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,” he said, with a little quirk at his lips. His eyes scanned me—the TV-actor looks, the sculpted body, the tailored clothes—before he leaned in.
“If I may say, Mr. Grayson—my mother absolutely adores you.” He spoke in a hush. “She says your amnesia episodes were divine, but this new storyline—the medically induced coma? She’s hooked.” He rested a hand over his heart, as if he were talking about my actual medical history.
“How kind 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.’” His voice grew conspiratorial. “Between you and me, I did not mind those jungle scenes, not one bit.”
I wore the smile every TV actor learns—warm enough to appear grateful and engaged, cool enough to keep a little distance. The flirtation wrapped in a compliment was flattering. It hadn’t always been that way. 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. “Passion’s Price has such wonderful, devoted fans.”
My phone buzzed—rapid-fire texts from Bebe, my agent: Still no word. They won’t budge. You’re under contract, Zach. They can keep you in that hospital bed forever.
I put the phone on airplane mode and set it face down.
The plane taxied and took off. As the engines throttled back and we reached cruising altitude, the seatbelt sign dinged. The woman beside me took it as her cue to chime in. “I always knew that woman was trouble.”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“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.
“You know,” she went on, her tone a mixture of sympathy and small-town judgment. “I don’t buy all this coma nonsense. Seems to me you’re just stuck. You just have to… SHAKE yourself out of it!” She suddenly barked, causing the man in 2A to jump. “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.
A few minutes later, Jeremy returned with the snack basket. He leaned over to offer me a choice of smoked almonds or sea salt pretzels, and as he did, he subtly placed a cocktail napkin 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—a phone number scrawled in neat, loopy script—then back up. “Oh, well thank you. I appreciate it, but I’ll be tied up.”
Jeremy’s brow furrowed. “Family visit?”
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. I jumped onstage, putting myself between the leads, facing Marybeth. “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, slim hips, 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 turned to Grant and cleared my throat.
“You’re the top… You’re the… Colosseum. You’re the top! You’re the Louvre Museum—”
Marybeth was probably plotting my death at my rear, but I didn’t care. My voice was soft at first, a little spitty from my braces, but about to swell.
For a moment, it was just us—me singing to Grant, his beautiful, oblivious face, his feet shifting uncomfortably.
Then something sharp smacked the side of my face.
A Skittle. Orange. It bounced off my cheek and skittered 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!” I knew the voice. It was Sawyer—the loudest of the jocks—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, pinning me to the carpet with just one hand. His floppy, brick-colored hair fell forward, and his jaw jutted out.
“Stay down, Grayson,” he muttered, between gritted teeth.
In all the time in high school, we’d exchanged precisely a dozen words. Those were three of them.
Then he stood back up, as if I weren’t there. 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 from the drama club 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 is 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 at me?”
“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.
If I’d known, maybe I would have held on, or said something more. But that’s the trouble with being Southern: we’re raised to say ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘Thank you kindly’—never what’s really on our minds.
Chapter 3: The Star on the Stage of My Past
I’d stayed in the back during the service at the church, tucking myself into the shadows of the last pew. I didn't want to be the reason people turned their heads away from the casket; I wanted to be a mourner, not a distraction. But as the crowd filtered out, I saw the sheer number of people filling the aisles—former students, colleagues, neighbors.
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.
The reception afterwards was held at the high school—the place where he’d spent decades shaping kids like me.
I stood in the hallway outside the cafeteria, taking a breath and checking my reflection in the trophy case glass. Preparing myself.
I’d scripted this moment in my head a thousand times since tenth grade. In my mind, the doors would swing open and the crowd would part like the Red Sea. Across the room, Grant Michaels—still breathtaking, still looking like an Abercrombie model—would lock eyes with me. The background noise would fade. The realization of what he’d missed out on would hit him like a spotlight.
Zach, he’d whisper, realizing he had let a diamond slip through his fingers while he was playing with rocks.
It was the ultimate season finale cliffhanger.
