Mike hit fifth period—Spanish—sliding into a desk near the back, Señora Lopez already scribbling verbs on the board. Ryan swaggered in late, lanky frame filling the aisle, blond hair mussed from gym, quarterback swagger intact. He dropped beside Mike, helmet bag thudding, and smirked. "Parker—still dreaming of sacking me?" His green eyes glinted, rivalry sharp but lighter after yesterday’s break-even clash.
Mike grinned, Jeff’s cock shifting as he leaned back. "Every night, man—Friday’s my shot." His tone was playful, the tension from practice thawing, and Ryan chuckled, pulling out a notebook, pen tapping.
"Keep dreaming—Coach’ll bench you before I hit the turf," Ryan said, but his smirk softened, a crack in the cocky QB armor. Señora Lopez barked, "¡Silencio!" and they quieted, conjugating verbs—hablo, hablas—but Ryan leaned over, voice low. "Heard your dad’s coming to the Showdown—big shot, huh?"
Mike nodded, smooth chest flexing under his Slipknot tee. "Yeah, he's a big architect, ex-linebacker. He’ll be there, cheering loud." He grinned, picturing Jeff—bearded, hung with his old cock—and Ryan’s brow lifted, impressed.
"Linebacker? Shit, that’s where you get it—my old man’s a wide receiver, all speed, no bulk. He’s dragging the fam too—gonna be a circus." Ryan’s tone eased, less taunt, more loose, and Mike caught it—QB opening up, rivalry bending.
"Guess we’re both stuck proving shit," Mike said, echoing their locker room chat, and Ryan nodded, pen pausing. "Yeah—Dad’s all about ‘back in my day.’ You get that vibe too?"
"Nah, Jeff’s chill—lets me run," Mike said, cargos tight as Jeff’s young dick stirred—Jeff thriving as king, him thriving here. "He’s more ‘kick ass’ than ‘live my past.’" Ryan smiled, a real one, and the bell rang, cutting Señora short.
They grabbed their bags, drifting to the hall, and Ryan lingered, shoulder brushing Mike’s as they walked. "Practice yesterday—you’re a tank, man. Almost had me. Coach loves that shit—says we’re the team's spine." His voice dropped, honest, and Mike grinned, linebacker bulk squaring up.
"You’re quick—kept me off. Team’s better when we’re tight," Mike said, and Ryan nodded, green eyes meeting his—rivalry shifting, friendly now, a competitive spark with roots.
"Friday’s gonna be wild—your dad, mine, whole damn school. Let’s give ‘em a show," Ryan said, clapping Mike’s back, lanky hand firm. Mike laughed, "Deal—still sacking you, though." Ryan smirked, "Try it, Parker," and they split—classmates, teammates, rivals becoming buds.
Mike strode out of Spanish, Ryan’s clap on his back still tingling as the lanky quarterback peeled off toward his next class, blond hair catching the hall’s fluorescent glare. The shift hit—rivalry softening into something friendly, a thread of respect weaving through their banter—and Mike grinned as he headed for Study Hall. Ryan’s words lingered—“Dad’s all about ‘back in my day’”—and Mike’s mind drifted, piecing together the QB’s background from scraps dropped in class and the locker room.
Ryan Kessler came from the west side of town—not the ritzy sprawl where Jeff’s architect gig planted Mike, but a gritty stretch of split-levels and chain-link fences, where the hum of lawnmowers mixed with the clang of auto shops. His dad, Greg Kessler, was a name whispered among Westfield’s old-timers—a wide receiver from the ‘90s, lean and lightning-fast, who’d torn up the field for the Wildcats before a torn ACL senior year killed his college shot. Greg was a legend in Ryan’s house, a faded jersey framed above the TV, but the glory stopped there—now he wrenched engines at a garage off Route 12, hands stained with grease, voice rough from years of barking orders.
Ryan grew up under that shadow—tall for his age by ten, blond like his mom, Lisa, a nurse who worked doubles at County General to keep the bills paid. Greg saw Ryan’s arm early—backyard spirals at six, a cannon by twelve—and drilled him relentless, Saturdays spent running routes ‘til dusk, Greg’s critiques sharp: “Faster, Ry—don’t choke like I did.” Lisa softened it, packing lunches, cheering at peewee games, but Greg’s hunger drove—Ryan was his redo, his ticket to relive the past he’d lost.
High school hit, and Ryan bloomed—6’2” by freshman year, lanky but muscled, his arm a varsity lock by sophomore spring. Coach Baxter spotted it—called him “Kessler 2.0”—and Ryan thrived, QB1 now, a golden boy with a cocky grin masking the weight. Greg was at every game, lean frame hunched in the stands, yelling plays like he still ran them, Lisa beside him, tired but proud. Ryan’s little sister, Mia—13, all knees and braces—tagged along, sketching players in a notebook, her brother’s biggest fan. The Kesslers were tight—blue-collar, scrappy—but Greg’s “back in my day” rants piled on, every throw a test Ryan couldn’t flunk.
Locker room chatter filled gaps—Ryan’s smooth chest, teen bulk honed by drills, hid a kid stretched thin. He’d opened up to Mike—“Dad’s dragging the fam to the Showdown”—and the edge showed: Greg’s pride was loud, but his pressure louder, a legacy Ryan carried solo. His mom’s quiet support balanced it—late-night talks over cocoa, “You’re enough, Ry”—but school was his escape. Friends like Tyler, a wiry cornerback, and Sam, a beefy tackle, flanked him—jocks who ribbed his swagger but had his back. No girlfriend—too focused, Greg’s voice in his head—but his eyes flashed charm, popularity a shield.
Mike saw it now—Ryan’s cocky grin, that bigger dick swinging in the showers, a front for a kid proving himself to a ghost. Practice clashes weren’t malice—just fire, pushing limits—and Ryan’s thaw in Spanish clicked: Mike, linebacker tank, was a rival he could level with, not outshine. Friday’s Showdown loomed—Greg in the stands, Jeff too—and Ryan’s background fueled it: a QB chasing his own name, not his dad’s, respect blooming within Mike a quiet win.