must’ve fallen asleep on the wrestling mats because I woke up with a crick in my neck and Mark’s arm thrown heavy across my chest. The office was quiet, sunlight barely creeping through the high windows.
For a second, I let myself pretend this was my life—just me and Mark Moran. Two guys, tangled up, with nothing between them but a little sweat and a lot of history.
Mark stirred. “Mrnng,” he slurred. “Sleep well?”
I stretched. “My bed is a thousand miles away, and that mat is a hate crime of a mattress.”
We laughed and pulled ourselves up.
“I’ve got a flight in three hours,” I muttered. I suddenly realized how hungry I was and wondered if there were still any deviled eggs left in the cafeteria. Even one of Marybeth’s undercooked biscuits. Even off the floor.
On cue, Mark pulled two protein bars from the desk and handed one to me.
Seeing him standing there, naked, I couldn’t believe I’d ever looked twice at Grant when he’d been there all along. “You should probably shower. There’s punch in your hair.” I sniffed and smirked. “And you smell like sex.”
He grinned, that lazy, satisfied smile I wished I could bottle. “Guess you’re heading out?”
“Yeah. Hollywood waits for no man. Or at least, my agent doesn’t.” I pulled on my shirt, trying to tame my hair in the reflection of a trophy case.
We traded numbers, our phones buzzing between us, then walked out of the office and down the silent hallway. At the entrance, Mark stood there, hands deep in his pockets, slowly rolling up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Still mad at me?” he asked.
“Nah. I guess I never was. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
He grinned, looking every bit a man, and only a little like the boy who once blocked the world for me. “Take care of yourself, Grayson.”
I slung my bag over my shoulder, gave him a crooked smile. “You too, Moran. Hell of a reunion.”
I got in my rental car and drove to the airport in a blur, my own thoughts looping like old reruns. At the rental car drop-off, I checked my phone. Nothing. Part of me wondered if I dreamed the whole thing.
Buckling into my seat I spotted Jeremy, the attendant from my flight out, greeting me with a conspiratorial grin. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Grayson. I hope your time in Atlanta brought you some closure.”
And then I slept.
Jeremy nudged my shoulder as we began our descent, and when it was time, I turned my phone service back on to see the backed-up texts and calls populate. Bebe, my agent, Bebe again. My mom.
And there at the bottom, a picture, straight from Mark: the high school bulletin board, a sign reading, Drama Teacher Needed—An Endowed Position.
Underneath, his message: “Think you’re ready to come back home yet?”
I smirked as I stared at the words. Only Mark Moran would send a message about an “endowed position” and not make a double entendre about it—or maybe he did and I missed it.
I grinned, thumb hovering over reply as the passengers stood to disembark.
For the first time in a long time, it felt like the next act might actually be mine.
END
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