I smoothed my lapel, put on my best humble celebrity smile, and pushed the doors open.
It wasn’t picturesque, but it was the sentimental choice. The faint scent of floor cleaner and tater tots hit me instantly, lingering in the air like a ghost. 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.
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—was now firmly attached to my arm. “I knew it—I just knew you were going places. So talented, so… 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,” said 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 tap 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—mother and daughter.
“Mr. Gutta was real proud of you, Zach, honey,” said Miss Renee, the school secretary. She’d always been kind to me. “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 you. Wants to be an actor too! He’s twelve and he’s already doing his own choreography in the living room!”
I kept it light, suppressing a knowing smirk for the baby-gay in training.
“Tell her I appreciate the prayers. And tell your nephew to keep practicing those 8-counts. And that the coma storyline is ending soon, I hope.”
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, his voice breathy. “But I hoped you would.”
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…” He leaned in close, his face nearing mine, voice lowering to something intimate. “I wanted to tell you…”
His eyes flicked down. There was a tow-headed kid tugging at his arm.
Shoo, I whispered in my mind. Go on now. Get!
But then I saw another. And another. And Another. Good lord—four of them?
When I looked up, Grant was waving 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 and one more tow-headed toddler emerged.
“SIX kids,” I corrected myself. It was like a Methodist potluck—there was always more where you thought you’d seen the last of it.
Oh Marybeth, honey, the vagina is not a clown car—didn’t your mama teach you about 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. Low interest rates for old friends.”
I stared at the business card: Grant Michaels - Sales Lead, North Georgia Auto Group.
I recoiled. The dadbod was one thing—Grant carried it well—but a mini-van? Safety ratings? Baby spit-up? My skin crawled.
I needed to get out of this zip code.
As the kids seemed to consume Grant like a human jungle gym, I pulled my bag over my shoulder and decided to make my escape.
I spotted the double doors at the far end of the cafeteria—my only way out. But standing at the refreshment table right next to the exit was an obstacle that stopped me cold.
Standing at the refreshment table was a man in a polo shirt with a back like a brick wall. A dense, athletic physique—the heavy slope of his shoulders, sleeves snug as bark on a tree on strong biceps. Forearms that looked like they could haul a tractor out of a ditch. A sturdy neck, and a very, very disciplined-looking ass.
God bless the South for growing ‘em thick.
I was already mentally unbuttoning that shirt when he turned.
Mark Moran.
That sports asshole.
No!
Definitely filled out since high school, but those same squinty eyes and blockhead, the same brick-colored hair.
It was a cruel joke. But as my mama would say, proof that the Devil has a great eye for packaging.
Sensing my eyes on him he looked me right in the eye. 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 with a grip like a snapping turtle. She held on tight, 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 lazy smile that spread slow as molasses.
“Mr. Grayson… Mr… Oh, my manners. Zach Grayson, this is Mark Moran,” she said, leading me to the table. “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 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 liquid, pinker than a church lady’s lipstick and 90% sugar—and extended his arm. Then, the words came out in slow motion: “Fruit punch?”
Fruit?
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 took the cup and raised it—not to drink, but to hold at eye level as, in my mind, the violins swelled. 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, eyes clamped shut.
There were loud gasps. The cafeteria froze. Even the buzzing of the overhead lights seemed to stop. For a long, agonizing beat, nobody moved. Mark stood there, pink liquid dripping off his chin, blinking slowly.
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!” I recognized that voice. It was Carol-Ann, seizing the moment.
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 getting his… sustenance… from that librarian over in Dalton.”
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.”
I saw a deviled egg fly by like a Hail Mary pass and smack Mrs. Keener in the shoulder.
“Oh, bless your heart!” came Carol-Ann’s scalding voice.
“Save your prayers for your roots, darling!” came the retort. “God can see them even if we can’t!”
That was the spark.
“Oh… YOU TACKY HEIFER!” 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 hog!”
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, flicked the liquid from his plate-size palm 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 like rusted sentinels. Their paint was chipped and scratched, some still sporting the old-school stickers I remembered. The memories hit me like a punch, but I shook it off, too intent on keeping pace with him.
He had that wrestler’s walk—a low-slung stride that covered the linoleum with maddening efficiency.
“Hey! Don’t you walk away from me!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the metal lockers.
Mark threw up his hands without looking back, never breaking his pace. “Save some drama for your soap opera, Grayson.”
He made a sharp left, turning into the old coach’s office. I paused for just a second and pushed in after him. The heavy door slammed behind me, and suddenly it was just us.
My nose wrinkled from the odor of teenage sweat and talcum. It was a smell that used to make my stomach turn, but in the quiet of the office, it just felt small. And gross.
“Good lord, does it always smell like this?”
Mark spun around, and for the first time ever I thought I saw some actual feeling in his face. “Is that what you came here to ask?”
He stood by the desk, hands on his hips. There was a vein running up his biceps into the sleeve in a way that was frankly rude given the circumstances. His floppy hair was askew, sticking up in front as the sugary punch dried.
“You called me a fruit,” I said, jaw tight. “You threw… Skittles at me! You and your friends made my life hell. And if that wasn’t enough, you used Mr. Gutta’s memorial to TAUNT me.”
Mark’s eyes flickered with something—annoyance, frustration—and his hand waved around. “You’re certifiable!”
“Oh yeah? ‘Fruit punch’?” I shot back, my eyes traitorously dropping to the way his wet shirt clung to his pecs. I forced them back up. “That was... malicious!”
“It was FRUIT PUNCH, you psycho! What was I supposed to call it? And besides—you’re not the only one upset that he’s gone.” He took a breath, and his voice went rough. “He was my friend.”
The words caught me off guard.
He waved me off and turned away. He started unbuttoning his ruined polo, eyes anywhere but on mine. He peeled it off, wadded it in hand, and wiped his face. I couldn’t look away from the curve of his shoulders, the rusty hair running down the plane of his stomach into his waistband. It made me dizzy, and I hated it.
He tossed the shirt aside with a loud thud, voice low. “I never threw Skittles at you, Zach. I never called you a fruit.”
My mouth opened, but I blinked. I checked my mental receipts—back through every hallway encounter, every locker room taunt, every sneer from the back of the auditorium. I found Sawyer's voice. I found the jocks' laughter. But as I rifled through the offenses, I couldn’t find a single one that belonged to Mark Moran.
I thought they had. But there was nothing.
Except for one.
“You… you PUSHED me down,” I insisted, clinging to the one piece of evidence I had left. “And then you said to stay down.”
He ran a hand through his hair, a tired gesture. “I blocked you, Zach. 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.”
Reality went sideways. If it was true, the "Stay down, Grayson" I’d replayed in my head for so long wasn’t a threat, but something different. He hadn't been standing over me; he’d been standing in front of me.
I couldn’t breathe. My anger was still there, but tangled up with something else—the horrible realization that I might have been wrong.
“You could’ve done more. You could’ve—You—I spent all these years—”
“I know,” he interrupted, voice rough, shoulders slumping. “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. I was covering my own ass. 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.”
My brain short-circuited. I’d spent fifteen years being so sure he was the villain in my story, never once considering he was actually the one who’d been watching my back.
He took a step closer. I could see he was the same squinty eyed, block-headed kid I remembered—but he was also a man with a quiet, solid confidence I’d completely misread.
I let out a shaky laugh. “God, I was so sure. My whole life, I’ve been so damn sure...”
He stepped into my space. Up close, I could see the green of his sleepy eyes and the copper flecks in his stubble. He grinned, just a little sideways.
“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. When my tongue met his just, it went deeper, hungrier. I could taste the faint, sugary tang of cheap punch on his lips, and I could feel the hardness where our pants met as my leg wrapped around his.
My fingers wrapped around his bare back, pulling him closer, and 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 shadow scratched my jaw as he kissed me, his hands slipping under my 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 toward me—his body all heat and muscle, coarse brick-red hair dusting his torso.
“Mark Moron? A fifteen-year mad-on and that’s the best you’ve got?” he asked, roughly opening my shirt. He cursed under his breath while struggling with my belt.
I hopped up onto the edge of the desk, my calves catching on the wood. I kicked my loafers off and spread my legs. Mark stepped deep into the space between my knees, finally jerking the belt open and yanking my pants and briefs down together.
I leaned back, bracing my weight on my elbows to kick my legs free, sending the tailored wool flying. I twisted out of my shirt like Houdini in a straitjacket, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Mark pushed me down, slowly, with one hand, until my bare back was on the wood, the surface cool against my skin. Mark gripped my cock, testing the girth as it stiffened. He grinned looking down at me, eyes dark, as his free hand traced over my smooth chest and abs.
“Always thought you’d look good like this,” he muttered. “Jesus, Grayson. You grew up.”
“Just get over here,” I muttered, reaching between my legs to yank his pants down over his hips. Mark kicked them the rest of the way, and I heard them hit the floor. There was barely time to breathe before he was on me, grinding our hard cocks together, his hairy thigh wedged between mine.
“You still talk too much,” he muttered, then kissed me hard, as if he needed the air in my lungs. I reached for his thick cock, feeling the heft of it. I scooted back using my shoulders for leverage, wrapping my legs around his waist and pulling him closer.
He bent at the waist, looming over me. My tongue caught the faint taste of punch on his neck as his hands gripped my hair. Down below, the head of his cock nudged the crevice between my cheeks.
I spread my legs, locking him there, digging my heels into the small of his back. A clear invitation, if not a demand.
He jolted a bit, looking me right in the eyes. He hesitated just a second, realizing what I wanted, 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 a dollop onto his palm. I watched his shoulder and bicep twitch as he smeared it onto his cock and worked his fingers into me—one, then two, stretching me open. He was rough but careful, a hell of a lot more gentle than he looked.
It didn’t take much. I’d had fifteen years of waiting.
“You good?” he asked, voice soft for a second.
“Yeah,” I said, breathless. “Get in here, Coach.”
He adjusted his weight, planting his hands on the desk on either side of my head. He loomed over me just like he had fifteen years ago on the auditorium floor, his brick-colored hair falling forward.
He pushed in, once, then again as I pulled him in—then one hard thrust and the world tilted as he seated himself deep. My vision went white.
“Oh fuck,” I gasped. He felt huge, thick as a fence post.
We moved together, the desk creaking in rhythm with our breathing and Mark’s thrusts. I clawed at the muscles in his back as he drove into me. Sweat built on his chest and he gritted his teeth, growling something that might have been my name, fucking me like we’d waited fifteen years for this.
His legs sprawled, supporting himself on one knee and one hand as he reached down to wrap a hand around my leaking cock. The remnants of the lotion let his hand glide, but his thumb caught the head, sending jolts through me with every driving thrust.
I was already close, and the slick slams into me and the grip of his hand left me no room to breathe. I felt the pressure build behind my eyes, a low sound vibrating in my own throat until it broke.
My hips stuttered as I hit the point of no return. It went white inside my eyelids as I bit down on my lip to keep from shouting, emptying myself against his rough palm.
Mark’s pace didn't falter. He let out a low, animal growl as he delivered three final, bone-deep thrusts, finally unloading in me. He pumped shallowly, finishing the job, his head falling into the crook of my neck, 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, my 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 discarded shirts, sweats, and dress pants. We draped over each other, limbs heavy and relaxed. Our fingers traced circles on each other’s sweaty skin, like we couldn’t quite believe the other was real.
The air was humid, but the blue vinyl of the wrestling mat was cool. My face pressed into the crook of his neck, his skin still tasting faintly of cheap punch and sex.
Mark grinned and shook his head, staring up at the acoustic tiles. “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 lilt, “‘My dear boy, when you’re from Buffalo—’”
“‘You have to do something,’” we recited in unison.
We both laughed, but I looked at him with a sudden, sharp realization. I’d always thought that line was a private piece of encouragement Mr. Gutta had shared with me to keep me going. Knowing he’d shared it with Mark, too, didn't make it feel less precious; it just made Mark a little more special. Like the old man’s vote of confidence in the blockhead.
“He appreciated what you did,” Mark said, voice low, looking up at some distant point beyond the ceiling. “His job got saved. Even with all the budget cuts.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Well. I couldn’t let them lay him off.”
I was relentless back then, when I heard the news. I did the rounds: the publicists, the producers, the sponsors. I didn't just want to save his job for a year—I wanted to secure it forever. In the end, I think they cut the check just to get me to stop calling.
The truth was, it was good PR for the show. They’d filmed a whole ‘Soap Saves the Stage’ segment for Entertainment Tonight. I played the part of humble bystander, in awe of the largesse: a restricted gift of a cool million, the interest ensuring there’d always be a drama coach at this school.
It was before things soured with my soap career. Now, it felt like the only thing I’d done in ten years that didn't feel like a performance.
Mark’s grin softened, his eyes looking drowsy. “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, remembering our talk about fruits. I shifted topics. “Never would have pegged you for a teacher.”
He shrugged. “I like it. It’s frustrating every day—not enough resources, too many kids struggling, too many battles—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’d found something real here, even if it wasn’t easy. It was… attractive. Annoyingly so.
“And you?” he asked, turning to me. “What’s next for you?”
“Ugh,” I groaned, turning my face into his shoulder.
“What?” He rolled onto his side to face me, head propped up on his bent arm. “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 pulled back to look at him, brow furrowed. “Kierkegaard? Who even are you, Moran?”
He chuckled and dropped onto his back again. “I read, Grayson. Shocking, I know.”
“I’m not even supposed to be here.” I hesitated, the familiar knot twisting in my gut. “I’m trying to renegotiate my contract with the bastards at Passion’s Price. I want to do something real. You know. Theater. 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, if you can believe that. The show breaks at least three deadly sins a day, but they don’t want their junior heartthrob doctor on stage talking about being a faggy teen. Not the brand 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 color without written consent. A nasty non-compete I signed when I was young and desperate. I can leave the show, but if I do, I'm barred from performing. 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 want to do something that scares me.” The words felt thick in my mouth. “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 keep me in the hospital bed.”
Mark laughed, all rough edges and warmth. “You’ll figure something out. You always were the gutsiest kid in the room.”
He sat up and stretched, chest flexing—dense, functional muscle. I couldn’t help staring.
“How do you look like that?” I asked, running a hand down his lats. “Weren’t you supposed to let yourself go after high school? Get a beer belly? Go bald?”
He shrugged, a slow grin spreading. “Not much else to do around here but read and lift. I coach wrestling—spot the kids. And I like eating. Gotta earn the calories 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 many times I beat off to your Men’s Fitness cover?”
I barked out a laugh. I’d spent three months eating boiled chicken and spinach for that cover, mostly for the ego boost. But hearing it from Mark Moran? It was the first time that magazine felt like it was worth the paper it was printed on.
I shifted against him, cock to hip, heat rising all over again. My hand slid down to the crack between his ass cheeks—fuzzy as Georgia peaches. “You wanna see if the real thing lives up to your imagination?”
He grinned, teeth flashing in the low light. “Zach Grayson, you'll be the death of 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 long, deep kiss, as our cocks stiffened against each other. We took our time, like we were rediscovering a territory only half-remembered.
I let go of his hands, the vinyl mat squeaking as he settled back, as I reached for the lotion. I slicked us both up, fingering him with slow, steady strokes.
With one leg thrown over my shoulder, the other curled and cradled against my ribs, I pressed into him, inch by inch. I watched the way his jaw clenched, his muscles tensing—and then the sigh and release as I sank into him. His hips shifting up—a silent plea to go deeper.
Mark’s hands rested on my thighs, his voice a rough rasp. “Fuck, Zach—don’t stop—”
I leaned down, rising on my toes, feeling the delicious tightness of him wrapped around my cock. “Hold on, Moran. I’m just getting started.”
I pulled back almost all the way, teasing the edge, then slid back in, filling him completely. His head dropped back to the wrestling mat. “Fuckkkk.”
I rolled my hips, setting the rhythm, letting the pleasure build as the world shrank to just us—the hard kisses, the slick sound of the lotion, the creaking of the mat under our rocking motion.
I picked up the pace, my hand wrapping around his thick erection. His eyes were even more drowsy, lips twitching into a grin, hips rising to meet every thrust as he exhaled. “You’re killing me, Zach.”
My mouth landed on his, biting his lower lip gently. “Good. I like to get a rise out of you.”
“You got that,” he chuckled.
His hands slid from my hips down to his own cock, taking over for me. I hit that spot in him and saw the spasms of pleasure bloom on his face, once and then again and again. I moved faster so the waves overlapped, taking him under.
His ass tightened around me—his jerking stuttered as his body quaked. He shot his load onto the dark fur on his abs, white against the brick. The way his body tensed and released around me as he moaned my name hit a nerve I didn’t know I had.
Without warning, I clenched, hips driving to bury myself in him. His fingers raked my sides, pulling me in tighter as I unloaded in fast, short jabs, nearly whimpering. I dropped onto him, heart pounding, our sweat smacking as the world came back into focus.
Afterwards, we lay tangled together, cooling, heartbeats slowing. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing. Mark pulled me close and kissed the top of my head.
“Show off,” he murmured.
I grinned, pressing my face into his chest. “You love it.”
We fell asleep on the wrestling mat without meaning to. I only realized it when 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?”
“There’s a king size bed reserved in a five star hotel I never made it to,” I said, stretching my back out. “That mat is a hate crime.”
He laughed and we pulled ourselves up, groaning as our muscles protested.
“I’ve got a flight in three hours,” I muttered. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” I looked around, eyes focusing. “I wonder if there are any deviled eggs in the cafeteria. Even one of Marybeth’s undercooked biscuits. Even off the floor.”
On cue, Mark reached up to pull two protein bars from the desk. He sat there, completely naked, and ripped open the first wrapper with his teeth and a sharp jerk of his head, his taut wrestler’s abs tensing. He caught my stare and smirked—that cocky look that said he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
He made quick work of the second bar the same way, then casually handed one to me. I ate, but I could barely taste it while looking at him. I couldn’t believe I’d ever looked twice at Grant Michaels when this had been there all along.
I sniffed and smirked. “You should probably shower. There’s punch in your hair. 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 the trophy case glass.
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 really was. That plot twist is 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, giving him a crooked smile. “You too, Moran. Hell of a reunion.”
I drove to the airport in a blur. Buckling into my seat, I spotted Jeremy, the attendant from my flight out, greeting me with the same conspiratorial grin as he passed me a mimosa. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Grayson. I hope your time in Atlanta brought you some closure.”
I cleared my throat, pushing down the soft, lazy vowels that were stubborn as kudzu.
“Jeremy,” I said, in my polished, neutral LA voice. “You have no idea.”
And then I slept.
Jeremy nudged my shoulder as we began our descent. When I turned my phone back on, the backed-up texts populated: Bebe, my agent. Bebe again. My mom.
And there at the bottom, a photo from Mark. It was the high school bulletin board, with a flyer tacked to the cork: DRAMA TEACHER NEEDED – AN ENDOWED POSITION.
Underneath, his message: “Think you’re ready to come back home yet?”
In my drowsy daze, it hit me. Teaching. Not acting. Not a stage or a studio. A classroom.
The network lawyers couldn't touch me there. It was the perfect loophole—and the irony was, I was the one who had hustled to create it.
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 was just finally learning to appreciate the subtext.
Before I could stop, I found myself humming it. You’re the Top.
I grinned, my 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
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
